Every Mother is a Goddess
In her book Misconceptions: Truth, Lies, and the Unexpected on the Journey to Motherhood, feminist writer and mother, Naomi Wolf speaks about her experience of becoming a mother for the first time. One of the things she wrote that stood out for me was how this highly regarded intellectual, academic, writer, author, woman, suddenly found herself to be an unseen person. She was walking down the street with her infant, and one of her students walked right past her, did not recognise her, in fact, the student did not even see her. I know that before I gave birth, I did not value mothers or motherhood in the way I did after I gave birth for the first time. I loved my mother and I respected her, but I do not think that I fully valued or saw who she was and what she had done to bring me into this world. During my first labour, I remember my mother’s eyes, soft, dark, familiar, slightly concerned, loving, strong, holding me, carrying me through this experience. And I remember at one point asking her, “How the hell did you do this four times?” She smiled, then laughed softly, shook her head and said, “I don’t know…” And continued to hold me with her gentle touch and soft eyes. After I gave birth for the first time I was high, the love hormone oxytocin coursing through my entire being. The world melted away and the importance of anything beyond the little bubble of warm cosy devotion I inhabited with my newborn son, evaporated. Everything dissolved, except for my deep connection, regard, admiration, and respect for all mothers in the world. I saw mothers and motherhood in a new light and I wanted to bow at the feet of all motherhood. I could feel their sweat, their pain, their love. And any mother who had given birth more than once, was most certainly a goddess. Her work, her love, was beyond my comprehension and understanding. I was in awe. Standing on the other end of having given birth four times myself (and that lovely strong bolus of oxytocin long having left my system) and now having attended numerous births, I feel very strongly that our work as those present at births is to mother the new mother. When a woman births, not only is a baby being born, but so is a mother. How we treat her will affect how she feels about herself as a mother and as a parent. Be gentle. Be kind. Listen. She knows best. She is the mother of this child after all. Or as the mother of midwifery, Ina May Gaskin so eloquently put it: ”If a woman doesn’t look like a goddess during labor, then someone isn’t treating her right.” Happy Mother’s Day…to all the...
Read MoreIt’s not That Hard…Really
Ah…come on guys! Is it really that hard? It is actually beginning to get a bit boring… Drawing the curtains. Dimming the lights. Keeping your voices lowered. Offering sips of water and whispering words of encouragement. Is it really that hard to do? Does it really take too much time? Do you really need to shout at this mother? Tell her she is being difficult and that if she does not cooperate that her baby will die? Do you really need to tell her that if things do not progress she will probably end up with a caesar? And then tell her again? And again? And then when she does end up with the aforementioned caesar, do you need to tell her that you were right all along? Is it helpful? Is it really necessary? Is it really that hard for your touch to be gentle and not rough? For your eyes to be kind? Is it really that hard to help the mother find a position that works for her even if she needs to be constantly monitored? Did you have to pinch the inside part of her thigh? Do you really need to make her feel low, little, irresponsible, when she says ‘no thank you’ to your hands touching her, examining her, piercing her skin with a needle? Do you really need to make her feel stupid when she does not understand what you say, or why you are doing what we are doing? Is it really appropriate to discuss loudly the PPH (postpartum haemorrhage) you had last week and how many units of blood the mother lost? Or the outcome of the birth in the next room? Do you need to pull her legs apart so roughly? Does the vaginal exam really need to be so painful? Does it? It is her body after all. And her baby. And her birth. She will give birth only a few times in her life. Maybe only once. Maybe only this once. The role we play when we are there, present at this precious moment in time, will be embedded in her consciousness, her memory for the rest of her life. An old woman may not remember your name, or whether she has eaten lunch or not, but she will remember the day she gave birth: the smells, the sounds, the people, who were present and how she was treated. It really does not take that much. It really is not that hard. It really isn’t. Being kind and patient. Staying calm. Bringing water. Dimming lights. Respecting her wishes. Drawing those bloody curtains and making sure the mother has some privacy. It is quite simple really. She will remember that you were the one who held a glass of water to her parched lips and told her she was doing well. Really. She will. I can promise you...
Read MoreIt was at a Home Birth That I Learned to fry an egg Properly
It was at a home birth that I learned to fry an egg properly. Sunny side up. The yolk not quite runny but not hard either. Somewhere inbetween. Heat the pan, add the oil (coconut oil was used in this case I think), crack the eggs into the pan. Sizzle sizzle. Crackle crackle. Pop pop. Then cover the pan with a lid and turn off the heat. This was served on toast smeared with avocado and cracked pepper and salt. At the same home birth I also weeded the garden in the sun. It was at a home birth that I first learned to follow the lead of the cat. I learned the patience to sit in the garden while the sun set silently and the new mother found her rhythm. It was at a home birth that I found out that birth is unpredictable and that midwives need to think quickly on their feet and that they need the necessary skills, to deal with the rare emergencies that present themselves, burned into their muscle memories. It was at a home birth that I learned what excellent reflexes I had when a baby bungie jumped without warning out of her mother as her mother waddled across the kitchen floor. It was at a home birth that I learned that labour can rock to any tune and that a mother may roar to Linkin Park at full blast, sigh to Miles Davis accompanied by the soft splashes of the birth pool, or swing and twist her hips like a snake,to Ravi Shankar, evoking images of a belly dancer. It was also at a home birth that I learned that Dr. Phil could even be suitable background music. It was at a home birth that I learned to master knitting a sock. And at the next home birth I very nearly finished the pair. It was at a home birth that I sat with a wide eyed little girl on my lap as we looked at her vernix covered sister for the first time. It was also at a home birth that I saw a five year old boy reach out his hand as his sister’s head emerged – he was the first one to touch his sister. He gasped in amazement. It was at a home birth that I learned to draw the curtains and turn off the lights. And to keep my mouth...
Read MoreWhy do we Even Give a Fuck?
Why do we even give a fuck? Why care how mothers birth and babies are born? What the mother’s experience is? Her sense of being, bonding, self? Is it some personal agenda, a crusade of some sort? What makes us available at three in the morning to drive across town to rub a labouring woman’s back with scented oils? Why sit for hours on end encouraging, believing, knowing that she can do it? Why wait wait wait patiently? Sit for hours on end? Wait for this delicate yet awe inspiring process to unfold? Why trust? Why keep your hands to yourself while a mother rocks her hips, finds her rhythm, learns to trust herself? Why wait for the cord to finish pulsating? Why bother with slippery slimy skin to skin while a woman discovers she is a mother and falls in love like she never knew possible? Why wait and watch and wonder and see while the newborn, sticky with vernix, unfolds from her intra uterine state, licks her lips and slowly shuffles towards her mother’s nipple? Why the fuck would we want to do this work? We must be...
Read MoreFire
I cannot write without somehow paying tribute the fire that ravaged the mountains of Cape Town this last week and the men and women who worked tirelessly to fight the flames and save the homes, families and animals affected. I also want to extend my condolences to the families of Nazeem Davies and Bees Marais…I am very sorry for your loss. Mountain fires are a way of life here in Cape Town and we all accept and expect them in a way at this time of the year, when it is dry and the South Easter blows, but I think we have to agree that the fires this last week affected us on a grand scale and seemed relentless. On Tuesday night, after that very very hot day, I lay in bed listening as the wind picked up and I was sure I could smell smoke through my open window. I went outside, it was about two in the morning, and I saw many lights on in many of the houses. I think many Scarbarians were also listening and waiting attentively. A vague orange glow seemed to be coming from over the mountain. I went back inside and went online to try and find out what was going on and saw via Twitter and Facebook the streams of posts and photos regarding the fires in Noordhoek, Kalk Bay, Muizenberg, Clovelly, Tokai, Hout Bay and Constantia. Friends were evacuating their homes and the fire seemed out of control. I felt quite helpless watching these posts on my stream and my own memories around being evacuated when there was a fire here in Scarborough seven years ago were evoked. In 2008, when I was 38 weeks pregnant with my youngest daughter, a fire ripped through Scarborough, burning homes. I was visiting a friend here in the village with my children on the day for an afternoon play but it soon became evident that staying put was not a good idea. The fire seemed to be advancing very quickly and had already engulfed some homes, the mountain was ablaze and Scarborough filled with smoke. We went down to the beach where we also slowly became smoked out, it eventually became difficult to breathe. There we were, two mothers, on the beach, no car (her husband was up the mountain fighting the flames, mine was playing a concert – he is a musician) , with 5 children, one of us pregnant, getting smoked out. Eventually we were spotted by a sympathetic paramedic who drove us to Kommetjie where we ate pizzas with our sooty faced children until family and friends could come and collect us. That evening we could return to Scarborough and thankfully neither of our homes had burnt down – although other friends were not as lucky. But I remember the thin trickle of black dust that seemed to rain down on us after that, covering everything. Around two weeks later, I gave birth to a sweet baby girl – Kaira, after 4 hours of labour, at home. Life goes on, I...
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