Bad MuthaBlogger

What’s the deal with baby showers? I’ve never been to one before, nor heard hide-nor-hair of ‘em back in ol’ blighty (must be an American thing, right? Along with thanksgiving and potlucks). ‘Course I’ve seen them on films, so I’m not totally clueless. You get to drink a lot of champers, munch on chocolate truffles, and get gifted a diaper cake (that’s a cake made out of nappies and the like, for you Brits out there). In a nutshell, baby showers = gifts, girlfriends, food, drinks and a celebration of creating new life.

Once I moved to Cal, my good friend Julianne took upon herself the task of throwing my very own baby blessingway shower, adding a spiritual twist to the traditional celebrations. Sonoma County Goddess style. At first we had a hard time scraping together a girlfriend list. Girlfriends are a bit thin on the ground in my world. But we pulled together a list of about 10, mum and I also in the mix.

I think the events of the day were meant to be a big surprise, although Julianne kind of gave the game away by copying me on the email invitation. There was something about bringing beads on there, along with my extensive, greedy-must-have-gift list (all eco-chic swag). Julianne also checked in with me a couple of days before to see how I felt about (a) henna tatooed on my belly (b) laying on the floor on a thick yoga mat, and having everyone lay their hands on me, rub my head, feet etc. (c) having my hair brushed and flowers put in it - (d) wearing a wreath on my head and (e) group singing. Hmmm…only a couple of those got the OK from me. These kinds of happy, loving, touchy-feely, group activities always push my buttons. I s’pose I’m a bit of an English prude at heart…

As soon as we arrived, I was gobsmacked at the sheer scale of Julianne’s preparations. No one has ever, ever thrown a party for me like that before. Aside from the ten tons of yummy-scrummy food, and freshly made teas and fruit drinks, there were flowers and baby decorations everywhere, and big tables with presents and birth altars and craft making things. A feast for the senses, and I could hardly take it all in. I staggered out to the garden, to look at the fruit trees and catch my breath, and there under the cherry tree – SURPRISE – was my sister, pretty in pink. I burst into tears of shock at the sight of her. And to think mum and I nearly hadn’t made it to the baby shower, on account of our having a big barney outside Target on the way up.

Other highlights of the day: my gifts of course! Julianne gave me an organic toy mushroom, which stunned me into silence for a whole 5 minutes while I tried to figure out what it was. Apparently, the shop had carrots and tomatoes on sale aswell. Mum gave me a beautiful, classy silver rattle from Tiffany’s. And my stepmother (back in New Mexico with my Dad) sent me an exquisite hand-made, wall-hanging, quilted piece, with meaningful petroglyphs stitched into the fabric. A gift that stunned the whole room into silence. It must have taken her an absolute AGE to make this - another gobsmacking moment in the baby shower day.

Julianne conducted the ritual of the day with invocations, sharing our birth stories, letting-go-of-fears, foot bath, flower wreath making, and not forgetting the bead-blessing ceremony. Everyone brought a bead (some had brought several) and we went around the circle, as each woman said a blessing for me and the baby, and then strung it into a necklance which now sits on my birth altar at home. I’m supposed to put it on when labour starts to give me strength and connection to all the women who have birthed before me, and to bestow on me all the blessings from my beloved friends.

One of the lowlights of the day had to be the very late arrival of Celine (not really a girlfriend so much as my boss for some contract work I’d been doing). She burst into tears during the bead-blessing, and mumbled something about how she hoped I wouldn’t have to go through what she had gone through. Her first baby died shortly after birth, so the vibe of my party dipped a little low at that point. She really put a damper on things.

But aside from that little snafu everything went swimmingly. All in all a good day had by all! Big shout going out to Julianne the organiser!

If you’re wondering what on earth is a birth altar, and why would you want to build one, then please go away and read another post. I don’t have time to explain the nitty-gritty of spiritual practice, you either get it or you don’t. Birth mamas who get it, please read on…

First of all track down a special place in your home – a shelf, a windowsill, a table, a corner of the floor. Size doesn’t really matter nor does the location, so long as it feels right. I’ve got mine in my bedroom, on the shelf above the fireplace. The bedroom is a good place since it’s private and quiet, and hopefully no nebby-noses are going to poke around to see what’s up. Plus the bedroom is already a spiritual sanctuary of sorts, a place of dreams, sleep, and if you’re lucky, great sex. All top notch ingredients for bringing in the energy of a positive baby birth.

Once you got the space in place, start digging around for some sacred stuff. Candles and incense are the quintessential altar items, used for aeons in meditation and healing practices. Candles represent the spark of life, the soul of creativity, the essence of spirit, and you are bringing in new life, my friend, so what better way to celebrate this than with the lighting of a candle? I have natural beeswax candles on my altar, since I like the smell and won’t stand for poisonous petrochemicals burning in my boudoir. Be warned, most candles are not environmentally friendly! Green mama says no!

You can put anything you like on your birth altar – stones, shells, crystals, special cards, birth art, inspiring quotations, amulets, flowers, plants, photos. Whatever makes you feel strong and connected to your inner birthing goddess, and the baby that wants to come through you. I have all kinds of nic-nacs on mine, including a few weird items like my sister’s mermaid purses, which I think a couple of shark and ray’s eggs. Plus I have a couple of Zuni fetishes (not to be confused with other sorts of fetishes).

Go ahead and place a baby picture of each parent-to-be up there. I have a couple of me, looking cute as a button, and then some other photos of my mum, and my mum’s mum, and my dad too. Ain’t no photo of the F.O.B. though…I prefer to keep him out of the picture.

Then there’s two birthing goddesses in place, as recommended by my pre-natal therapist, to call upon in my hour of need. There’s a gorgeous Black Madonna (bit controversial) and (even more shocking) a Sheela-Na-Gig with big goggle eyes, stretching out her vulva to give birth. Sheela’s my personal favorite, being a decidedly disturbing goddess from darkest, pagan Celtic Britain. I thought about putting Kali up there, then thought she’s probably a bit too full-on what with her wielding knives, severed men’s heads and necklaces of skulls. Death and destruction is not exactly the sort of energy I want for baby’s birth. I’ve had enough of that in my life already.

Finally, I have a birth bundle, which is a mini-birth altar in its own right. We made one of these a couple of weeks back in one of my birth classes. It’s a bit like a medicine bundle. You need to find something that symbolises your uterus, a bag like object with a neck which you can open and close easily. Then get three objects to place inside: a symbol for you, the mother, a symbol for the father (in my case I just put a seed in there), and a symbol for the baby. Close the uterus bundle and place on the altar. When you start labor, you then open it up to help open up your own cervix, ready to birth your baby. Now if that ain’t magic, I don’t know what is.

Oh. My. God. I’m having a BABY!!! Sometimes the realization hits me like a steam train. My palms start to sweat. My heart beats way too fast. I feel like I want to scream. Could just be my hormones raging, but I dunno…

Aside from all the usual fears – will I be a good momma? will I ever get my size zero figure back? will I lose my independence? will I ever find a partner? – I have a bucket load of fears about the birth itself. My birth class teacher made me write some of these down recently. Here goes.

I hope I don’t end up in the hospital. I hope I won’t be in too much pain. I hope I don’t poop myself. I hope I won’t have a C-Section. I hope labor won’t last too long. I hope I don’t get too tired. I hope the baby is born normally. I hope the baby is normal and has all its arms and legs and no weird illnesses or disabilities. I hope my mum won’t have an afib attack while I’m in labor or have to go to the hospital with that recurring lump thing. I hope I won’t get too stressed out and exhausted. I hope I don’t tear down there. I hope I don’t need any medical intervention. I hope my baby isn’t breach or back-to-front. I hope the F.O.B. doesn’t keep phoning. I hope that labor doesn’t drag on and on. I hope I don’t get too tight and scrunched down there. I hope I don’t get triggered into sexual trauma and shut down like a clam. I hope I’m not shy and self-conscious. I hope it doesn’t hurt too much. I hope my birth team don’t turn into annoying psychos. I hope I don’t make too many embarrassing animal sounds. I hope my baby doesn’t die. And the ultimate: I hope I don’t die.

According to a childbirth shrink in New Mexico “worry is the work of pregnancy” so the more I worry, the more likely I am to have a normal birth. Sound like bullshit to me. What about the power of positive thinking?

Last night was my final birth class. There’s one more left in the series, but with less than 6 days before my due date I don’t think I’m gonna make it. It’s getting harder and harder to sit in a room full of pregnant people and their partners for 3 hours. I don’t get home until 10pm and that is WAY past my bedtime.

The class is called: The Birth Journey – a Holistic Childbirth Preparation Experience. Here’s a bit o’ blurb from the brochure, so you can see what attracted me to sign up:

One of the greatest challenges in birth is that you must hold to your intentions and at the same time let go to the Great Mystery. Giving birth to your child is your initiation into parenthood. This being one of the most transformational and challenging experiences in your life, it is very important to prepare for it.

OK. Enuff said. I gotta prepare. I checked out the birth classes at the hospital but they seemed a bit, well…clinical, and focused on medical intervention. And then the holistic class seemed a bit, well… cheesy, not to mention new-agey. A bit touchy-feely, and flaky for a street-hip momma like me.  But nevertheless, infinitely more appealing than the hospital class. The first session I walked in and almost walked out. It was all cutesy couples, perfect partners, comfy cushions, herbal teas and smiles all round. There I was with my mum, nary a partner in sight, not blissful at all, desperately seeking an exit strategy. After a while I got into the swing of things, but I never stopped feeling like a freak.

This week we watched a particularly greusome video on newborn circumcision. Americans are such barbarians! My sister came with me, as mum was feeling a bit poorly. She embarrassed me by sharing with the whole class how shocked she was when she moved to the States and found out firsthand that all the willies had been scalped. Then she shared how her current beau (an English lad) was thankfully all in one piece. Nice one, sis.

We also talked about what to do with the placenta. Placenta lasagna, anyone? Shrinky dink souvenir? Sacred ceremonial bural under a tree? I’m thinking I’ll slap mine onto the scanner and create some birth art, and then maybe have it dessicated and pilled up so I can use it as a nutritional supplement for the baby.  Big sis then shared about how all the placentas in a certain London Hospital had all their placentas bagged up and sold to a certain cosmetics firm. Ladies, listen up – apparently very good for the skin, alongside semen. Maybe we can sell our placentas online?

The rest of the class is kind of a blur, although there was the usual ice-cube ordeal that we are subjected to every week, in one form or another. The general gist is to hold a stack of ice-cubes for a couple of minutes, while practising various pain control techniques, like breathing, grunting, swaying, visualising spirals, and seeing if the pain gets any better. Nothing seems to work for me, it burns like shit, and if birth contractions are going to feel anything like that, then I am well and truly screwed. I made my poor mum do this exercise once. Her whole arm turned blue and it took several hours for the feeling to come back into her fingers. Not for the faint-hearted.

Other fun highlights from previous classes, include having to make animal grunting sounds, while blundering around blindfolded, being led by your birth partner who is gently stroking your arm and making supportive, soothing sounds. In a room full of other people all doing the same thing. Poor old mum got to feel the sharp edge of my tongue during that one. But the final topper was when we had to prance around in pairs, changing partners, and making utter fools of ourselves while gyrating to some strangely disturbing music. An exercise designed to break down our self-consciousness barriers, which apparently we need to do in order to give birth. It was an excruciating ordeal, and I can honestly say I am no better off for it.

Everyone in the class received a huge fat folder full of reading material, which we are supposed to plough through each week for homework. There’s an interesting section on Prenatal Perineal Massage, otherwise known as stretching the perineum so that it doesn’t tear during birth. Mum says they didn’t have this sort of thing in her day. Since it involves hooking your fingers inside your vagina (don’t forget to trim those nails!) and stretching until it burns, I think I’ll take a rain check.

All in all, I’ve enjoyed the birth class, and gained a few educational nuggets along the way. Stuff like the uterus has to dilate to 10cm, and somehow my pelvic bones are going to open up and let a huge head through. I’m still having a hard time imagining that one, and my midwife says unless I can imagine it, then it probably won’t happen. More work needed on that front. I keep looking at my cat, and thinking the baby is about the same size, with a bigger head, and I just can’t see how my cat could possibly squeeze out through my vagina.

The most useful lesson from the class has to be the mantra ”I Am A Birthing Mammal”. I find that reassuring, since it reminds me that I am just an animal after all. And in particular I am a mammal, and that means that this whole birth process is about as natural as eating, taking a poop, or having sex. Everyone and everything in nature is doing it. If my cat can do it, then so can I. If I can remember that, and remember to let go, relax, trust the process, get out of my head and let the natural rhythms of my body take over, I’m going to be OK.

Went for  my fourth and final appointment at the Women’s Health Services Clinic this morning. I was reluctant to go, since the last two times were so horrendous, but this time I took my sister along as a buffer between me and the mainstream medical machine. I wouldn’t be going at all, except my homebirth midwife said it was a good idea to register through the clinic, in case I end up being rushed to the emergency room, and then at least the hospital will know who I am and have all my medical records to hand.

It’s a great place, really it is. First off, I have to wait for around 2 hours in a dark, filthy room, every plastic seat filled with non-English speaking people who all stare at me as if I’ve just landed from the moon. Being British and a bit stuck up, I try not to touch anything, and above all avoid any eye contact by staring at the manky walls, pretending to read the peeling posters (in Spanish) that seem to be all about underage sex, unwanted pregnancies, sexually transmitted diseases, and drugs. I have to do a pee test every time, which determines whether I’ve had any crack today, and then go through the usual ordeal of blood pressure tests and measurements of my waist and weight. They have a BMI chart for pregnant people on a scrappy bit of paper above the scales, that confirms that I am overweight by about 20 lbs. I like to take refuge in the fact that everyone else in the waiting room is at least 5 times bigger than me (nary a Mill Valley mother in sight).

On my second appointment (arguably the most horrendous of all times) I had to fill in a questionnaire on my drug and sexual history. These days I’m a good girl, but I was a bit colourful in my youth, a LONG time ago. Even so, this seemed to excite the staff. The Director herself came in to meet me, to tell me about all the wonderful services they provide to “high risk” patients. This led to a wonderful series of drug and STD tests, which thankfully I passed with flying colours.

But then, horror of horrors, my blood tests revealed that I had severe anemia, that could only be treated by a heavy dose of pharmaceutical iron pills, and worser and worser, I had a bacterial infection that could only be treated by a course of metronidazole antibiotics. This breaking news, on top of the traumatic legs-in-stirrups Pap smear which they insisted I had to have, was enough to give me a total meltdown (I swear, the speculum is the devil’s own torture tool). Later on, I looked up metronidazole (a.k.a. Flagyl) on the net and was freaked out to find out it was a known carcinogen and yet routinely prescribed during pregnancy. Great, so I can clear up my bacterial infection, but hey, baby might get cancer??!

Thank the Gods for Diane who is the queens-bees-knees of home birth midwives. She encouraged me to chuck those pills in the bin, and instead take the following home remedy: Grapefruit seed extract (15 drops); Echinacea pills (350mg x2), Garlic capsules (500mg x2), acidophillus (4 billion cells x1) and Vitamin C (500 mgs x1). Take this nasty-tasting concoction twice a day and hey presto! My infection cleared up in less than a week. For the anemia, she told me to drink a wheatgrass juice 4 – 5 times a week (another foul tasting substance) and pound that down with Fluoradix (3x a day) along with plenty of steamed greens, prune juice, apricots, and the like. Guess what? My iron levels were up to normal within 3 weeks.

Conclusion: Wherever possible avoid mainstream medical practices and institutions, and stick to the so-called alternative and complementary health initiatives. You’ll live longer.

I’ve been on a mad shopping spree these past couple of months, thanks to the F.O.B. who’s been footing the bill.  I’m ashamed to admit that it’s not been a very green spree either, more of a bling spree. My carbon footprint is off the richter scale. I’m gonna have to plant a couple of thousand trees to off-set the impact. The Mission Objective was to buy as much baby-bling stuff as possible, before the F.O.B. disappeared back onto his transnational travel track. Mission Accomplished, I think. Let’s just say it’s been a steep learning curve.

The big ticket items were first. I’d done some internet research, and already knew I wanted the Bugaboo Cameleon stroller in chocolate and cream. Yeah, I know, one of the most expensive strollers on the market, but also one of the most stylish and versatile. It’s a bassinet, a pram, a 2-way stroller, an all-terrain, lightweight, easy-folding, mean machine that’s got yummy-mummy street-cred written all over it. High class. A simply must-have item. I still haven’t figured out how to use it, mind you, but plenty of time for that once the baby makes an appearance. In the meantime it’s taking up A LOT of room in it’s nifty travel bag in the back of my already over-crammed wardrobe.

The nearest place I could find that sells the Bugaboo was Giggle’s in SFC. Not being the maternal type, and never having been in a baby shop before, it was completely overwhelming. Suddenly, I realised just how ill-equipped I was for this motherhood trip. I needed so much more stuff than I had on my list. Why hadn’t anyone told me? I needed everything in the store, like, pronto. I needed a glider, a bassinet (no wait- two bassinets), a car seat (no wait – two car seats), a crib and mattress, a dresser, a high chair, a sling, a baby carrier, a baby bouncer, a baby monitor, breast pumps and bottles, a baby bath, changing tables, diapers, blankets, swaddles, baby decor, play mats, baby clothes, baby toiletries, a baby medical kit, baby books and more!!!

Needless to say the F.O.B. dropped a packet that day, as I went into pre-natal, panic-stricken, shop-mode. All the highchairs were naff. Yep, I know I don’t need one right this minute, but I like to be prepared. Is it me, or do all the highchairs look like something out of Star-Trek? Personally I like a more traditional style. The space pod just isn’t my cup of tea, I don’t care if its been ergonomically designed, as far as I’m concerned it’s ugly. Like Ikea. Yuk.

 As for the bassinet, I didn’t even know what this was, and now I have two. By far the sexiest is the eco-friendly Cariboo Earth Folding bassinet, made from sustainabe pine (whatever that means) with organic, unbleached cotton and mattress. Looks fabulous in my bedroom, like a little baby jesus cradle, soft and ethereal and romantic. Totally impractical, as my mum kindly pointed out the other day, but what a work of art. It doesn’t fit in my room, what with the new French Vanilla dresser and matching Victorian crib, so then I went out and bought a baby moses basket and rocker frame, which is the cutest, darling, little thing, and also horribly expensive.

Just like everything else I bought. Or rather the F.O.B. bought. He’s good for some things, I suppose…

I’m having a home birth. Yep, that’s right, I’m going for the full experience of natural-birth-initiation-transformation, without intervention, pain medication, white coats, and legs in stirrups.

At my recent baby-shower, my good friend Julianne (the one and only tree girl) read this quote to me:

“Giving birth is priestess work; it requires a woman to pass through a painful and dangerous initiation in which she journeys to the threshold between worlds and risks her own life to help another soul cross over.” Jalaja Bonheim

Cool, eh?

I’m ready. My birth tub arrived last week, I have my recharge drinks at the ready, my affirmations on the wall, my birth altar in place, I’ve taken all the birth classes, read the books, watched the DVDs. I know how to squat, how to grunt like a birthing bear, when to push. The whole shaboom. I’ve never done this before, but hey, since women have been giving birth at home for millennia, I figure I can do it too.

For one thing, it’s going to save me the big bucks. I don’t have any medical insurance, on account of being English, and having only just moved here to California a few months ago while 5 months pregnant (quite why I made such a drastic move is another story). Apparently, one cannot get health insurance in this wonderful country with a “pre-existing pregnancy condition”, since this is considered “high risk”. I took a birth tour at Marin General Hospital a couple of months back, and found out that a normal hospital birth would cost me around $20,000 to $40,000. I compared this to the home birth costs of around $5,000 (for a midwife and some basic medical tests). Hmmm…talk about a no brainer.

But seriously, even if I had insurance, I would not go for a hospital experience. The birth tour scared the crap out of me. Hospitals are breeding grounds for infection, and they smell of death and disease. Even worse, they are a bastion of patriarchal power and smack of corporate America. I have not, and never will, buy into the western medical profession for love or money. That is, unless something goes wrong with my pregnancy and I need a C-section, in which case I’ll be in there like a shot.

I shoulda, coulda, woulda started this blog when I first found out I was up the duff (i.e. pregnant) about 8 months ago. I’m about to drop a sprog any day now, and have a lot of catching up to do. I need to get a few things out into the open, about this whole pregnancy milarkey. First of all, no one told me I was going to put on 55 lbs and waddle around like a whopping great whale. I just noticed that I have cellulite on my calves (thanks, mum for pointing this out). Thankfully no stretch marks, but I cannot imagine how my body is going to snap back into shape.

My only consolation is checking out the other Mill Valley mothers around here. All super skinny, eco-chic, celebrity-type moms, sipping on lattes-to-go and jogging uphill with at full-speed with their space-age three-wheeling strollers. That could be me in a few months time, if the Gods are kind.  

Second of all, I look and feel like shit. Who started that myth about the radiant momma?  My skin is blotched and mottled, my eyes red and puffy, my hair thin and falling out, my nose blocked and bloody, my tongue is spotty, and my teeth look decidedly dodgy. Plus my best friend just told me I sound like I have emphysema, on account of my lungs being squashed to the size of walnuts and pressed up into the upper reaches of my shoulders.

Did I mention I’d gained 55 lbs??? Apparently, the average pregnant woman gains around 20 – 25 lbs. I haven’t exactly been eating like a horse, so where why am I so fat??? I  know, I know I was underweight to begin with, at least that’s what they keep telling me. But surely I did not need this extra padding on my arse. Big blossoming boobs maybe, hey that’s OK with me, and maybe a little extra around the middle to protect the baby, but thunder-thighs and a wobble-chin? Surely that is a cruel fate I do not deserve…I say bring on the breastfeeding so the babe can suck all this weight from me.

I need a space to rant and rave about the ups and downs of pregnancy, childbirth and parenthood. I’m a reluctant mum, with an unplanned pregnancy, no clue about babies, and no partner in the picture to help me navigate unchartered waters. Never been the maternal type. Never been around babies or children. Absolutely no idea what to do with them. 

A couple of years back I started to think about babies, thanks to my biological clock ticking like a time bomb. Nothing rational you understand, but a deep yearning in my bones that my body was built for babies. I was afraid I was going to miss the boat if I didn’t get on the case right away. I had a couple of ex-husbands under my belt and the rubble of ruined relationships in my wake. A poor track record all round. It did not bode well for my future. I took a serious look at the sperm bank scenario, and pondered whether I could go this route, or be left on the shelf with the old maids…

Suddenly, unexpectedly, one more fling with disaster in a desperate attempt to get a relationship right, and I found myself pregnant with said child. My first reaction was to burst into tears and terminate. I wanted a baby (or so I thought) but not like this. Yet when it came to the crunch, I couldn’t murder my child, not after so much wanting and waiting. Poor little critter deserved a chance, even with a poor little mother like me.

This blog is my attempt to keep a sense of humour and retain my sanity on this journey. I gotta find a way to keep my head and heart in place, above water, or I risk losing it and make a pigs ear out of things.  I gotta find a way not to think too hard, too much about what I’m doing, or I might regret bringing a child into this miserable, fucked up world. I gotta find a way to realise maybe I’m not so bad a mother after all.