first fig

my candle burns at both ends…

Category: pregnancy

Weekly Anti-Woman Wacko

I don’t have a ton of time today as I’m headed off to a Mormon feminist retreat in Southern California, but I couldn’t leave with out nominating my weekly wacko. As I’m in a hurry I’ve picked a video for you all to watch, I think it’s pretty self-explanatory as to why this is my pick for weekly wacko.

This makes me so insanely angry that I can barely even talk about it. It really would be nice to live in a country where women were trusted and allowed to make informed decisions on their own behalf. The fact that we are not only goes to show how far we have to go in order for women to have true equality in this country.

For better analysis into Personhood USA, see here.

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The Price I Ask

There are very few things in this world that I feel more passionately about than pregnancy and childbirth. My own experience with both have been so emotive, terrifying, joyous and overwhelming; rarely have I felt more powerful and vulnerable than when I am pregnant or giving birth. These have been transcendent experiences for me. I am a better person for going through the indignities of being pregnant and giving life to two beautiful children. I am a better person because pregnancy and birth require sacrifice.

Obviously the sacrifice of the physical body is necessary when pregnant. A woman has no choice but to share food and nutrients with the growing child. Often times that foetus acts like a parasite, leeching calcium from your bones and, in my case, stealing the hormone that makes my body run normally. As that baby grows, you helplessly watch your body contort and balloon into a shape that is so unrecognizable that you cannot help but question whether it is your reflection you see in the mirror. Then, of course, there are the hormones. The hormones that make it difficult to string together a coherent sentence. The hormones that create bone-deep weariness. The hormones that make you question the intentions of every one around you, including those who love you the most.

But perhaps it is the smallest indignities that hurt the most. Like not being able to tie your shoes or the constant heartburn. Like having to say no to the piece of chocolate cake you want so badly because of the gestational diabetes that make your babies gigantic. Like not being able to get out of bed without assistance or having your back ache so badly that it brings tears to your eyes. Like being unable able to pick up your oldest child and hold him close to you. Like foregoing sex with the father of your children and the man you love more than anything because you are so big that he can’t get within arm’s length of you.

This doesn’t even take into account what happens during birth. Nobody tells you about the doctors that treat you like a mentally challenged child. You are legs are forced back to your ears, exposing your most vulnerable parts to the cold air and the stares of anybody who passes by. Nobody talks about the blood and the shit, the fluid that comes erupting from you like Vesuvius. You don’t know desperation until you have felt the crowning of your baby’s head ripping apart your most delicate tissue. And then when it’s all over there is the stab in the leg, the pushing, the stitching and the weeks of bleeding to look forward to. And I will do it all again.

I will do it again because the sacrifice is worth it. It is worth it to me to bring children into the world who will know what true love is. I sacrifice my body, my mind, my dignity, my free will so that a few spirits will know light and truth. It is a sacrifice I freely give to my children, my husband and my heavenly parents. It is not a sacrifice, however, that I give freely to world. The price I ask for re-populating our society with decent citizens is for the society that I willingly contribute my time, money and resources to respect the sacrifice I make.

I have a few dreams in which this respect could take form: free maternity health care, paid maternity leave, and I’m talking French style 3 year paid maternity leave, flex time, affordable daycare. But today, I’ll settle on just one…Respect my life.

I took it for granted that most Americans, most politicians, even the Mormon church agreed that the life of a pregnant mother is of value and should be protected at all costs, even if that cost comes at the expense of the child she is carrying. I am hopeful that this is the case but it scares me that a man who could be elected president of the United States could on national television say that exceptions for a woman’s “health”, are an extreme pro-abortion position. As a childbearing woman, to have concerns about my health so openly and condescendingly sneered at, was beyond horrifying.

So to John McCain and all those who believe like him, I have this to say:

My life is of value. My health is of value. This is personal to me. I am not part of an extreme pro-abortion conspiracy to murder all the unborn children that take up residence in my womb. I am a wife and a mother. A woman who cares for society’s outcasts and comforts the abused. I am a woman who has served my country bravely, just like you have, sir. I have walked through the valley of the shadow of death twice to bring children into this world. Children who will love their country and protect her freedoms. Children who will be part of the next generation of American goodness. We have both sacrificed for our country, sir and though you may not believe it, our sacrifices are equal. Just like the value of our lives are equal. I respect the sacrifice you made for this country. And now I ask the same respect from you.

A Tale of Two Births


Cross posted at Exponent II

I just gave birth to my second child and it was an experience entirely different than the one I had previously or what I expected. I suppose the mechanics were the same, I gave birth vaginally without the use of anesthetics and yet it seemed to me that I lost something indescribable in the second birth and I am mourning that loss. You see, I am one of those women who believes that there is real power in the birth process; that there is something other worldly and divine in trying to give life to another being. In my first meeting with the midwife who would deliver my son, she asked why I wanted to birth outside the mainstream medical model for my first pregnancy. I had several good answers for this including a skepticism of male dominated, Western medicine and a fascination with the history and marginalization of midwifery. But my desire for a “natural” birth went further than this to something I couldn’t quite articulate. I wanted to connect with women throughout the past and present, to touch the divine within myself and to know the power of creation. Something within me knew that I could best achieve this as I labored to give life to my child.
I have given birth twice in the past year and a half; both births were wonderful experiences where I was, at least briefly, able to obtain the above desire. But the births were dramatically affected by my choice in medical providers. I believe that labor and birth are inherently feminist issues because of the choice, or lack of choice, that the experience provides laboring women. Indeed, the increase in knowledge and choices for pregnant women was one of the earliest successes of the women’s movement. There was a huge paradigm shift during the 1970’s and 80’s that rejected the old model of restraining and knocking women out, effectively making them passive participants in the birth of their children. Instead, women demanded a greater role in the birthing process and wanted some choice in what happened to their bodies.
As a woman in her childbearing years, I am grateful for the increased choice I have when it comes to my maternity care. What I didn’t understand before giving birth though, was the impact these choices had on the experience I wanted for myself and my child. So as a public service (I promise I’m not trying to navel gaze here, although I won’t stop you from commenting on how brave, strong and skinny I am), I thought I would share my birth experiences. Please take them for what they are, my experience. What worked best for me will not be best for all women.
I have never felt more powerful than when I gave birth to my son, Baby Monster. I chose to deliver outside of a hospital at a free standing birth center in the Phoenix area. I had a midwife and a nurse who gently guided me through my twenty-one hour labor with a variety of techniques used by midwives for centuries. I felt a powerful connection with the women assisting me and to my foremothers who had birthed me and all humankind. As I transitioned to the last stage of labor, I entered into a dream-like place somewhere between mortality and death. At that moment I connected with the divine, a connection that supported me through the three hours of pushing it took to give life to my son. When it was all over, I not only had a beautiful baby but the knowledge that I had converged with something greater than myself.
When I got pregnant again, I was devastated to learn that my birth center had closed due to the sky-rocketing insurance rates midwives are charged. A homebirth was not something I felt comfortable with so I turned to the OB/Gyn that I had gone to for my annual pap smear. I had picked him because he was the first OB in my HMO directory to have an open appointment. I figured that since I already given birth, I could be assertive enough to stand up for the kind of birth I wanted. Unfortunately, I felt that there was always a power struggle between me and my doctor as to who controlled my pregnancy, birth and body. Due to gestational diabetes, early in my pregnancy the doctor informed me that he would induce my labor if he felt the baby was too big. Baby Monster had been ten pounds so I was not afraid to have a large baby but I stuck to a low-carb diet so as to prevent a medical induction. Despite my best efforts, when it came time for the ultrasound to determine the baby’s size, she was big and so the doctor scheduled my induction without my input or consent.
In an effort to regain some control, I induced myself using my trusty breast pump the evening before the scheduled induction. This labor was much more solitary than the first; I labored mostly alone with my husband and mother-in-law asleep nearby. My labor was short and intense, almost primal. I listened to Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring and Wagner’s Immolation of Brunhilde as I worked through each surge. Once again I entered that dreamland and felt the power of creation. I felt myself transition into the last stage of labor and knew I had to get to the hospital quickly. At this point I lost my connection with the dreamland and was never fully able to regain it. It seemed as I went through the process of registering and being checked, I stood at the doorway of that sacred place, looking in but not entering. The triage nurse panicked when she realized I was dilated to a nine and was about to have a baby. The doctor arrived just in time to demand I be given an IV, which of course didn’t take on either arm but effectively kept me from re-entering the dreamland of labor. Ten minutes later, Baby Valkyrie was born.
I am grateful to have had both experiences because of what I learnt from each one. Most importantly, I am grateful for the healthy baby at the end. Both the alternative and traditional experiences had their upside and downside. For example, my midwife was so easy going that she forgot to give me the gestational diabetes test which probably led to the size of my son and made the labor harder both on me and the Baby Monster. My OB/Gyn was very attentive to detail and I had an easier pregnancy and labor because of it. Assuming there are no complications, there is not a right way or a wrong way to birth as long as the woman is comfortable with the choices she is making. This is where I went wrong; I was never fully comfortable with the traditional medical model of birthing. I lost so much power in trying to fight my doctor that I was unable to regain it when I most needed it. So I guess my advice is, know what you want and then be true to that desire.

An Explanation

I’m pregnant again. Between the morning sickness, working full time and running after a very active one year old I have been too exhausted to even worry about this blog.

Luckily I’m in my second trimester now and I’m getting some energy back. I have a couple of posts in the works that I promise will be done very soon.

In the meantime, I could use some advice on how to handle babies so close in age. This new baby is due in September, making them twenty months apart. There is no way to prepare the Baby Monster so I guess we will all be jumping into the deep end. Hopefully this next baby will be as easy as Baby Monster was. I won’t hold my breath.

Waiting to be Healed

I am waiting to be healed, I am waiting for the Balm of Gilead promised to those who sorrow. My sorrow is that of all the disenfranchised women in the world and eternities. I have pushed the fears of eternal inequality to the back of my mind. My longing for a relationship with a more present Mother in Heaven is reserved for when we sing ‘O My Father’ in church. The absence of female role models in the scriptures elicits only a brief murmuring from me. It isn’t that I have stopped pondering these issues, on the contrary, they are ever present in my mind. I am just waiting for the intangible resolution.

I work for a woman’s non-profit domestic violence program where the injustice of our legal system and society is painfully evident. Going to church reinforces my fear of injustice and inequality in the eternities. I constantly wonder if my feelings are valid; it depresses me that a majority of women see nothing wrong, they feel no pain at the situation forced upon them by nature’s chance. My husband often jokes that I can’t be happy with my own blessed situation, that my very being requires me to feel the pain of women whether they need or want me to. His joking insight is true, I have chosen to feel pain for those who can’t or don’t need to feel it for themselves. I have chosen to feel that pain and then use my own opportunities to speak out against it.

Sorrow is an instructive tool meant for brief times in our lives, brief because it can so easily turn into despair and bitterness. This is the point where I find myself, on the fence between instruction and the destruction of my faith. The God I know, the one that must exist, weeps when his daughters are abused by a fallen patriarchal system. My God loves me for all my femaleness; He does not see me as cursed, less than or unimportant in mortality or eternity.

The peace and understanding I have received are the result of my times of sorrow. The redemption that followed came in the form of tender mercies from a loving Father and Mother. My first foray into the sorrow of women introduced me to a wonderful woman and professor who healed my heart with an idyllic understanding of the eternities and Plan of Salvation. It is an understanding that I cling to in my darkest hours. Later, when my frustration at the male sex and patriarchy threatened to overwhelm me, my now husband soothed the anger by proving my idealism could be a reality with him.

The sorrow of women has returned to me once more. As I sat in church this past week allowing myself to feel sad, the Lord spoke to me. “The child will heal you.” I felt the wriggle in my womb as if the baby I am carrying was trying to assure me of this truth. My first child, a son, will be born in February. Something other than myself knows that being this child’s mother will provide the balm to my weary and wounded soul. I have postponed the ultimate battle between my faith’s sorrowful instruction and the destruction of what I want so desperately to believe. So I must wait.