Mama Feminista

Because Breastfeeding is Beautiful

I am in love with this website, Beautiful Breastfeeding, which also has a FB page (until FB wipes it for "obscenity," of course)!

It showcases hundreds of truly beautiful images of breastfeeding in ancient through modern times. As my nursling and I move through this second year of nursing, I have gotten a lot of inspiration and wisdom from other nursing moms. Seeing images of other nursing moms and babies is affirming and a real joy.

Here are a few of my favorites:

I have seen this little eye many a time over the nearly 16 months that I have nursed little Lulu.  It's a sweet little look no mama could ever forget.

This painting, by Kate Hansen, is part of entire series called the "Madonna and Child Project." This one is just gorgeous with soft light and the sweet little hand on mommy's heart. I also love that she's nursing her toddler. Because this is the stage of nursing that we are at, I found myself connecting to the images of nursing toddlers the most.

This is a recreation of what happens half a dozen times a day as big sister hangs out with us while little sister nurses. Except I don't usually look so fierce and graceful.

I'm not tandem nursing, but this made me think of my friends who tandem nurse. Mama's smile and the playful look on the older child's face are really engaging.

By far this mother's outfit is better looking than most "nursingwear." It just shows that you can nurse in just about anything.

They have a lovely animal gallery. We are all mammals, after all.

(Note: The image sources can be a little tricky to find, but if you download the image, the title and artist will come up in the "save as" box. On their FB page, the citations are easier to find.)

Birth Stories: Part Three

To read about my first birth, visit Birth Stories: Part One

To read about my second birth (the start of this story), visit Birth Stories, Part Two

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I said goodnight to Gabe as he headed to bed. It was 10pm, and I got settled on the couch, with some towels, just in case. I laid there and tried to sleep through the increasing contractions, but around midnight Gabe came down to find me on hands and knees doing "cat-cow" yoga stretches in an attempt to ease the contractions. He laughed and said, "this is happening tonight."

But I still wasn't sure. I was in some pain, but it didn't feel overwhelming, like my first labor. It just felt like really deep powerful cramps. I was scared that if we went to the hospital, they would tell me to go back home or that I would only be a a few centimeters dilated and they would want to induce. So we hung out for another twenty or thirty minutes, timing the contractions, which were probably coming every 5-6 minutes and lasting a minute.

Soon, we thought it was a good time for Gabe to call his sister to come spend the night with Marisol. I was sure that these contractions were not going away. I was excited, but still fearful that what I was experiencing wasn't the "real thing." I called the OB and he said that I was perfectly right to come on in and then I called our doula. We packed up the last few things for the hospital, and I had some fruit and water.

When Gabe went out to let his sister in the gate, our dog started barking, and I had to chase him around trying to quiet him down in the middle of a powerful contraction. When Gabe and his sister came in they found me yell-whisper-cursing at the dog! We gave Jessica some last minute instructions and I laughed at her look of worry when she saw me lean over the counter during a contraction. It was getting serious and we headed out the door, eager to meet our new girl.

The ride to the hospital was extremely vivid. My vision felt really sharp and the streetlights sparkled brightly as we drove towards the hospital downtown. For some reason, that ride stayed with me and to this day when I hear the song we listened to on the way there, I am taken right back to that ride, filled with anticipation and hopeful that the strong pains I was feeling would lead to a good birth and a healthy baby.

Arriving at the hospital, I felt briefly like the main character in a movie as I waddled down the hallways, pausing every few miutes to lean against the wall during contractions. When we checked in, the nurse asked Gabe if I was in active labor, then looked around the window to see me, hands pressed against the wall and breathing deeply. "Yup," she said and got us checked into a room. It was just past midnight.

I was expecting some resistance from the nurses because I was a VBAC and I did not want an IV and wanted only intermittent monitoring. The nurse did go over the risks with us and made some passing comment about VBACs being risky, but then she let it go. Our doctor is known for doing VBACs and the nurses respect him, so they knew that we were knowledgeable and not going to change our minds.

When the nurse checked my cervix, I was so scared that she was going to tell me I was at a three, still. But I wasn't. I was six centimeters dilated! I felt a rush of relief. I had only gotten to a six with Marisol, and that had felt like torture. I still felt good this time and was at a six. I was so so happy! I finally believed that this time could be different.

Right after that good news, our doula, Cat, came in. She too, was happy at the news. The next few hours were a blur of contractions and chatting. I stayed out of bed, except for when the nurse needed me to sit for the intermittent monitoring, which was only for ten minutes at a time. Those ten minutes were challenging because sitting was the most painful position to be in, and the least helpful for progressing. Mostly, it went like this: every few minutes I would get a contraction and I would stand in front of Gabe, who was seated on the bed. He would rub my neck and shoulders while Cat, who was seated on a chair behind me, would rub small circles on my lower back. That was all I needed to get thorugh the pains.

As soon as we got into the delivery room, I got into the shower with Gabe and let the hot water do the work. I leaned my head against Gabe and let the water flow over my big belly. The pain almost vanished. Cat and Gabe were amazing again: they kept me drinking fluids and going to the bathroom regularly, and kept me positive. At about 6am, I started asking about an epidural. I was still at a six and very very tired. I wanted to take a nap with the epidural and then turn it off to keep laboring. Looking back, I see that was a silly plan, because I was so close to the end, but I just wanted to sleep a bit.

Gabe and Cat were the perfect measure of support and understanding. They reminded me of why I wanted a natural birth, but said that I should do what I wanted to. I called the OB and asked him if he thought that getting an epidural would lessen my chances of a vaginal birth. He said it would be fine either way and that some rest might do me good. So, I kept stalling and waiting. I finally decided around 8am that we should ask the anesthesiologist to come in, but soon found out that I was at 7 cm and that the anesthesiologist was in surgery. At that point my OB  headed over.

I sat in the bed and refused to keep walking around, like I had been, because I knew that walking would make me complete, and I wanted to take a nap. So I sat there and waited. When the OB came in, I told him I didn't think he would let me get the epidural anymore, and he promised me that he would, even if I was complete. He leaned me back and checked me. Then he quickly said, "I'm going to pop your waters." He popped my bag of waters with his fingers and declared: "you're ready to push your baby out." I cried with relief, joy, and surprise.

Then he asked me, "do you still want that epidural?" "No!" I said. He would have given it to me then, I think , because he is that kind of guy. But I was ready to push her out. I was in pain, but glad that I was actually going to give birth! At this point, my OB said he had to step out, but left me with the nurse to get to work.

So I pushed. I spent the next hour pushing with the help of a nurse, Cat, Gabe, and then my OB when he returned.  To be honest, the pressure that my doc and the nurse applied hurt more than the baby and my main motivation became to get their hands out of me by getting the baby out.  In retrospect, I think I should have tried switching positions, but I was so focused on following my nurse and OB's guidance that I just stayed put and pushed when I got the urge--which was every few minutes.

I was so eager to have her out. Every time I pushed I felt like she should be coming out, but she wasn't. I kept asking "Where is she?" not quite sure what I was hoping to hear.   I focused on Cat and her encouraging quiet presence as she held my hand.  Gabe was also by my side, but he was too interested in seeing Lucia's head to hold my gaze like I needed. I felt the ring of fire, but took it as a good sign because it meant Lucia was really finally moving through me towards the world.

The feeling of pushing out a body from my body was strange. It felt slippery and hot and just all of a sudden after all that waiting. My OB told me they had to check her real quick because there had been a bit of meconium, but that was fast, and the OB stitched up a small tear while she got cleaned up.  I asked him if she had a cleft palate and the NICU team checked and reported that she had an intact palate.

I smiled and looked over at my doula (Gabe was with Lucia a few feet away) and said "I pushed a baby out my vagina!" That sounds silly, but for a mom who had her first baby cut out of her abdomen, that's a big deal.  I was so proud and so relieved!

Soon, Gabe handed me my second daughter and she was gorgeous! She was almost a pound and a half larger than Marisol, but otherwise seemed identical. My doula helped me latch her on to nurse and that's how we spent the next hour or so, nursing and dozing and smiling and laughing at this new life that had come so joyfully into our lives.

That day--except for the joy of getting to meet my amazing girls--was the exact opposite of my first birth. Where I felt physically and mentally exhausted and spent with the c-section, I felt physically and mentally exuberant. Yes, I was in some pain, but I also felt an incredible rush of endorphins that masked the pain incredibly well!  Where I felt incapable of caring for Marisol because I couldn't nurse her or change her or anything, I felt incredibly capable the second time. I was nursing, I was walking, I was moving around and lifting her and hugging my visitors! I know that some of the difficulty of my first experience was the long labor and birth, and some of it was also the shock of learning that my child had a cleft palate and that we wouldn't have the nursing relationship I had hoped.

I cannot explain how this birth changed me except to say that it many many ways it healed me. It's ironic because vaginal birth is not easy, and I certainly needed to heal from it as well, but the physical traumas of the birth not only healed over time, the birth itself healed many emotional wounds.

In the coming weeks, we would go on to have some nursing issues (oversupply!!!), but mostly, Lucia was an easy baby who now as a toddler still loves to cuddle and nurse with me. She and her sister have taught me how to be a mother and made me a stronger woman. I could not be more thankful to each of them. 

Birth Stories: Part One

 

It took over three years to write this story because while meeting my daughter was the most amazing moment of my life, the birth process was quite difficult for me, emotionally and physically.  I don't think I'd be able to write it now, if I hadn't had a much better  birth experience two years later (sorry for the spoiler!). I finally wrote it because I don't want to forget more than I already have, and because I love reading other moms' birth stories and know that someone out there might be looking for a first-hand experience of an induction, cesearean, or vbac.

Fair warning: if you are sensitive to reading about medical situations, or are looking for 100% positive birth stories, skip this one.  Yes, there's a happy ending in the form of a beautiful baby girl, but there's quite a bit of pain first.

Also, it is VERY long, just like the labor.

Marisol: My First Birth Story

Pregnancy

I love being pregnant. I am one of those women, like my mother, who just feels better pregnant. My hair gets thicker, my nails are shiny, my skin finally clears up (and then stays acne free until at least three months post-partum, at which point...the acne returns, sadly), and I just feel more beautiful in my skin than ever.  Sure, there's some nausuea and other normal pregnancy symptoms, but overall, I'd be happy to be continually pregnant! 

In my job, I tend to take on a lot of projects, and pregnancy makes me slow down and focus on myself. I did yoga, acupuncture, and chiropracty with each pregnancy and took care of myself because it was the first way I could take care of my babies. I also learned all I could about pregnancy, birth, and lactation (irony alert).

We took a wonderful Bradley class and I learned so much about the whole process that it felt like a college course. By the time my due date neared we had a natural birth plan, a doula, and a wealth of information. I thought I was empowered to make all the best choices during my birth.

[Now, I have to get this out because it colors the way I feel about what happened during Marisol's birth, whether that's fair or not: Marisol has Cerebral Palsy.  It is usually caused during, right before, or right after birth.  We do not know what caused it, and never will, because no one ever witnessed her having the stroke that caused her brain injury. We can only assume that it happened before birth, but there is no proof of exactly when it happened. My strong feeling is that it happened during the one moment that everyone freaked out about her heart rate. It was one scary moment, and the only moment that makes sense to me.]

Nearing My Due Date

I worked up until five days before my due date. My mom had come to stay with us until after the baby was born.  Unluckily, the day before my due date, as we walked out of a restaurant, on the way to an appointment with my midwives, my mom fell and broke her shoulder. This was a huge deal because she is in her 70's and my mother! 

I stayed calm and got her to the ER.  At first, the doctors thought she would be okay--they didn't think it was broken. The ortho we went to the next morning agreed that it was not broken and asked us to come back a few days later. When we did, it was clear that she had broken it and would require surgery.  So we put her on a plane and sent her home to my siblings who could better care for her in her own home.

To say that the four or five days between her fall and the day we sent her home was stressful is a tremendous understatement.  I was terrified of going into labor and not being able to care for her.  She couldn't use her arm at all. At least, when we sent her home, I knew she would be cared for and that it would be okay for me to labor.  If you know anything about birth, it should be pretty clear to you that this amount of stress would be enough to delay labor in any creature, human or otherwise!

Early Labor a.k.a. Prodomal Labor (annoyingly a.k.a "false labor")

A day or so after we got my mother settled back home, my contractions started. This was five days past my due date, but 8 days BEFORE I would actually give birth. It was a Monday and later that week, on Thursday night, I began having more serious contractions. However, they were erratic and under a minute long. It was difficult to sleep, but not impossible. The next morning, on Friday,  we woke up sure that would be the day as my contractions were fairly strong and about 6 minutes apart.  Gabe took the day off work and we drove together to my scheduled check-up with the certified nurse midwives.

It was not the day.  By the time we arrived for the appointment the contractions were all but gone.  That morning, a midwife I would came to detest tried real hard to scare us into inducing. She checked my fluids and said they were too low, even though I would later find out that her idea of "too low" was very subjective.  I asked her if I could try and increase my fluids. She asked me, "Why don't you want to just have her now? We can induce." (This is why this midwife is called a 'medwife' by many in the birthing community here.) I thought, but did not say, "Because inductions are risky, and she is doing fine according to your monitors, and she isn't actually 'late' until after 42 weeks..." She finally relented and gave me two more days-until Sunday.

I spent the next 48 hours doing everything I could to increase my fluids and get labor going. I kept getting contractions at night, which was exhausting. I climbed stairs for hours at our local outdoor mall. I walked many miles. I napped. My acupuncturist even came to do a housecall to induce labor. etcetera...

Sunday, an OB resident saw me and said my fluids had improved, but not enough.  The only remedy, she said, was birth.  It wasn't urgent, though, so I could come in the next morning, Monday, a full week after my "false labor" or prodomal labor had begun.  Even though I had read that this was very normal, I hadn't expected it and was starting to get frustrated with how long the process was taking. I had hoped the whole labor process would last less than a day, not more than a week!

Induction

At this point, we had another challenge-- the standard at the hospital where I delivered was to begin inductions with Cytotec, which poses many risks, such as uterine rupture. I called my birth educator, and my doula, and we did more research. We had a few long talks and neither Gabe nor I were comfortable with the use of Cytotec for induction.  My "medwife" was very annoyed by this, but relented, because honestly, she had no choice without my consent.

We drove in that Monday morning ready for the induction, which I did not want, but felt pressured by my care provider to have, and was beginning to fear was inevitable.  It didn't help that family were getting worried about my having gone "overdue" even though I knew that the average gestation for a first pregnancy is 41 weeks and 3 days.

When we arrived at 8 am they were full and told to us to come back in twelve hours.  We went home and I tried to use my breast pump to get labor going.  I also tried to nap, and went out for our last pre-baby meal at Bucca di Beppo.  I was still having contractions, but aside from some shifting at the table, was able to make it through the meal.  We went home one last time, packed up a few last things, checked in with our doula and went back to the hospital.

I felt sad on the way. I felt like an animal going to slaughter.  I knew that induction made the need for an epidural much more likely, which made the need for a cesearean much more likely, not to mention a host of other interventions we didn't want.  I was terrified of this "cascade of interventions." I was committed to laboring with pitocin without pain medication. I wanted to participate fully in the birth. I wanted to feel my body pushing her into the world. I wanted to be able to walk around, and not expose her to drugs.  I had high hopes, but a heavy heart.  I remember thinking, as long as this ends in a vaginal birth, I'll be happy with the birth experience. Of course, my top priority was a healthy baby, but I also was concerned about the birth process, which would affect both our health and well-being.

They hooked me up. The "medwife" chided me once more about the Cytotec, and I tried to sleep. Gabe napped and checked on me, but the night was uneventful. It was pretty much the same as the last few nights.

In the morning, the "medwife" came in only to check my dilation and tell me that nothing had happened since I wouldn't do the Cytotec.  She was rude and luckily, going off duty to be replaced by a nicer, warmer, and much more experienced midwife. This midwife came in with kind words, and unhooked me to let me take a "pit break." They stopped the pitocin and allowed me to shower and eat breakfast--thank goodness for small miracles.

Active Labor

Then, I got back on the Pit and they began incrementally increasing the dosage.  It was probably 9 am. By 4 pm, I was at 5 centimeters and in active labor. The pain was intense, especially since I was experiencing back labor which made the contractions radiate from my back around to my entire uterus right up to my chest.  Gabe was fantastic--helping me to walk around, get to the bathroom, reminding me to drink fluids, change positions, etc.  We called the doula, hopeful that the show was really going to go on!  I spent almost no time in bed. I was walking, boucing on the birth ball, stretching. I was doing everything I knew how to manage the pain and help labor progress.

Meanwhile... my mother was getting a should replacement surgery. Four of my siblings were there, at least one of whom was terrified that my mother would not make it out of anesthesia. Honestly, we were all a little terrified. I tried to focus on my daughter and getting her into the world, but I kept thinking of my mom, being cut open, and I was scared for her too.

My lovely doula arrived and helped me and Gabe. He got to go take a shower and grab a bite to eat. He made some phone calls to his family and mine. He got updates on my mom, who did fine.  He was working hard with me, to help me, and having  a break for him was important. Our doula helped me deal with the increasing intensity of the contractions by massaging my feet and legs, rubbing my back, and many other calming and soothing things I can't even fully remember. Most importantly, she was supportive and encouraging.

By 10 pm that night, the contractions were very intense and getting closer together. I was at a 6, which was pretty good, but I was getting really tired. I hadn't eaten for 14 hours and had been pretty active all day.  My midwife suggested rupturing my membranes to see if that wouldn't speed things up a bit. I agreed, knowing this would be another intervention.  It was only a little painful, and there was little fluid, although it was clear.  It did further intensify the contractions, making them feel sharper.

I continued to labor for another five hours. They kept increasing the dosage of pitocin.  I was transitioning and they moved me into the delivery room. It was 2 or 3 am.  I was exhausted but still hopeful as I walked down the hallway with my crew.  I wanted to get this baby out!

Another hour or so passed and nothing changed. I was, seemingly, stuck. I was also at my limit emotionally. I was so fatigued from the lack of food, level of stress and endurance, and the intensity of the pain.  The contractions were so profound that I needed Gabe to use his full strentgh to bear down on my lower back for counterpressure, while my doula rubbed my arms through every contractions. I was on the birth ball and sounding it out, but I was done. 

The midwife explained that they would have to increase the Pit significantly to try and get things going more rapidly. I asked her, plaintively, "but how am I going to do it? I don't know how to do it."  I couldn't go on.  I had been induced over 30 hours earlier, and hadn't eaten in close to a full day.  I was spent. I felt completely depleted.

She suggested the epidural and I accepted. We all hoped I could sleep for a few hours and then push my girl out. It sounded like a reasonable plan.  The epidural was quick and effective in that it numbed my lower half. But I felt totally disconnected from my belly button on down.  It was strange. I slept a little.

My mother in law was invited into the room. She had been waiting in the lobby, but now that I wasn't laboring naturally, I didn't feel like I needed as much privacy.

The Caesarean Section

Soon after the epidural, everyone freaked out. My blood pressure and the baby's heartrate were dangerously low.  A bunch of doctors and nurses raced into the room. They flipped me in a few directions. They gave me a shot of epinephrene which made my heart race and they stopped the pit.  I have always had low blood pressure, even when pregnant, and my suspicion is that that makes me a poor candidate for epidural medication, since one side effect is lowered blood pressure. 

They stablized the baby's heartrate and inserted an internal fetal monitor which screwed into her scalp. Another intervention I hadn't wanted. Honestly, we hit every step on the "cascade of interventions."

Gabe was terrified. I felt defeated. This was turning into a nightmare and I was scared for my baby and for myself.

To the credit of the staff, my midwife came in with an OB at that point and said, "You and the baby are safe and doing well now. But something was causing her problems. It could be a fluke and she might tolerate more labor. We can start labor up again and monitor her closely, or we can do a c-section. Either way, we are going to make sure you are both safe. It is up to you."

I didn't have to think long. One look at Gabe and a short conversation later, we decided that Mari would be born by cesearean. It seemed the least risky option at this point. My mother-in-law kindly pointed out that I was born by C-section and my baby would be too. I comforted myself with the image of nursing her, an image I had had with me all through the labor as a way to keep myself motivated. I so wanted to hold her to me and begin our breastfeeding relationship.

Things finally moved quickly. Less than twenty minutes after we said yes to the surgery, she was pulled out of me and into the world. She was born before 8 am.

The surgery was surgery. I felt numb and a lot of pulling. I felt nauseous. I shivered uncontrollably because of the drugs, or the cold of the OR, or nerves, or all of those things.

I cried when I heard her cry. I cried when I saw her. She was beautiful. I was relieved.

Post-Op/The First Day

It's a blur the bit of time between seeing her in the OR and in recovery. A bunch of people got to hold her before I got to hold her. My arms were too numb to hold her and I remember that everyone got distracted for a moment and I had her next to me in her bassinet, but I couldn't reach over and grab her.  It was painful, that moment. My mother-in-law noticed and held the baby while I touched Marisol's face for the first time.

This strange inability to hold her is probably why a lot of C-section moms feel a little distant. I did, but I also wanted desperately to be close to her and bridge that distance. Thankfully, the drugs wore off and I was soon able to hold her. The midwife came in, even though she was technically, "off duty", just because she was sweet and wanted to see us through. She helped me get Marisol latched and checked for colostrum. The baby had a lovely latch and I had plenty of colostrum. She was not worried and neither was I.

The next few hours were sweet--getting to know her, smell her, touch her, kiss her. Seeing Gabe care for her, since I couldn't stand up at all yet from the surgery.  We were exhausted but elated with our girl.

Sometime that afternoon, the pediatrician noticed that Marisol had a cleft palate.  I instantly thought of my nephew. I had grown up knowing he was born "with a hole in the roof of his mouth," but I had never thought of him having a "cleft palate" until that moment.  In my mind, knowing he had this too was a tremendous comfort because honestly, he is one of my favorite people on the planet. But it meant she would not be able to nurse.  The picture I had of nursing her was a mirage.  Although I would try to nurse her many many times, it wouldn't work out.  In the end, I pumped for her for a year, but that's another story...

We stayed in the hospital a couple more days and then went home with our prize--the most amazing little girl we had ever met.

Reflections

The labor. It was awful. Having my daughter--that was awesome in the true sense of the word.  I wish that I had had the strentgh to refuse the induction until 42 weeks. She was born at 41 weeks and 6 days any how, since it was not until the third day of induction that she was born.  It might not have gone better, but I doubt it could have gone worse. She was little, just 6 lbs 15 oz, not a huge post-date baby and she was healthy.  Looking back, I fear that the only damage done to her was not from staying too long in my body, but from the many interventions we used to try and get her out before she was ready.  That is something I don't think I'll ever get over. The only good thing that came from that labor, other than her birth, is that I learned what both Gabe and I are capable of.

Once it was over, I kept telling him that. We were a good team. He was strong and he was there for me and he was just amazing. I was pretty tough myself.  I wasn't scared of pain.  I knew that if we did this again, that it could go better. I knew that I could handle it and so could he.

Luckily for us, the second time around was drastically better, and in many ways, my second labor was a salve for the emotional wounds of the first. After my first birth, I felt let down by my body, as if  "it didn't work."  When I pushed my next baby out, I knew my body did work!  But that's Part Two...

 

 

A Father is Born

[This post was originally written for my private blog, back in September, 2008.]

This is my husband holding our newly born girl, and our "puppy," with the cat as close by as possible. This picture illustrates perfectly why I adore him. It would only be better if I were in it and her were feeding me ice chips and vicodin. Instead, I took this picture to capture our life at that moment, in the early days of our life as a family.

I knew that I had a very special husband when, unlike the other fathers-to-be, he did not skip our Bradley class to watch the Superbowl. He is an avid sports fan, but he stayed with me to learn about dilation and episiotomies and how to help me "sound it out."

I actually overheard him telling his brother on the phone all about the vitamin K shot and Hep B vaccine routinely given to newborns. He didn't ever get around to reading the stack of books I put on his nightstand, but he did bear six two-hour long Bradley classes and absorb the info like a sponge, which was great because my pregnant brain was more like a colander.

When I went into prodomal labor on a Monday, three days AFTER my due date, he was so supportive. He stayed cool and timed my contractions, but also reminded me that if they didn't get stronger that it was probably not really time. That Thursday, when I got some more serious contractions and could no longer sleep through them, he was excited, but still calm. The following Monday night (ya-that's 10 days after the dd), when we went in for the induction, he was excited and probably nervous, but completely absorbed in making me as comfortable as possible.

For the 30 hours of labor that I went through I was amazed by him. He was so IN IT with me. He rubbed my back, he helped me get to and from the bathroom with the IV and everything. Since I was attempting an induction without pain medication, I did a lot of moving around and positioning (as much as I could while hooked up to an IV and a fetal monitor), and he was there assisting me the whole time. He held me while I breathed through contractions. He let me hang on to him and sway when it felt like the baby was coming out my butt--we had been told this was a good sign! Which I guess it usually is, if your body is willing to dilate.

He told me I was strong. He told me I was doing a great job.

When the doula came, he only left to take a quick shower, and otherwise stayed by my side holding me and offering me whatever comfort he could. I thought I knew him before the labor, but I was so impressed by him.

In a lot of ways I felt like I became a mother through that nightmare of a labor, even though it ended in a Cesarean. I know that he became a father in my eyes during that week. He was selfless and completely focused on the safe passage of our girl and on what I needed to make that happen.

After the birth, since I couldn't stand up for half the day, he was the one changing her diapers, rocking her, walking her. While I felt strangely detached because I couldn't do these things myself, it certainly gave him the space to figure out how to father her. He stayed with us in the hospital. He only left the room to grab food to eat and to go with the baby when they took her for tests. He didn't go home or to work. It never even entered his mind.

In the months that have passed, while I have spent about four hours a day attached to the pump, he has made that possible by caring for the baby, doing more around the house, and even by agreeing to cut down on his workload, so that between us we would have enough time for parenting and pumping and being a family.

I think I am a good mother, but I also know that I wouldn't be as good as a mother if he didn't help me and encourage me every step of the way. I know that I am blessed to have him father my children. I know my daughter is the luckiest little girl in the world.

© 2010. All rights reserved. Originally published for mamafeminista.com as Birth of a Father. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

Birth of a Milkin' Mama

[This post was originally written for my private blog, back in September, 2008.]

Because the world must be ruled by the Sweet Mother of Ironies, I learned all I could when I was pregnant about breastfeeding. I bought The Womanly Art of Breastfeeding and The Ultimate Breastfeeding Book of Answers. I took notes during our Bradley class's breastfeeding session. Did I mention I am a good, --no,great--student? Because none of the women in my family are big on the whole BFing thing, I knew I pretty much had to learn this on my own and I was committed. I knew all the health benefits, and as a kinda crunchy mom, I was COMMITTED to breastfeeding. I had, of course, also planned on a natural birth with a CNM (also researched to the hilt!).

So when I hit the 41 week mark of pregnancy and the Certified Nurse Midwife started talking induction I was very upset. With my Bradley Certified brainload of scary medical knowledge, I did everything I could think of to avoid the induction, but gave in at 41 weeks and 4 days. I promise to write another post about the completely unnatural birth experience later. Suffice it to say, that at 41 weeks and 6 days, I gave birth by C-section to my baby.

Through the days and nights of labor I had held onto this image--me breastfeeding my baby. Holding her to my breast. Feeling so so close to her and that erasing all the pain.

As soon as they brought her to me in the recovery room, the nurses helped me latch her on. My arms were numb from too much anesthesia and baby and I were both exhausted,but she did latch and I did have colostrum for her. I was wiped out, but hopeful. She was the most amazing thing I had ever seen. It was like looking at the very best parts of my heart and soul.

A couple of hours later, the pediatrician in charge of the newborns (who was amazing throughout our stay) looked over our baby and told us she had a cleft soft palate. She must have explained more and I do remember the lactation consultant coming by with a pump kit, but there was no pump in my room and I wasn't thinking clearly enough to ask the questions I should have. It was not until the next day when I realized that I would not be able to nurse my daughter .

I know, I know, there ARE cases of babies with cleft soft palates being able to nurse, but they are rare and the result of nearly superhuman determination on the part of the mom and the caregivers. My best abilities have not resulted in nursing success, but when she does latch on to the nipple shield for a few moments, even though no real feeding is happening, I get teary-eyed at how beautiful it is to nurse.

For us, baby's cleft soft palate has meant that she eats from a special bottle and I pump milk for her. At first I pumped 12 times a day for 30 minutes at a time. Then 8, and now at 4 months, I am pumping 7 times a day for 30 minutes at a time. Pumping has become a central activity of my life, right after holding her, loving her, feeding her, kissing her, cuddling her, etc. I make milk for my baby and it always is uncomfortable and the pumping is always a chore and every time I pump and every time I feed her the bottle I feel a very palpable loss. I lost the breastfeeding experience I dreamt of.

Luckily, for baby and us, she is otherwise wonderfully healthy. They will repair her cleft at a year and while she may need speech therapy, she should be able to eat and drink like any other baby after the surgery. She won't remember a thing. But I will. I will remember the fear of my baby going into surgery, and all the hundreds of things that could go wrong for her. Remember, I'm a good student, so I already bought all the cleft-related books and joined all the cleft-affected support groups, so I know what can go wrong. I will also remember how many hours I lost to the pump and more importantly, the nursing relationship I didn't get with her.

I have wished that I was one of those women who never wanted to breastfeed, because that would make this all so much easier. But that's not me. I am going to make sure she gets my milk. It's something I wanted to give her all along and that I won't let her cleft take away from her. Even though it means all the trials of breastfeeding with little of the rewards for me, it makes me feel so proud to be giving her this part of myself.

Each day she is changing and growing, and I don't want to forget these early days. She laughs now and smiles up the whole room. I want her to have a record of what it was like for us this year. The year she won't remember, the year I learned how to love her, how becoming a mom meant thinking of her first every day in everything. 

© 2010. All rights reserved. Originally published for mamafeminista.com as Birth of a Milkin Mama. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.