What is it About Birth?
What is it about birth? It is as though time suspends itself and something unique unfolds from within the labouring woman. She has purred, sighed, breathed, whimpered, cried her way through her contractions, these life giving pains which make her rock her hips, make her moan and groan, make her eyes roll back in her head, make her sweat, make her hate, make her angry, make her one, make her have to give in, give up, surrender. And as she surrenders something primal is unlocked and this, this essence, this power takes over, her body is no longer her own. She sits on the loo, or she squats, or she kneels, or she lies on her side.She grunts and moans, red slime drips down her thighs, she feels overwhelmed. She may stand up, she may look up, she may feel with her hand as the head of the baby slowly stretches her perineum. She seems more alert now. There. Present. She may crouch down, or breathe, or gasp, or moan, or scream as her baby’s head emerges, not quite believing the sensation of this slimy little head stretching stretching stretching her wide open. The head emerges and hangs, almost lifeless. The world holds its breath. Then a splutter, or a crackle, or a bubble of spittle and a grimace. Then slowly, slowly, the baby’s head turns – as though ready to face the world and with a newfound power, the little body ejects itself, swimming forth in a gush of blood and water and shit. Again, it is as though time has suspended itself as the baby, still aquatic in its features and colour, begins to move, sometimes throwing its arms back and stretching its back like a ballet dancer, and sometimes uncurling slowly slowly slowly as though waking from a deep sleep. A gurgle, a crackle, a soft cry. Slippery body, oily white vernix, blinking eyes, stretching fingers and toes. Cord pulsating. Body breathing. Mother touching. Stroking. Smelling. Kissing. Whispering. Crying. Laughing. Grateful. Astonished. Astounded. Holding. Loving. Ecstatic. Triumphant. Perfect. Beautiful. Primal. Sublime. What is it about birth?...
Read MoreBirth : A Poem
Birth: What is birth? Birth is the emergence of a new individual from the body of it’s mother. The emergence of that new individual, is the emergence of a new life. Birth is completely normal yet unbelievably profound. As that baby emerges, everyone holds their breath….. Where do we give birth? We choose to have our babies in various settings: At home In hospital In a theatre And sometimes these are not choices but necessities. Sometimes we plan to give birth in one way but then something completely different may happen. Sometimes babies are born in trees, or on trains or by the roadside. Sometimes babies choose for themselves where they want to be born. Where and how we give birth affects who we are. It affects how we are as parents. We need to feel safe. We need to feel confident. And we need to feel in control, so that later we can lose control. If a woman feels cared for and nurtured, she is more likely to love and care for her baby. When we feel safe where we give birth, we give birth more easily. If we feel frightened or vulnerable, we may feel traumatised and incapable of loving our babies. If we are made to believe that we are incapable, we may hand over the power to someone else. There is a hidden secret in our culture: ‘It is not that birth is painful It is that women are...
Read MoreA Little Gypsy is Born…
Today 25 years ago my sister Gypsy was born. Seven years ago she was killed in a car accident along with my mother and step-father. I was 9 years old when she was born. This is the story of her birth as I experienced it on that day: Our mother went into labour on a Sunday morning in the warmth of November 1989. We were getting ready to drive to Cape Town anyway as my sister Kate and I stayed with our grandparents in Constantia during the week so that we could go to school. Since our mother was in no state to drive, our step-father, who we called Baas (it was his nickname since childhood) took the driver’s seat. We left Droëland, our farm near Ceres, driving slowly over the rocks, so as not aggravate our mother’s labour pains. We got to the first gate at Bloubank when our mother suddenly remembered that she’d left her birthing book behind. She insisted that Baas turn the Nissan Langley around so that she could go and get it. He did it, grumbling and when we got back to our little labourer’s cottage, our mother rushed into the house. Frau Züllig, our mother’s former teacher and friend from her days at a Swiss finishing school, was visiting for three months and was busy sweeping the kitchen floor when my mother rushed in. “I’ve come for my birthing book,” our mother panted, “I’ve forgotten how to breathe!” Once back on the road, the drive was slow and tiring. Kate and I sat quietly on the grey back seats of the car, watching our mother sighing and breathing and moaning softly to herself, lifting herself up onto her arms when the pains became extreme. The car felt hot and dusty. Arriving in Cape Town after three hours was like a breath of fresh sea air. It was cool and overcast. It was lush and green after the sandy dryness of Droëland. Everything seemed to go in slow motion. Our mother moaning softly to herself in labour. The pedestrians in shorts and T-shirts, going about their business, oblivious to the happenings in the car. We arrived at Mowbray Maternity hospital and our mother was admitted into the labour ward. Kate and I were told to sit in the waiting room. We felt sad and cheated at being locked out of that sacred space of giving birth. Were we not, after all, not also her children? Of her womb? Why was Baas was allowed in with her? We’ve known her longer than he has… We did not have to wait long. The birth was quick. Kate and I were allowed in after our sister was born. The baby was tiny and wrinkly and pink and she lay between our mother’s large brown breasts, eyes closed with a hospital towel draped over her. Kate and I sat on either side of our mother and looked at this new member of the family. “After the long drive to get here, you should call her Gypsy!” the doctor joked. Kate asked the nurse what the IV drip was. I felt embarrassed at Kate asking but the nurse commented on how good it was that Kate had asked. The nurse then took the baby from our mother and inviting Kate and I along, she carried the newborn to another room. There we watched her wash and dry and weigh our vulnerable little sister. We watched the nurse examine her and check all her reflexes and then put a disposable nappy and some clothes on her. When she was returned to our mother, we were told that Baas would take us to our grandparents. We felt sad leaving our mother and this new creature that was our sister and we wept quietly the entire way to our grandparents. Baas dropped us off at the top of the driveway of our grandparents’ home and we walked down the long lonesome...
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