Archive for September, 2011
Oh yeah, it’s all about survival.
Babies cry when they’re separated from us–from our warmth and our heartbeats especially–because of survival, because our species wouldn’t have made it this far if we could set a baby down on the ground in the jungle: quiet babies, in those circumstances, would have been quietly nibbled up by tigers, after all. A baby who cried if you tried to put her down would get picked back up, where he would be quiet and happy again and we adult humans could go back to our hunting and gathering.
So now here we are, no tigers in sight, and it’s still all about survival–the babies’, and our own.
I have a good friend who now lives far away and who just had her first child. My friend is struggling, struggling with doctors’ orders (“Did you really do what the doctor said, and nurse 8-10 minutes every two hours?” my friend asked over email; over email, I laughed, not unsympathetically, and tried to explain that at certain points in those early weeks I might have spent 8-10 minutes in a two-hour span not nursing), struggling with how to care for a baby and herself (“[My partner] is back at work,” my friend wrote, “so I’m sleeping with the baby in the nursery and doing all the night-time things”), and basically just struggling to get through these early weeks.
My advice to her was that, in my opinion, it’s not helpful to think of one parent as “going to work” in the morning because usually both parents–especially the nursing mom who stays home with the newborn during the day–are working. Beyond that, though, my advice was to find a survival strategy that works, right now in real time, for her and her family, and not to think beyond this–not to let thoughts race ahead to “Is this baby going to still be attached to the boob all the time when I go back to work in January?” or “Am I never going to get more than a four-hour stretch of sleep again for the rest of my life?” The answers to those are “Possibly, but you’ll deal,” and “Probably not, but who knows,” but honestly, those questions and answers are far, far away.
For now, do what you have to do to survive!
I think I’ve figured out the difference between my first pregnancy and this one–don’t laugh! The difference is–um, I have a child now.
Short of some basic randomness involved in the biology of the thing–baby might be positioned differently, so the kicks might feel different, etc.–I think for me the big difference is really the presence of my son.
Here’s what I mean by that. . . .
The first time around, I definitely had a little bit of morning sickness in the first trimester, but it was very manageable and very mild. This time, I am sure that my sensations are the same–that is, the morning sickness didn’t feel stronger, etc.–but the contexts that prompted them are different. Hustling out the door in the morning, getting me to work and a toddler to preschool, I had less time to eat a protein-laden breakfast, this time around, that could help manage the symptoms of morning sickness for me.
Now, sitting in the back seat of the car next to my son’s carseat (he is and always has been a terrible car passenger and will scream–earlier, just wordless cries, now, things like, “THE BUCKLE IS HURTING ME! I WANT TO GET OUT! I WANT TO GET OUT OF THE CAR! THIS IS TOO TIGHT!”–unless constantly soothed), the feelings of carsickness and vague dizziness that pregnancy induces in some women come to the fore for me, whereas the first time around, sitting blithely in the front passenger seat with no one screaming and no back-seat bumpiness, I barely noticed them at all.
This time, the third-trimester aches and general large, awkward movements that pregnancy brings are intensified when I put my son to bed at night, lying down beside him on his very low-to-the-ground mattress. . . and then rolling strangely and stiffly off it when he’s asleep and I get up to go on with my evening. The first time around, I got to just sit in the living room with my feet up every evening, though such a concept now seems laughable to me.
Anyway, I write this all with humor, but also with a bit of reality behind it–I don’t think this pregnancy is harder, or anything like that, on its own, but I do think that the situations we are in shape the way we perceive our experiences, and that idea is certainly proving true for me now, at least.
An online friend just had a vaginal breech birth, in a hospital, here in Massachusetts. That shouldn’t be such a rarity, such a cause for celebration, but things being what they are in this country, it unfortunately is. When I mentioned this to my midwife, she knew immediately which OB and which hospital she must have used, because, again, it’s such a rarity to find an OB who is willing to attend a vaginal breech birth. I guess this is a good news/bad news post, then–good news, and many cheers and congratulations, for my friend, and bad news for the vast majority of women who are simply given no other option but major surgery when they have a breech baby close to term.
When I was pregnant with my son (now three years old), the most difficult thing for me about the experience was that I’d never done this before–it was all completely new to me. In retrospect, I think that newness also made some things easier to accept. Now, though, at 28 weeks along with whoever this new baby will turn out to be, the most difficult thing for me is that I have “done this” before: it’s very strange, the constant comparison and remembering and weighing that goes on in my mind with this pregnancy.
Some things are obviously, tangibly different this time: I had a large, dark linea nigra on my belly with Marcus, but I barely have a visible one at all with this baby. I had an anterior placenta with Marcus, which muffled many of the big movements for me, but my placenta now must be in a different place as I feel so much more movement, and so many more constant large kicks and turns and wiggles, than the first time around.
I have to wonder how long this almost unconscious comparison process is going to go on, though. Through labor and birth? Through the newborn period? Forever? Parents always say they love their children equally, and I don’t doubt that, but this constant mental game of same/different is a new one to me, and I’m wondering if it ever fades into the background.
At 27 weeks along, I all of a sudden look obviously pregnant to strangers. No longer do people give me those funny little glances, trying to figure out if I am–I am now offered a seat everytime I get on a bus or train, and people I meet (a friend of a friend, a new acquaintance at a party, another mom I strike up a conversation with at a playground or beach) routinely ask me a certain question.
I’m sure you can figure out what the question is. It’s a completely predictable, if idiomatic, one: “When are you due?” they ask.
My problem with this question? I inevitably hear it as, “What do you do?” and start answering that. There’s a moment of confusion, before my conversation partner intervenes: “No, no, no,” he or she (usually she) says, “I mean when are you due?”
Ah. Right. I can answer that one too, of course. But it’s a huge shift of my brain, of my identity–I do do something outside of gestating, raising, and nursing children, and while I’m intensely proud of the work of my body, this natural, physical, biological work it’s doing, I’m also proud of the work of my mind, and my answer to the “What do you do?” question which used to be–before I looked so obviously pregnant–the more common query.
I’m not sure what to do about this–I guess I only have 12-15 weeks or so to keep at it, and then the question will fade into the background of distant memory. But it’s tricky, meanwhile, and it highlights a basic conflict in my identity that I (obviously) haven’t entirely resolved yet.
I’ve long been a fan of Jill’s great site, Unnecesarean.com, but I just recently stumbled across this interesting and thought-provoking blog post about “necesareans,” or truly medically necessary c-sections. It’s definitely worth a read; there’s a lot of information here, and lots of links to external sources, and it’s written by someone with a natural-birth slant. She talks a lot about how many c-sections are done for “fetal distress,” which is a very blurry and ill-defined term that can sometimes be twisted by doctors into a reason for major surgery, whereas “acute fetal distress” is in fact a real thing (she gives ranges of test results, etc., by which this can be measured), which really would suggest a need for an immediate, and necessary, c-section. At the end of that section, though, there is this paragraph:
If the baby is in acute distress, it’s time to get the baby out, by the swiftest method possible. Please, if your doctor says the baby is in danger, don’t spend time printing out this post and checking the lab work
Now, this is very interesting to me–I’m wondering whether this is just a classic CYA-disclaimer, or what, since the entire force of the post up until that paragraph does seem to suggest that women do arm themselves with information, asking questions of their doctors and checking the results of tests and interventions against what they have researched ahead of time. Here, though, the author seems to be retreating a bit, falling back on the old “trust your doctor” line. What troubles me about that, though, is that many women do not have a caregiver they really know and trust; if you do, of course, and that caregiver says the baby is in distress, you do not stop to quibble. But what about women who are pressured into delivering with a specific doctor because of proximity, or policy, or insurance/money, or just luck (large practice, the doctors you trust are away, this one’s on call, etc.)? In these situations, the woman is right back to where she was before having read this post, sadly–relying on the word of a “caregiver” who is not, in fact, always using research-based practices, or even always delivering “care.”
Sigh. I don’t know the answer, other than for me, personally, this is one more reason I choose to labor and birth at home with a midwife I trust completely.