Aren't I Pretty?

Voilà the Wizard's first ever attempt at drawing a person. I've been a really lazy mama in the crayon-to-paper department, I admit, because I generally avoid super-close supervision of my children and don't like the crayon-to-woodwork results of breaking out the art supplies. So this was the first time I sat down with him and encouraged him to draw a specific thing, instead of just making abstract multicolored scribbles. So, this is my face. The eyes are pretty obvious, I think. The line above them is my hair. The two parallel lines below them are my lips. The small vertical line between my lips is my nose, and the bottom mark is my bum (what a sweet kid to make it so small!). The small dots on the sides are the corners of my mouth.

I can't remember how old Newton was, exactly, when I sat down with him for a similar exercise. His person had fingers and toes in the appropriate number, but I can't remember if it had hands or feet. It's always fun to see how many parts they think they need for the drawing to be complete--I keep asking "What else?" without suggesting anything in particular, until they say they're done.

Yet One More Surprise

Well, Surprise Baby had one more shocker in store for us: a full head of DARK hair. Given what I understand about how dominant and recessive genetic traits work, I don't think there's more than a minuscule chance of her keeping it for long, but for now our family has one brunette member.

[If you're not at all interested in the details of delivery, you can skip the next two paragraphs.] As I mentioned previously, contractions started Wednesday morning, then let up in the afternoon, and restarted Thursday morning. Thursday afternoon I decided that, since she was likely coming, I would just as soon she hurried up, so we took some steps to encourage things to move in that direction, including a visit to my acupuncturist. Contractions gradually picked up through the afternoon and evening, and we started making arrangements for someone to spend the night with the boys so we could go to the hospital when the time came. McOllie came over and watched Survivor, 30 Rock and The Daily Show with me, then crashed on the couch while Mavis and I headed to the hospital around midnight.

At the hospital, a check showed that the baby was "high and floaty," and my cervix really hadn't dilated at all to speak of. We called sil J, giving her the option of coming then or waiting a few hours, and she opted to come and join us in walking around the perimeter of the Wilcox Women's Pavilion from just after 1 am to almost 3 am. At that point, the contractions were coming quite closely together and were pretty intense, but the baby was still high and my cervix not dilating much. I sat on the birthing ball and listened to my hypnobirthing recording for about 20 minutes, and then my water broke as I sat up for the nurse to check my vitals. I started shaking and showing signs of going into transition, so I got into the jacuzzi to help me relax through the next hard contractions. After two hours, though I still wasn't ready to start pushing (so much for each baby coming faster than the previous one!), I got out of the tub for a change of position. After just a few more contractions, things started feeling a little more pushy, so I got on the bed and pushed her out in about 20-25 minutes--short compared to most babies, but a seeming eternity after the 10 minutes it took for Number Two.

[Start again here if you skipped the gory details.] So, she was born at 6:27 am, Friday, October 12. Her Aunt J, faithful birth attendant, got to cut the cord. She weighed 7 lbs 15 oz and was 21 inches long. She spent most of her first day sleeping and looking cute, for which I was very grateful. Well, the cute part was sort of expected, but the sleeping wasn't!



First-day visitors included her big brothers, wonderful friend M, who took over care of the boys in the morning so McOllie could go to work, and my mother, who arrived in the early afternoon after being picked up at the airport by Uncle J.










We came home Saturday evening to a delicious dinner provided by friend Mabel, and are trying to settle into something of a routine. Mavis's parents fly in tomorrow, his sister Tuesday, and my dad next weekend for the blessing.

Scarred for Life?

Maybe I should stop calling him Number Two.

The wee feller had been getting pretty good about pooping in the potty (well, toilet, really--I don't believe in those little stand-alone potties), occasionally initiating a session, but more often just being amenable to the suggestion, after meals or upon waking. Then, last week he started being less willing, giving ambiguous answers when asked if he needed to go, etc. One day (Wednesday? Thursday?) he told me "no" when I asked, but then a few minutes later I heard him grunt a little. I ran out of the study and rushed him downstairs to the changing table; the contents of his diaper seemed a little scant, so I sat him on the pot to finish the job, put some books within reach and then went to do some laundry. He was quiet, but then called out a few minutes later.

Experienced mothers can surely guess what I saw when I ventured back into the bathroom. His older brother had occasionally gotten some poop on his fingers when playing with himself on the potty, but this kid had done his brother, shall we say, two better. He had apparently reached down and caught his, um, product, and was covered up to his elbows and all over his belly and thighs, with the unused material sitting in a lump on the potty seat between his legs. Naturally I started shrieking in horror, then ran for some baby wipes to start cleaning him up. The noise frightened him enough that he started to cry, then reached for me for comfort. "Don't touch me!!!!" That had to make him feel good.

Anyway, I got the worst bits off, then ran a tub and plopped him in it to get the rest off. Then we had a serious talk about how you should never, ever, touch your poop. He seemed contrite, and comprehending, but then he didn't poop on the potty for a couple of days. Of course then I started wondering if I'd permanently damaged his psyche and given him poop hangups for life. But then he got back on the horse, so to speak, and we seem to be back to the status quo ante.

But what if I had scarred him for life? All those do-you-or-don't-you parenting choices (epidural, breastfeed, co-sleep, immunize, etc.) get so much press, but the things that will really affect the kind of person your child becomes just don't. The way you interact with your child, how you react to the things he or she does, the examples you set of how you use your time and interact with others, those are the things that really matter.

So when I said, in a comment on a post of Adriana's, that we are much stricter about behavioral rules than some other crunchy-ish parents of our acquaintance, I was only partially talking about basic rules like saying please and thank you and not hitting (are there really any parents who don't at least think they're strict about these?). I was also talking about the other things we're really strict about, like getting meals and sleep on a regular schedule. Sure, our kids could probably be more flexible about these things than we typically are, BUT . . . well, here's how I figure:

In my experience, otherwise happy and well-adjusted kids don't much misbehave (whine, purposely do things they know will annoy you, etc.) unless they're either tired or hungry. When they act up/out, you correct/punish them, right? And thus they learn how they should behave.

But if you make sure they get the right amount of sleep and the right amount of food on a regular schedule, they are less likely to misbehave, and you are less likely to have to correct them. And thus you can spend a larger proportion of your interaction time enjoying each other's company, instead of every other thing you say to your kid being some variation of "no." I think the cumulative effect of this practice is hard to overstate. There will always be a need for a bad guy, the mean mom, the stern parent, but by planning ahead and being proactive you can make that person's role as small as possible.

But even this choice, about which I feel quite strongly, can be characterized as a parenting style. Where, though, does parenting style turn into plain old bad parenting? Surely somewhere this side of one instance I recently heard about, in which the hands-off, let-kids-be-kids parents of a little sociopath in training reacted to him stealing from the wallet of a friend's mom during a playdate by giving him his own wallet (I swear I'm not making this up).

I know from plenty of experience, first-hand and otherwise, that much of what kids are is born, not made. Certainly my own two sons have quite different personalities, and my brother's two sons are the proverbial chalk and cheese. But as parents we can and should do what we can to make sure each kid ends up being the best chalk, or the best cheese, he or she can be. Gosh, our job would sure be easier if all kids came out as unformed clay, or blank paper, and all we had to do was follow the simple instructions like in the "draw me" section of the Sunday comics. But the vagaries of genetic recombination being what they are, our approach has to change for each kid. We have to pay attention to their strengths, their faults and weaknesses, and try to bring out the good and minimize the bad all the while without infringing on their free will. It's a tricky process.

So there aren't any one-size-fits-all approaches to parenting, unfortunately. I did read a book several years ago that I found quite helpful, though. In fact, it's time to read it again, and add it to my permanent collection: Building Healthy Minds by Dr. Stanley Greenspan. The subtitle is "The Six Experiences That Create Intelligence and Emotional Growth in Babies and Young Children," so it really focuses on helping you raise smart, stable kids. I highly recommend it.

Brush with Fame

An honest-to-goodness famous person (well, to me) showed up in my prenatal yoga class today: Ariel Gore. Her book, The Hip Mama Survival Guide, was a lifeline to me in my first pregnancy. All the stuff out there--books, web, online communities--I was finding about pregnancy and birthing was either sanctimonious or sticky-syrupy-sweet or some freaky passive-aggressive combination of both, and her book was a breath of fresh air. I even participated in the Hip Mama online community for a while (under the username momesq, if there are still archives out there somewhere from 2000-2001), but eventually the militancy of some of the users (you're a bad mama if you immunize your child/shop at the Gap/don't co-sleep/use medicine instead of homeopathy) made me feel like a real fifth wheel (Adriana has written about crunchy parent sanctimony quite eloquently in this post and others).

Anyway, for the next several weeks, I hope (she was in line to pay when I left the studio, and her first class--today--was free) I'll see the famous author on Saturday mornings.

Childbirth Nazis?

So, the Oregonian recently had an article about how Oregon has rates of natural childbirth that are double the national average (about 20% attended by midwives, vs. about 10% nationally, and about 2% in birthing centers vs. about 1% nationally), and that many women here feel judged for their childbirth choices if they are not able to live up to the ideal of a completely natural birth. It probably won't surprise you that I had a pretty strong reaction to this article.

First, I don't think it's very good journalism. Like the "opt out" series of articles from a couple of years ago (about Ivy-League-educated mothers who chose to stay at home with their children), it seems overly colored by the author's own experience. Just as the "opt out" group of women were overwhelmingly white and wealthy, and a tiny minority of all mothers, the women who have angst over their birthing choices are also overwhelmingly white and educated, and urban. The article mentions the national rates of delivery by Caesarian section (up to almost 30% of all deliveries, with almost a 50% increase in the last 10 years), but doesn't reveal the rates in Oregon. Even if it is significantly lower than the national rate, I feel fairly certain that it is still greater than the rate of natural childbirth. The vast majority of birthing women are perfectly happy to go along with whatever their doctor suggests, and generally don't have misgivings about those choices unless something goes wrong.

The author also doesn't look at the underlying statistics. She mentions the increasing national rate of Caesarian sections, but doesn't compare it to the rate in Oregon or in other developed countries (Canada's rates of Caesarian sections and infant mortality are both lower than in the US), nor does she look into the possible reasons for the increase (higher malpractice insurance rates, larger numbers of multiples, women seeking to avoid pain and exercise greater control over the process, I think all play a role), or whether it is a good or bad thing. There are also statistics (somewhere . . . ) about the effects of various childbirth interventions (epidural or other anesthesia, episiotomy, hormonal induction or augmentation of labor, etc.) on fetal and maternal outcomes, but she doesn't mention these at all. It seems she's so concerned about women passing judgment on each other that she's unwilling to entertain the possibility that they might be right.

So, here is where I tell you about my own experience on the matter. Both my boys were born in a hospital, attended by a midwife, and both arrived vaginally, full-term, and healthy. That's about the extent of the similarities. Number One was conceived in the course of regular marital relations, but when it came time to be born, he stubbornly had his face turned to the side (the baby's head has to be turned the right way in the mother's pelvis to be able to come out). So, progress was slow, and, desperate, exhausted and nauseated, I opted for epidural anesthesia. It offered relief from the pain, but lessened the strength and effectiveness of my contractions. So right away, one intervention led to another, as I was put on a Pitocin drip. Progress continued, albeit slowly, and my midwife eventually decided she should break my bag of waters to help things move along (yet another intervention). Of course, his head was still turned sideways, so he couldn't come out in any case. I pushed and pushed and pushed, to very little effect (other than to wear me out), until after 2.5 hours I threw up, he turned, and emerged with his arm wrapped around his neck (as if to give himself a pat on the back).



Good final outcome, but I felt like I had been not so much in control of the process. I resolved right away that for my next child, I would a) get a doula (I thought that with the right kind of support, I could have gone without the epidural, and the resultant other interventions), b) let myself throw up instead of fighting it so hard (since so much progress happened when I did). I later learned about Hypnobirthing®, and resolved to use its techniques in my next labor experience.

So, Number Two was a lot harder to come by. After trying lots of different, lesser interventions, we ended up conceiving him through in vitro fertilization. As his due date approached, I practiced with the Hypnobirthing materials I had borrowed from my sister-in-law. One evening a week before my due date, my water broke as we were moving Number One towards bed. I called my midwife, and she told me to call her back if I decided to go to the hospital. Water broke at 8, contractions started at 10, went to the hospital at 11:30. Called my sister-in-law (veteran of 4 natural childbirths, at the last two of which I served as labor support) to come to the hospital to support me in labor. Walked the halls for a while, sat on a birthing ball with my upper body resting on the bed, listening to the Hypnobirthing relaxation CD for a while (actually falling asleep between contractions once or twice), sat in the Jacuzzi tub for a while, as my contractions grew more intense. At about 4:30, my body started doing a weird pushing thing, completely out of my control. At my sil's suggestion, my midwife came into the bathroom, saw what was happening, and said, "Time to get out!" I got out, made my way to the bed, and Number Two was born at 4:47 after just a few minutes of pushing.



The birth experience with Number Two was better than with Number One, and not just because it was shorter. I felt calmer and more in control of the whole process, and fewer interventions meant a shorter recovery (as well as a more alert baby, who latched on right away, yada yada yada).

So, my own personal experience tells me that natural childbirth is better than childbirth with even relatively few medical interventions. I believe the statistics for maternal and fetal outcomes are also better. Given this, what can I do to encourage women to make this choice without coming across as being judgmental? What can I do to help them have confidence in their ability to do it on their own? How can I convince them that they shouldn't be afraid of the pain (which, after all, can't kill them) or of not being in (conscious) control of what is happening with their bodies? Am I limited to saying, "Try it, you'll like it"?