Rapture

April 30th, 2007 |

Their house was the sort that matches my much-loved idea of home - well worn, oddly shaped, bare boards, random instruments littering the corners, barefoot children and strange cats and cloth diapers strewn about, a deep ancient bath and a kitchen crammed with glass jars that holds everything else together in a warm and thoughtful embrace.
Walking calmy in out of the foggy mid-night, my midwife and I were audience to a nativity of three (give or take two sleepy girls tumbling out of bedsheets to tentatively brush their hands over their newest sister) – deep in the awed glow of birth as it was surely, truly, deep-in-my-heart-seated meant to be.
And from there we wrapped up warmly, embraced, laughed deeply and slipped into the joyful simplicity of a family so clearly at home in every aspect of those words.

Home is friends in the kitchen cooking soup
children poking at the placenta in awe
Papa catching a baby and then lighting a fire
good conversation and dried apricots and genuine warmth that can never exist anywhere else
a placenta in the kitchen bucket
curling up in your own big bed while a rapt midwifery student gently leans in from the corner to give you one last check

oh and rapture?

Rapture is a homebirth

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Officialis

April 24th, 2007 |

The hospital computer records use the most abhorent language – please know that I would never claim to have conducted a delivery .
Nevertheless, there it is officially – not one, but two slippery, squashed, exquisitely upturned faces (both mamas on hands-and-knees) in the space of one long Sunday night. Awe-struckly passed under to their families by my proud and exhilarated hands that stayed where they were to gently receive their placental homes as well.
Hands hot and wet with blood and vernix.
Annointed hands.
Midwife’s hands.
I went to class and cried quietly with totally overwhelming joy.
Life into my hands. What could be greater?
[I also really like that there's a space underneath for Assisting Doctor, and that this space is blank!]

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what’s petty?

April 22nd, 2007 |

Two big, fast boys both wiggling past anterior lips, within 24 hours of each other since I last wrote.
I’m beginning to think my midwife plans educational theme days for me. Or the universe. Or whoever’s in charge of these things.
Since then I’ve played the much-loved midwifery game called cross-fingers-and-tempt-fate by travelling 2 hours away to entertain visitors. I was packing to leave as I got a call that someone was edging their way into labour. So now I’m safely back at home eating risotto and waiting. Round one, me.

As I was sitting here, Jane came by with a birth annoucement in the newspaper thanking her, and one thanking me right next to it. Lovely synchroncity, that.

You know what’s petty?
. . . . here’s a hint. . .
If I’m ever your midwife and you want to thank me publicly. . . you might want to spell my name correctly.
(note to self, do not give future child name with silent h at the end)

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in which we wait

April 11th, 2007 |

(and also gamble)
lounging in the autumnal late afternoon sun in between ante-natal visits yesterday my midwife and I scribbled on slips of pink paper who we intuited might be called upon by the moon-pull of the child-bearing tides first. There are eight of them in the next few weeks, and by the next full moon, I will – with all sorts of hope – have seen their slick, new little selves slither, ooze and wrench themselves earthward in the calmess of their home, in the stillness of the hospital right before dawn, in the held-breath-cradle of whatever entrance they choose (and we guard).
but for now we wait, laughing at the little numbers we playfully assign each unique unfolding of events. charging our phones. watchfully moving our hands over bellies writhing with eagerness from within. and being very patient.
Because birth always has her own rhythm.
We are merely here to hold the space – and let it carry out its dance.

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Academia

April 2nd, 2007 |

Studying to be a midwife in New Zealand is -
my entire class and the head of the program bursting into tears during a meeting in the middle of the day
my placement midwife and I doing clinic in our barefeet
(not to mention traipsing around the hospital delivery suite in flip flops and jeans and still being very respected by the obstetricians – her, not me, obviously)
two of my classmates bringing their sons to class today, prompting us all to suddenly glance around at their whereabouts when our lecturer suggested someone investigate, and report back to the class re: whether or not you can actually feel your cervix bob up and down in the aftershocks of an orgasm
(they were asleep, and apparently yes, you can)
cutting my finger today whilst thrusting it into a plastic vagina
dry & academic it is not.
hurrah.

[sympathies extended to my tender-bellied male friends and relations who will no doubt send me e-mails of squeamish protest and have to go lie down for the afternoon with smelling salts upon reading this post]

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