We didn’t need to worry quite so much. We got together this week as I’ve decided it’s time to grow out my faux hawk.  We sighed in relief about some things; Emily still cuts hair and I still write and speak.

This week we talked about our mommy belly bulge.  We both have lots of dissatisfaction to go around.

For several months since Finn’s birth I’ve been wondering if I”ll look as good as my friend, Stephanie, after she had her first.  Will I get my waist back like she did? Will my stomach ever feel firm?

The Time Factor

Emily tells me how she’ll open up magazine articles that promise five easy steps for getting your body back or losing your mommy tummy. These usually feature a glowing, flat-tummied model or celebrity.  For an example watch this short Today Show clip, “Getting Your Sexy Back.“  Reading along the fashion mag columns Emily finds the crucial difference between us and them, LEISURE TIME.

“If I had that much free time, or a nanny, or a personal trainer,” exclaims Em, “I’d look that good, too!”

Emily, like me, is a working mom who does not enjoy the benefits of childcare.  Her husband holds and feeds and loves their son, Sawyer, when she works.  Sometimes a friend or family members will help out, but these are unusual times.  Emily covers nighttime feedings and the morning shift until she leaves for work where she stands on her feet for eight hours at a stretch making the women of Steamboat beautiful.

When is she going to work out and get rid of her mommy bulge?  Us lowly, non-celebrity types whose job is not to look good, wake-up for 2am feedings, spend our work-out energy on our babies and our bodies look like, well, like we once carried a baby inside. When are we supposed to get our old body back?

I haven’t allowed myself the rigor of toning or monitoring my body’s calorie intake. I have not worked on achieving that flat tummy look.  Well, that’s not entirely true. My fire-fighting in training sister, Jessi (read her raw and exciting blog here), did give me a super challenging five minute workout that focuses completely on abs.  I tried to do it every day at least once (Jessi recommends three times a day).  To date, I’ve never been able to rep more than one day in a row.

Here’s a picture of me and Dale three months after Finn’s birth.  Notice, I’m wearing my pre-pregnancy clothes, but that my abdomen is not the same as before Finn arrived.  I’m NOT posting this to get encouragement that I look great, or to hear you tell me to be more patient or I have nothing to complain about.

I’m posting it to note and admit, to be bold and own my body’s difference.

I can’t jog because the very idea sends me up the stairs looking for a nap.  Even reading the word “jog” makes my eyes heavy.  How is running even possibly after a rough night with Finn? For a snapshot into one of my more rough nights (this happened this week):  Finn went down at 11pm. I was up at midnight, 2:45am and 6:45am with him.  The 2:45 waking lasted 1 1/2 hours.  I slept a total of six hours, all in two hours shots.  (btw, I’m not interested in hearing sleeping advice at this time, only lots of sympathetic encouragement =) for those concerned yes, it is getting better!)

Jogging is not an option right now, nor is eating less because I want to breast-feed Finn. And he eats a LOT.

Dale and I have begun evening walks and with Finn in the carrier (half of the time I carry), I feel amazed and impressed with what my little legs can do.

Our bodies are working, a lot, but we don’t look as flat as the celebrities.

“It’s hard!” Emily says and we co-commiserate about people in our lives who make rude comments about our bodies. We remember the bodies we used to have.

Sometimes, I think Emily is more honest than I. That’s why I like her.

FALLING FLAT

Flat tummies are beginning to fall flat on me.

I’m the type of girl who’d rather analyze my view of what is beautiful and change that, rather than change my own look. I don’t think it’s because I’m lazy or want an “out” to avoid getting in shape; I think it’s because I’m a philosopher who really cares about soul formation.

And as I think about my tummy, I think about other abdomens that housed humans.  Eve’s belly, the one artists like to paint more rounded than flat.  The womb of Mary, the mother of God, Elizabeth, her cousin, who was pregnant with the kicking, spirit-filled boy we know as John the Baptizer. Have you ever noticed how male artists capture these Biblical women’s bellies? They’re often shown with rounded bellies, even after birth.  Take this one of Eve, she’s not afraid to bare her pre-baby pooch. I don’t think Mary got absorbed into Fit Pregnancy’s article to find out how to fit into her skinny jeans . . . errr robe.

Even an artist as modern as Edvard Munch did well to paint this nude of Mary with a respectably rounded, sensuous belly. I like that rendering of this young mother.

The anxiety I feel to “get my pre-pregnancy body back” wasn’t something Mary navigated each day. I don’t think Mary would have  believed the belly bulge comments about her post-Jesus body. I can’t imagine her referring disparagingly to her pooch as a “pooch.”

I used to be able to lay my forearm flat against my stomach, a flat bridge linking two hip bones, My abdomen used to be a flat plane between my hips.  Now I lay  my arm against my abdomen and I must curve my wrist, cradling the space that Finn called home.  It’s a gesture of nurture or protection, not a measuring stick.

I could keep cradling the space that made room for Finn.

In the good times (read well-rested), in the moments when I awaken after Finn has graced me with a full night’s rest, I value my post-Finn body. I don’t want my flat tummy back because that tummy never stretched to accommodate my son.

Competing Against Myself

My photography friend, Savannah, once said, “I find myself constantly referencing my mom friends with their pre-baby bodies. It feels like in this modern day, where so much focus is on the young childless woman, that the woman who has born children is looked down upon and can never return to the ranks of the barren bodies. You bear a child, you are hereby cast out of the class of small hips, tight stomachs, perky boobs never to return again so don’t bother to believe that your bodies new shape can be attractive.”

Honestly, I think that’s the issue, we moms are afraid we’re not attractive anymore.  I remember looking at my friend’s post-baby bodies and wondering if they wanted their old bodies back, had they given up? was it too difficult? Would I be the same?

There’s a Saturday Day Night Live sketch that haunts me. But when I watch it I always laugh. My favorite line, “I’m not a person, I’m a mom!” View it here.

Frankly, there are things about my body that aren’t as attractive. But I now know I don”t have to sign up to become a quirky, scary, unaware mom.  I don’t have to wear those jeans, for instance.

Savannah and I discussed a photograph at the blog Art and Motherhood, that has us wondering about our own feelings about pregnancy. 

The caption below it reads, “Is this sexy?”  I struggled with two things as I look at this picture.

The first over trying to reconcile why we have to find stretch marks sexy?  Can’t we value the sacrifice without feeling like we have to lie?  Savannah said she’d rather re-title it, “Is this Attractive?”  Another idea would be “Can You See My Child?”

The picture feels vaguely competitive in a way I don’t like, even forcing this woman to compete with her pre-pregnant body. Aren’t our lives competitive with other women’s bodies that we don’t have to compete with earlier versions of ourselves, too?

As I watch my body change, not necessarily back to what I looked like before, I am amazed. Perhaps, maybe Ieven hope to bear a few scars from this time.. it really was too monumental to want my body to look like it did pre-June 2009.

The second part that I struggle with is how the photo seems to imply that we cannot call stretch marks ugly, the sagging parts “unsexy” without feeling like we’re betraying moms, motherhood or our children. Why don’t we have the freedom to just call it like it is?  Honestly, if I saw a woman with these scars, I would not call them attractive.  They are something else, powerful, dignifying, amazing. But let’s not fool ourselves and call them sexy.

Savannah has continued this thought and pushed further by adding two more images. Check her blog out for more.

A Good Shape

It’s easy for me to feel apprehensive of how my body looks NOW. Aside: yes, I do realize I’m very lucky to have a body that fairly easily got fairly close to what it used to be–I write this because I can already hear some of you thinking, “Sheesh, if my body looked like hers, I would NOT be complaining!”  My point, however, is that after pregnancy, ALL of us face things that are NOT THE SAME about our bodies, and whether these look glaring or imperceptible to others, they matter to us, when we face ourselves in the mirror.

Several years ago my chiropractor in Los Angeles tried to assuage my sadness over my miscarriage by saying pregnancy, “Ruins a good shape.”

I thought about that for awhile, even talked about it with Dale. It offered paltry comfort for the longing I had to GET a belly, to be pregnant at the time. But it raises a good question, what is a good shape?

A mother of three children and good friend once gave me a picture without a corner. When I asked her about the missing piece, she told us that she cut off the part that had her in it. She hated how she looked particularly her stomach and she was embarrassed. Maybe it was a bad angle, maybe she really looked unattractive, but I’ll never know as I didn’t see the picture.

In real life, my friend was a lovely woman. She had a stomach much like my own. She didn’t think her shape was good enough for viewing. I get that feeling.

On my desk there’s an invitation for a baby shower with a silhouette of a woman very, very pregnant. She has her hands on the small of her back, pushing the large belly curve out even farther.  The artist obviously thought the huge belly was a good shape.

Last week I told a friend at the pool that I don’t have my body back, yet. “But you’re so thin!” she said. She’s right, I have lost a lot of weight.

“Thanks,” I told her, “But I’m not strong, yet. If I can feel strong and still look like this I THINK I’ll be able to accept my body for where it’s at.”

Yesterday I planned to meet Dale for a surprise along the road. Since we live on the side of a mountain I knew that I could handle the walk downhill to meet him. He could drive me, Finn and the three corgis back up the hill.  I drank a little water and grabbed two handfuls of trail mix, excited to surprise him and share lunch together and set out.

I left at 12:10pm, Dale had said he planned to be home around noon.  I walked out of the house with Finn on my back (in the Beco carrier) and no sunshade, no sunscreen, no water, no watch and no cell phone (this is because Dale was carrying the one we own).  I walked for about 20 minutes before I switched the sleeping Finn to my front side. I knew he’d get sunburned if I didn’t shade him with my arms. I walked downhill for another 20 minutes before I thought it might be possible that my husband wasn’t coming home when I expected.

By this time, I was near to the busy road and with our corgis leash-less I knew I couldn’t walk it without chaos. So I waited in the shade of a kind aspen for about 15 minutes. The corgis were bushed. I was fairly hot and tired.

I couldn’t imagine walking up the hill all the way home.

Slowly I realized I would have to.

It was painful and slow going. I rested a lot in every shady spot I could find, the corgis rested too as the sun was beating down.

Every car I heard made my heart leap. Dale never showed. Once home I found out he had called me and told me he was catching lunch in town. The last few steps up the driveway, I heard the truck’s diesel engine. I marched, my shirt and Finn’s carrier a sweaty mess, straight into the house, too tired to wait for him. I headed inside and amazed myself by two things: not getting angry and the next morning, not being sore.

So it’s true, my body is in good shape; it’s strong again (after losing so much strength in postpartum hemorrhaging and the D and C). My body once again has the power to re-shape reality, to climb and hike. It would even be accurate to say that my body is the right shape to carry me farther than I think possible.

Three D

My friend (and family and marriage counselor), Robin Moore, often asks her clients, “Is your body meant to serve YOU or are you serving your body?”  She also encourages self-talk that involves telling our bodies “thank you” for things other than appearance. She calls this a 3-d approach to our bodies rather than 2-d.  As she puts it,

“I want to rebel against my self-image being defined by how I look in 2-d pictures. I actually think facebook is helping our culture, because people are less in control of pictures of themselves and are getting desensitized to less-than-portrait quality photos. They learn to live in 3-D. Not allowing the 2-D pictures of ourselves to limit their/our value.”

So my dear body, I thank you.

• thank you for having power to hike up steep mountains in the sun with Finn on your back.
• thank you for having the will and desire to make love, even after a night of little rest.
• thank you for supplying food for a 20 lb baby, day in, day out, night in, night out.
• thank you for making your arms strong to garden and pick up stocky, wriggly corgis and hug your husband tightly.

Before, Pregnant, Now

I look at these pictures and feel proud of what I’ve gone through. Thank you, sweet body, for still standing so strong.  I don’t want to erase all the marks of change. Finn is part of that change, so I thank you for those marks, they mean something to me.

And you know, every rare day I get a compliment that I treasure, like the unexpected one I got last weekend as I was eating chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream with our Soulation Retreaters.

I had just said offhand to another mother, “This certainly won’t help me get my tummy back in shape!”

A good friend and artist who was attending the retreat looked up and asked, raising his voice above the music, “What did you say?”  He walked closer to hear me.

“I said, ‘I’m going to enjoy this even though it won’t help me get my shape back.” I grinned and took a gleeful spoonful.

He stopped eating and looked at me critically, “Jonalyn, your shape is better now than it’s ever been.”

That had me stop and look dubiously at him. He nodded, and said, “You’re not as skinny!”

I still love my body.  I can’t call it flat tummied anymore, but I’ve found another word, a good word: shapely. I still have a good shape, it’s not the same, but it’s good.

And in 3-D this body, right now, right here, is out of this world.

However, most Americans still want abortion to remain legal.

In writing about women and spirituality I’ve not squared off with the important issue of abortion.  I’m friends with women who are pro-choice and pro-life.  As in the gun rights issue, it is the caricatures in media coverage that distorts the women behind the platforms.  I’ve noticed how easily both of us fail to understand the robust arguments for the other side.

For instance it’s neither accurate or fair to believe that all pro-choice advocates are pro-woman and anti-baby, nor is it accurate to assume all pro-life advocates are pro-baby and anti-woman. In this post I want to see what we can learn from each other without the mud-slinging.

Our recent book, Coffee Shop Conversations: Making the Most of Spiritual Small Talk, begins with the Rules of Loving Discourse.  I’d like to practice these with you as we  discuss abortion. Let’s see if we can get into the other side’s shoes, listen to valid arguments and concerns all the while discovering what we actually believe about life, womanhood, family, sex and death.

The Grey Area

It seems only fair to begin by admitting there are areas where the decision to terminate a fetus’ life is not black and white, where the mother and the baby’s life are in danger.

Our local paper syndicated Nicholas Kristof’s coverage in the New York Times of Sister Margaret McBride’s recent excommunication, a senior administrator at St. Joseph’s Hospital in Phoenix. The charge: McBride’s assent to the termination of an 11-week old fetus carried by a 27-year-old mother.  This mother of four suffered from pulmonary hypertension that created a high enough probability that the strain of a continuing pregnancy would likely kill her and her baby.  The balance of mother and child’s life hung suspended at this Catholic hospital, needing permission from someone like Sister Margaret. To refuse to act would have likely destroyed both mother and child.

The Bishop of Phoenix, Thomas Olmsted, ruled that “the mother’s life cannot be preferred over the child’s,” and excommunicated McBride.   Read the full story at NPR.

Then What?

Often my pro-life friends are quick to assume that if abortion were made illegal, the world would be a better place.

But, consider for a moment what would follow.  What laws would pro-life advocates want enforced? What specific policy would we implement against doctors who perform abortions when they are illegal? Would we charge them with first degree murder?  What crime should a woman be charged with for seeking an abortion?

If women are victims of abortion, how can we penalize them? Doesn’t this assault a woman’s volition, her autonomy, her maturity? Should penalties for women be increased if they seek more than one abortion? For mothers who seek abortions, do we incarcerate them and remove them from their families to prevent further abortions? Do we penalize then with a fine? with community service?

Are we truly ready to call all women who seek abortions murderers? And what about the systems, the ethics committees, the counselors and family members, the boyfriends and husbands who play a part in these abortions? Should they also be charged with murder? If abortion becomes illegal do we call McBride an accomplice to a murder?

For more questions and a rigorous development of the “then what?” see Dan’s Hole in the Wall: Getting Political for a Moment“)

Listening to Pro-Choice

I recently came across a blog where Hugo Schwyzer, professor, Episcopal youth minister, husband and father explains that his experience of watching his second daughter born only confirmed him more resolutely into the pro-choice camp (read at “Pregnant Woman, Personhood and Some Paternal Reflections“).

Confused and interested I read on.   He notices that once a woman becomes pregnant people’s perception of her value splits into two categories.

One, her value as a woman.

Two, her value as a life-giving agent to sustain, carry, feed, shelter this growing life inside.  A perfect way to illustrate this duality is how commonly people feel free to touch a pregnant woman’s belly.  I experienced this as well. People I knew only casually slid their hands all around my abdomen, without seeming to realize this was my skin, my nerves they touched. They weren’t really touching Finn, they were touching me.

Schwyzer notes that a growing life inside a woman, for all its excitement and beauty, does not trump a woman’s subject-hood.  In other words, the life of the baby should not erase the woman’s life. He writes,

” To see my daughter born was one of the great experiences of my life. But I never lost sight of the reality that my wife was more than a vessel to carry this new and splendid creature. My wife’s rights didn’t diminish with conception and with each passing week of gestation. I knew a longed-for and desperately wanted new life grew inside of her, but the emphasis was always as much on “inside of her” as on the “new life.” And I assure you that my wonder at the miracle of life is matched, and even surpassed, by the wonder at what a woman’s body can do if that woman chooses to make it happen.”

In thinking about this I both agree and disagree.  I agree that a woman’s personhood is intact, even while pregnant. However, I think Schwyzer has overblown the choice woman have.

You cannot be pregnant without becoming a vessel.  The fact that a woman’s life (food, energy, etc) serves her fetus is not a choice. You cannot bear a child and also refuse to become a vessel.  Pregnancy means our body will  serve this child’s growing needs, you cannot be pregnant without performing this service.  And, in my case, gain lots of extra weight, feel sore, require frequent bathroom visits and feel achy while you try to do normal activities.  Pregnancy can feel like an invasion. To call this a choice is in my mind mistaken.

A better verb is not choosing, but entering or enduring or accepting.  I would not call the pregnancy a choice as much as something that happens to women after sex… and there’s no way for a woman to exit the pregnancy without having something else happen to her, be it a miscarriage or an abortion.

As much as I dislike the picture of woman as passive, accepting pregnancy does not have the texture of other intentional decisions I’ve made in my life.  Waiting and watching my body change wasn’t the same as choosing what major I wanted, who to marry, what flowers to plant, when or how to have sex.

Pregnancy feels more like something is happening to me, like a ride I stepped on, a plane I boarded.   Pregnancy felt like something was being acted within me.  And to accept this vessel-becoming experience, to become a tabernacle of new life involved my investment and daily sacrifice (read more about my pregnancy experience “New Body“).

Perhaps what Schwyzer means is that woman’s choice to accept pregnancy should not obliterate their personhood in the process. I agree, however, I found pregnancy could enhance the personal dignity of my womanhood.

Outlawing Pain

Schwyzer’s main point is that since pregnancy and delivery (whether vaginally or caesarean) hurts, forcing a woman to go through this painful (and he admits, worthy) process is horrific. He writes,  “We [he and his wife] both shudder, more than ever now, at the thought of compelling a woman to go through this process against her will.”

He believes the woman must choose this pain and that the child must be wanted.

He writes about abortion doctor’s work as ministry. He talks about abortions as a time for doctors to trust that women know what is best for their own bodies and the lives of their children.

I read that and think, wait, I believe in women, too. And I trust women.  Are some feminists hearing pro-lifers as people who do not trust women?

Challenge to Pro-Choice Advocates

Speaking as a woman who has endured labor without any pain medication I will agree with Schwyzer. Yes, it does hurt.

The litany of sacrifices on the part of the mother (birthing hurts, pregnancy is inconvenient, sleep-deprivation is unpleasant and disorienting and push-me-to-tears frustrating, the stitches after my second degree tear throb for days, the physical deprivation of no sex for weeks and weeks pushing me to wonder more than once, “Why, oh WHY didn’t God split up biological baby-care duties a bit more evenly? I mean he could at least have given men breasts so my poor ol’ body could heal with decent night’s rests instead of healing on 3 hours here and there snatched in between feedings?!!!”) is not to be minimized.

No way, Jose.

The fact that children are painful remains a point most pro-life advocates fail to really park on. The movie Juno, does a good job of showing part of the pain. I felt my insides quiver with participatory suffering when I watched Juno weep after she had given birth, her boyfriend crawling into bed next to her, his muddy running cleats on the hospital bed (an apt metaphor for the messiness of relationships, sex and children).

However, pro-choice advocates forget that as God created sex, one aspect (others being recreation and unity) is the potential for children.  I don’t think you can divorce sex from children, not without damaging both parties.

Perhaps pro-choice advocates feel the intensity of the pain and the amount of time pregnancy requires warrants the state remaining mum on the subject and letting a woman choose.

I disagree.

The law enforces painful things everyday, like the draft for military service, a requirement that isn’t anything as natural as the sex-baby connection.   The state enforces taxes (a painful process to say the least) for your entire life without an opt-out.   I’m not saying having a baby is the same as being drafted or paying taxes, but it does serve to prove that the state frequently requires it’s citizens to undergo pain (and in the case of the draft, to face death) without asking permission. Maybe we don’t like that the state has this power, we might even petition against it or think it unfair. But we certainly allow it this right, as our government.

So I don’t think the charge that pregnancy and birth (and child-rearing) is painful holds.

I have an inkling that woman would more easily undergo nine months of painful “invasion” of a fetus if pregnancy’s responsibilities ended there.  It’s the life of a person for years and years after the birth that has our adrenalin pumping with fearful anticipation. Will I be able to handle a child?

When I compare the glorious portability and minimal responsibility of carrying Finn as a fetus compared with caring for him as a baby, the pregnancy part was a breeze.

During pregnancy I slept long and well. I easily coordinated elaborate outfits with accessories and make-up.  I worked out or spend hours reading and writing without leaking milk.  Then I had a baby.

It’s not merely the pregnancy that women must count as a cost, it’s the life after the birth.

I believe more women would refuse an abortion if they could serve nine months and be done with it.  It’s not the pain of the nine months; it is the idea of a life to be responsible for, to be guilty about, to wonder as to the painful, happy, fruitful or fruitless future of your offspring.

Cleaning the Slate?

Perhaps the single most provocative offering of abortion is a promise that abortion can help you wipe the slate clean. This is an offer too tempting to refuse when you are faced with life as you know it ending (how will you raise a teenager in this world?) or facing the idea that through the “out” of adoption someone else will raise your teenager in this world (To better understand a woman’s feelings  before terminating her pregnancy read an example at “Choosing Not to Keep the Baby” note the comments – most striking to me is how no friends rallied behind this young women to help her raise her unplanned child – this a problem I’ve heard of time and again with the friends I know who have walked into abortion clinics by themselves… it is at root a problem with all of us – How many of you have helped an unwed mother raise an unwanted child? – understanding how we all play a part in abortion deserves another post).

But back to the idea that pain should not be demanded out of women unless they choose it, I don’t see the precedent in any other area. Avoiding our own pain has never been an adequate reason to extinguish another life.  As the Dread Pirate Roberts of The Princess Bride says, “Life is pain, your highness. Anyone who says otherwise is selling something.”

We know the laws of nature require pain if we choose to disregard them. If we choose to run a race, we will face the pain of conditioning. If we choose to love we face the pain of vulnerability, rejection, fragility and death. If we choose to make love when we’re not ready in some (even small) capacity to become a vessel for a child, then we face the pain of dashed plans, the inconvenience and pain of either a baby or an abortion.

Abortion and Sin

Living east of Eden, sin is it’s own punishment.

So we must ask yourselves, is abortion sin? Let’s simply define sin as missing the mark or twisting the good.

If abortion is sin, I’m less concerned with making abortion illegal.

If abortion is missing the mark I believe the costs of a woman enduring an abortion provides a strong enough punishment without heaping on a murder charge, silence out of shame and isolation to boot.

It seems most likely, from my limited experience with two pregnancies, that women know they are taking away life or a form of life when they terminate their pregnancies. I’m not saying they admit it, though some do (see Naomi Wolf’s “Our Bodies, Our Souls“)

My concern is that pro-choice advocates remain intent upon driving a wedge between procreation and sex. I don’t think this is appropriately human, nor that God created our bodies and souls to permanently cleave sex away from procreation.

Conundrum

It seems to me that the difference between terminating an eleven week old fetus and terminating a thirty week old fetus is significant and worth thinking about.   I’ve heard pro-life advocates say there is no difference in value.

I do not intend to minimize the grief of losing a child at any age (read my own grief over the loss of our six week old fetus here). However, I have an intuitive sense after losing a six week old fetus and facing the possibility of losing a week old baby (read here) that you feel like you’re losing more with a week old baby.

Now here is where pro-choice advocates need to tread carefully. Does the intuition that a baby at one week is more valuable than a fetus at 6 weeks find valid justification? I mean do my intuitions match reality, do they find justification in Scripture, in natural law, in God’s law?  Are there reasons to think of one as more valuable than another?  Is if fair to fault a smaller, less developed form of human life as less valuable than a bigger, more developed form? Is it merely because a baby looks more like a baby as it gets older that I feel the loss greater?

Now, here’s the strange conundrum, the dependency of a one week old baby feels greater, more invasive, more sobering and commanding than the dependency of a five week old fetus.  But we protect the life of a baby once it’s outside the womb, no matter how inconvenient, painful, difficult that life might be to mother, to father, to society.

Thoughts? Concerns? Ideas?

This idea has been unpopular for hundreds (maybe even thousands) of years.  That men need women isn’t very popular in the parenting philosophy that says little boys can be ruined by their mothers. Don’t want to be “overclose” right?  Just think about it this way, is it positive or negative to call a girl  “Daddy’s Little Girl”?

Okay, now what if you call a boy  “Momma’s Boy”?

I particularly enjoyed our Question and Answer time with the students.  Such great questions that have helped me think more.

One moment in the talk we were discussing the different ways men and women approach the world given the simple difference of their bodies. Due to my body’s shape, capabilities, size, strength I will walk down the street, shop, smile and speak differently than a man.

I told the audience that because we have a two month old baby my mind is constantly considering when I will be needed to nurse Finn, even while I’m juggling the next point in my talk and the powerpoint.

The men looked at Dale with curiosity when I said, “Dale isn’t thinking about any of that!”

“Nope!” he responded with a smile. The audience burst into laughter.

“But that is the challenge of being a woman,” I said, after they all quieted. “I have to press into God to ask him to show me the privilege and beauty of having a body that must be interrupted in a speaking event to feed my son.”

The women stared at me intently. Their eyes made me want to explore this privilege here with you.

I carried Finn onstage in my *Lille Baby when I spoke alongside Dale. The audience numbered about 2000, which is enough to stream adrenalin through my body.

But I wanted to “wear” Finn for several reasons.

1-      I believe our talks benefit from me at Dale’s side and I do not want to give up on this benefit for our non-profit, but most significantly for our audiences, simply because we have a baby.

2-      The absence of children from most places of business, religion, politics feels unnatural and in the end harmful to me. Have you noticed that we put children away?  We do not see Senators or CEOs or models or professors with their baby WHILE WORKING, at least not very often.  I’m reminded of a wonderful woman, Prime Minister of Pakistan, Benazier Bhutto, who raised three children as she shepherded her country.  From Claudia Preifus’ article in the New York Times, May 13, 1994,

“In all the world there cannot be another plane quite like the official jet of Bhutto. The front section is a kind of office-cum-nursery, jammed with toys, briefcases, newspapers, nannies and Bhutto’s children, Bilawal, 5, Bakhtawar, 4, and Asifa, 1.  In the main cabin, political advisors, security commandos and generals are keeping an eye on the Prime Minister they cautiously support.

“Hello gentlemen . . . Hello, babies,” Bhutto calls as she enters the plane.  It is both jarring and interesting to see soldiers saluting a woman with children on her lap.”

Children were permitted alongside this woman even as she accessed places of power.

3-      Finn is at an age where he needs me, for food, for hydration, for warmth, for shelter, for affection.  He also needs his father for all of these (except the food/hydration).  To hold my son on my body while I speak indicates, I hope, my willingness to meet his needs even while others may not understand. In planning to babywear Finn, the chapel coordinator (a female student) was surprised but enthusiastic. “I don’t think we’ve ever had a speaker carry a baby on stage,” she said.  That increased my nervousness, but made me all the more determined.

4-      Even if it is easier to have someone watch Finn, so I can focus on my work, the task of inviting Finn’s distraction while attempting to speak is an example Dale and I could not pass up. We want the women and men in the audience (many future mothers and fathers) to consider the example of inviting a child into your work, into the public sphere. Because if more women were permitted, even encouraged to invite their children to work, the inequalities between men and women would begin to seriously evaporate.  It is not marriage that hinders women from producing and enjoying careers, it is the insistence that children cannot be a part of real work, real life, real business. That is a myth I would like to challenge, in the few years and few opportunities I’m given.  Babies are part of real life, they are as real as our own existence, and, as my wise cousin once said in response to my fears that Finn would wake up and interrupt,

“You should be fine, and if he does wake up and make noise, that is just part of real life!  So you are really being real about your life as a mom.”

Bravo!

5-      I do not see women and children side-lined in God’s program in Scripture. Instead, I see God excited about inviting children near him, even when the all-business agenda of his followers begged to differ.  As Jesus said, “Permit the little children to come to me.”  I find it strange that the founder of Christianity was so pro- children (even with their interruptions) but his followers are intent on assigning children to the nursery during our serious Sunday morning programmes.

In a wonderful new book celebrating Men and Women’s difference, Alice von Hildebrand writes,

“Not only are man and woman made for each other, not only do their complement each other, but, above all, their differences (which are not limited to the biological sphere) enable them to be partners with God Himself in creating new human persons” (p. 4 Man and Woman: a Divine Invention).

This mutual interdependence is not something easy to explain or to live.  In a conversation with a Christian feminist last week, she suggested that true interdependence, making room for me to depend on you, while you make room to depend on me, cannot happen unless we are first independent.

I’m curious about what you think. 

Why do men and women find it so difficult to depend on each other?

Must we first learn independence to interdepend?

*For a wonderful site on all the benefits and styles of baby-wearing, as well as the many options of baby-wearing carriers see my cousin’s site: www.frogmama.com

Why couldn’t my baby breathe? Why wasn’t he thriving?

I latched on to a verse in Psalm 13:5, “But I trust your unfailing love.”  I said that to myself over and over as I fell asleep when thoughts and fears crowded my mind. I knew that even if I were to lose Finn, I would have God’s love for me. I couldn’t trust a clear diagnosis to the doctors,  I couldn’t expect smooth, quick release, I couldn’t even depend on Finn making it out okay or even alive, but I could expect God to love me, regardless of what I feared, gained or lost.

Finn was a bright spot to me, he was always eager to eat; he continued to gain weight.  Wondering and waiting made each feeding time precious.

I got my hopes up so high that he would only need 48 hours of antibiotics that I scheduled his circumcision and held his hands and sang to him during the procedure.  But that night his inflammation count went up. He even had to go back on oxygen. My hopes were crushed. I cried so hard. I felt so empty walking to my hospital room time after time with my arms empty, without a baby to share the room with, to talk to and rejoice over with Dale.

There were just enough tests confirming that he had an inflammation area in one of his lungs. Doctors and nurses alternately called it meconium aspiration (inhaling some of the meconium from birth which naturally would inflame a lung) or pneumonia.  Perhaps because of our high altitude combined with his size and need for large, full capacity lungs, he needed breathing help.  Regardless it was eleven days before we finally got to take him home, on oxygen.

During that time I recorded my thoughts on my iPod shuffle because my carpal tunnel got quite a lot worse after my delivery (probably due to all those IV fluids).  I listed things I didn’t want to forget like how it feels to hold your son when he’s connected to five different wires, looking at the flowers my friends brought to me, especially those lilies that made my hospital room smell like a garden instead of a hospital, the bubble baths where I’d try to wait and relax before the next feeding when I could see my baby Finn, the feeling that I felt every time I stood like my bottom would fall out from under me, the hundreds of emails that inundated me with the conviction that my friends understood and strangers  prayed for us.

I will never forget the deep loneliness of sleeping by myself.  Dale went home each evening around 10pm to tend to our three Welsh Corgis and get a good night’s rest. My body ached to be with him, I felt so solitary in that hospital bed.  Such an irony that the fruit of our intimacy would produce this kind of separation between me and Dale, between me and my son. I would state out loud into the darkness, “I will trust your unfailing love.” Knowing God cared for me more than I could care for Finn, knowing that I could learn a lesson of trust from my son who was unbelievable trusting of me, helped me get through those long nights and days.

By the evening of March 3^rd, I was strong enough to walk into the Nursery and see Finn, finally.

The first time, I felt both shy and proud, “Hi,” I told the nurse who opened the locked door, “I’m the mom of baby Finn.” It was the first time I identified myself as the mother of my son.  It was strange to think the nurses knew Finn more than they knew me.

In the weeks following that would change. I met so many nurses, many who loved and cared for my son beautifully. Even though I would break down several times, I learned a lot of tips from them.  It was still very hard, though. I still remember how I’d try not to think how I couldn’t get to my son unless I was allowed to pass through a locked door. Yes, I know it was for his protection, but it still felt like another level of distance between us.

The painfulness was broken by friends who came by to photograph Finn and us, by house church that graciously decided to meet at the hospital, by the flowers that friends sent, by the darling onesie my mom had hand embroidered for Finn, “freshly hatched” it read. I couldn’t wait to put it on him.

I remember one particularly hard night when the nurses had to change his IV from his hand and into his head.  The one in his hand was not longer strong enough. They kept sticking him, but were unable to get a vein.  It was unbearable to be asked to leave, though I longed to stay and sing and stroke his arms and comfort him while they prodded.

I was making them nervous, they said. So I trudged back to my hospital room and cried and cried. It was over an hour later when they finally called and told me they had got the IV in. I couldn’t bear to think of him crying and hurting, alone, in that room.

Now, holding him against my chest in the Moby wrap, listening to his strong lungs breath in and out and his little chubby legs kick against my stomach, I can’t hold my tears back.

It was such a hard time, only seeing him when he was hungry, trying to stretch out the nursing times as long as I could to maximize our time together. Choking back tears as I sang “Like a River Glorious” over and over to him as I cried looking at the needles in his arm, the monitors taped all over him.  Looking at the hospital blanket that said, “Hospital Property” expressed the frustration in my heart perfectly. I didn’t feel like Finn belonged to me anymore. I saw his perfect arms that the nurses had all the rights to pierce and felt so so helpless.

I was just the feeder, I woke up whenever I could to be with him.  But, I couldn’t make the decisions for him because I didn’t know enough.

Things I never want to forget:

-          Holding Finn the 2^nd night when I wasn’t allowed to feed him because they put him on formula until my milk came in (which it did Friday evening, with a vengeance).

-          The tape around his temples holding his oxygen in, making red rings of abrasion on his sensitive skin.

-          Wishing I could pull the tube out of his stomach so he wouldn’t have to struggle.

-          The satisfaction of knowing I could breast-feed him. Wanting to keep that joyfulness even when I brought him home.

-          Praying God would give me the strength, again and again asking him to show me that his love was unfailing.

-          Amazement at how good my body looked even one day later.

-         Watching in deep fear as Finn underwent a cardiogram, fearing his heart was damaged and insufficient to sustain him. 

-         Long bubble baths, crying and listening to my labor mix “Strength” and “Peace.

-          Carrying my boppy and small, inflatable donut pillow (for my backside) and shuffling in my slippers every three hours to see my son.

-          How wonderful it felt to help clean up the adhesive when we took Finn’s IV out of his head.

-          Getting the go ahead to dress him for the first time, over 10 days after he was born.

It was a mighty fine day when the doctors and nurses told me Finn passed all his NICU tests (room-air challenge, car seat challenge, etc), and that we could keep him in my room for one night. I couldn’t stop smiling and bounding around to get everything ready for his arrival.

Dale stayed that night with both of us, too. He called it our slumber party.  It was delightful to wheel him into my room and put HIS clothes on him.  Even though he was still on oxygen (we took him home on it) I thought he looked like a million bucks!

Well, I need to stop writing, my tears are flowing on Finn’s head and waking him up as he sleeps in the Moby.  I think I’ll take us both outside to get another load of laundry.

I didn’t know it at the time, but one month after Finn’s birth I would experience several complications and have to be re-admitted to the hospital for a D and C, a tiny bit of retained placenta (5 mm) needed removing.

Now, over two months after Finn’s birth, with a 15 lb baby and my own body finally beginning to feel better, I can sigh and be grateful to God for seeing us through. Little things feel rather miraculous, like walking through snow (in MAY!)  to do another load of this little guy’s laundry with Finn sleeping in the Moby.  I want to close this 10 part series with the words of David in Psalm 13:5-6

“But I trust in your unfailing love; my heart rejoices in your salvation. I will sing the LORD’s praise,  for he has been good to me.”

Selah

SHE had THAT baby?!  Finn outweighed all the babies in the Nursery by at least double their weight. One pair of twins together still weighed less than he did.

I would come to believe his size and weight in the days to come.  While the hospital’s nursing staff for babies took Finn’s measurements, I leaned back and rested a bit, listening to Dale shout out length and head size.  He was 21 ¾ inches long and had a 15 inch head.

Dr. Leslie told me it was time to push my placenta out, and I told her she would have to help me. My pushing capacity was depleted.  So she helped a lot, more than I even remember.  What I do remember was the slight massage/pushing the nurse did on my collapsed stomach and Dale commenting on the amount of blood that came out of me.

*** Warning Real Life Details ***

The blood filled a plastic tub, along with my placenta that Dr. Leslie held up to show me and Dale. She showed us where Finn had lived, how his umbilical cord had been attached.  My placenta was enormous. Dale was so fascinated he even took a picture (I’ll spare you, but we found it awfully amazing) to remember how large it was.  For those interested it was about the size of a large cereal box, and super thick. That’s partly the cause for the events that immediately followed.

***

I lost about a liter of blood in that moment.  Only a few minutes later, after Leslie had sewed me up (I only felt a few pricks, pretty good considering I had a 2^nd degree tear), I remember feeling very very thick, like the air around me had been injected with cotton. I turned to the nurse beside me.

“I’m having trouble breathing,” I gasped out.  She quickly put an oxygen mask over my face.  I felt like someone had put a boulder on my chest.

Instantly, there were about five nurses around me.  In that moment hospital intervention seemed like a really good idea.  They put a (painful) IV into my arm.  In went two more injections, one pitocin to make my uterus contract, the other I’ve forgotten.  As the nurse told me I was getting some pitocin, I almost said,

“Wait, no, I don’t want any drugs! Pitocin will make my contractions stronger,” before I realized I wasn’t in labor anymore. Realizing Finn was out, I laid back and relaxed.

I remember hearing Dale hold baby Finn, walking him around the room, telling him I was going to be okay. I even smiled knowing Finn was in good hands, thankful that I had a husband by my side as my complications surged.  He held Finn for almost an hour. To hear Dale talking to Finn, to hear him happy, to know Finn was safe and healthy I didn’t even care what happened to me. Hearing Dale tell me he thought Finn was cute (MUCH cuter than the 3-D sonogram had indicated) and so nice and symmetrical made me feel wonderful.

For those next 20 minutes, I was even more grateful that we had decided to birth Finn in the hospital.  Later one nurse would tell me, “You gave us a scare!”

But, I felt so serene in that moment, not afraid I was going to die, very trusting that the nurses knew what they were doing.  One nurse would lecture me later that I was a perfect example of why they insist on an IV port upon hospital admittance.

“I’m glad I didn’t let you do that port!” I emphasized again, “If I had a port in my arm I would not have been able to enjoy my husband’s support.” I went on to explain Dale’s vasovagal response.  The nurse walked around the counter where she had been standing and gave me a big hug.

“I hadn’t thought about it like that before,” she admitted.

After a long afternoon of waiting for some food, I got to nurse Finn.  He took a few minutes to figure out what to do, but when he latched on I was so proud of him.  The first time he sucked I was blown away by how strange it felt for such a little person to have such a strong tug.  After hearing how hard nursing was for friends I expected it to be a lot harder. It wasn’t, just amazing and surprisingly not painful.

Finn already felt ENORMOUS to me, like he had skipped the infant stage. He did not seem helpless or weak.  Whereas I felt both of those. He nursed for about an hour.

Because of my weakened state (not just the labor, but now a liter of blood missing), Dale and I decided to put Finn in the nursery for the evening.  They brought him to me for his feedings. At midnight he nursed well, as I learned the football hold and how to nurse him in bed.  My nurse, B, gave me such a helpful tool, “Nursing should feel like a tug, not a pinch.”  That was the number one best tip I got. It took me about 10 minutes to get him latched on, but once he did, he ate really well. Such a rewarding experience.

*** Warning: Real Life Details ***

Around midnight I had to prove that I did not need a catheter by peeing on my own. I’ve got to admit that a day of labor, even only 6 hours, had done a number on my bathroom skills. I couldn’t believe how swollen and out of control my own body felt. It was like I had forgotten how to pee. I tried to remember what I had read in one of my birthing books, A Girlfriend’s Guide to Pregnancy, “Your body will go back to normal, it just will take time.”

They did a sonogram-like test to verify that yes, I had enough of a full bladder to pee and since my uterus was having a slightly hard time contracting down the nurses who watched me that evening, B and J, insisted on my proving that I could empty my own bladder.  They wanted my bladder as small as possible to make room for my uterus.

Waiting, sitting on the toilet, was the longest I had sat up since delivering Finn. I slowly felt all my energy leaking out of my body. I knew I was about to black out and thinking how this would REALLY prove I needed a catheter, I used the last bit of strength to ask for my Recharge (a natural version of Gatorade).

Dale came running and as I sucked in the cool grape liquid I felt focus returning to my body. It was like drinking liquid strength.  That helped me stand up and get back into bed (with their help).

Eventually, I tried again and with the help of some peppermint oil (did you know smelling it can induce the peeing urge?) I peed. Everyone hurrahed me and B and J were full of congratulations.  I felt like I had surmounted the final challenge.

Little did I know.

***

That was the last time I would really be focused on my own body as the number one priority.  I fed Finn again around 2:30am and we were so quiet and smooth about it that Dale didn’t even wake up.

At 5 am the following morning the head nurse technician in the Nursery woke me up to tell me that Finn had given the staff a scare that night.

The nursery had been quite crowded (something about the barometric pressure) and J, the nurse who had the bright idea of peppermint oil , had decided to hold Finn, instead of leaving him with the host of other babies in the nursery.

While J was holding him, she noticed his nostrils flare up. Finn seemed to be having trouble breathing so she called B (pictured here with me and Finn) over in concern as they watched his body turn blue. They rushed him into the Nursery and M (a nurse I would get to meet later and thank) put to use her years of high risk NICU training in a New York City hospital on Finn’s troubled little body.

She got him breathing again, they stabilized him, but not without the aid of a tube down his throat and an IV.  On hearing this news, I initially felt just enormous relief that we had put him in the nursery and that he had gotten the care he needed. What if he had turned blue while in our room and I and Dale too wiped out to notice?

But when I heard that they wanted to hold him for at least 48 more hours to start him on antibiotics, I felt my heart sink. In the morning Dale went to see him, and they had a tube down his throat in his stomach to pump any excess air out.  Finn was gagging  on the tube and did not like it one bit. Knowing now how chill of a baby he is (e.g. He didn’t cry during his circumcision), I know he must have been very uncomfortable.

In the days to come I would record in Voice Memos (my carpal tunnel had again flared up so that typing was making it worse) how difficult the days in the hospital became. I would stay to watch Finn as he moved through three IVs (one in his head), oxygen nodes for his nose, that tube down his throat, 48 hours on the Bili Bed, multiple tests, circumcision, unknown results, hopefulness that he’d be released and then feeling disappointed that he wouldn’t be. Another five days of antibiotics.

He seemed so strong, how could they still hold him as a sick baby?  It hurt to see his arms bruised by the IV, his chest tattooed with sticky strips monitoring his heart.

In the days following, I never went home. I couldn’t stand the thought of returning to my cabin and leaving Finn.  I’m so thankful the hospital had room for me to room-in those days. The times I got with him kept me focused on recovering myself and staying healthy enough to feed him. In one fun moment, he grabbed my hair and made us all smile.   Look at that strong arm!

Read Final Post “Unfailing Love”

But the different angle on my knees did the trick.  Linda would touch my shoulders a few times and say, “Relax your shoulders, put that energy down where it will help your baby.”  Afterward Dale said, I instantly dropped my shoulders and he could tell a visible difference in my pushing.

In that last hour of pushing I made up my mind that I, Jonalyn Grace Fincher, would push this baby out no matter what. I remember choosing to stop caring about the pain, about the damage to my body, to mentally overcome it by thinking, It doesn’t matter if I’m torn in two, this baby is coming out. I am pushing him out. I will push with everything I have.

I remember it as a very conscious choice, sort of swearing to my own hurt and not changing.

The strength multiplied in me when I heard Leslie say “GREAT pushing, okay one more!” and Linda (my doula) say, “You have the strength in your soul to do this, Jonalyn!” and especially when I heard Dale cheering with each series of pushes. He’d peer down in amazement at Finn’s black circle of hair growing bigger and then come up and grab my hand and leg cry out, “Go, go, go, go, go, go!” all the way through the contraction. I was so excited he had so much hair.

I felt like I was in the last 100 meters of a two mile track race and my favorite person, my best friend, my most loyal fan and confident coach was running alongside me, yelling, “Go, go, go, go, go!”

With his encouragement I could do this, I knew I could.  Dale kept leaning down to watching the progress. He was almost giddy with excitement so I dipped my empty ladle into his stream. I was thrilled he could be so involved.

“He’s coming, Jonalyn,” he cried out, “You’re almost there!” I felt like people had been saying that for an hour. And they had. Finn’s head was huge, 15 inches wide we’d later find out. I still can’t believe I pushed him out.

In the last moments, I felt like someone had lit me on fire, but I felt somewhat removed from the pain even as intense as it was.  Dr. Leslie would tell me in a post-pardum check-up that many women need the epidural to relax enough and push hard enough. The pain prevents many from pushing as hard as they need to.

I totally get that, now.

At this hospital, the epidural rate is 90%.  I feel proud to be in the 10%, not because I’m a glutton for punishment, but because I wanted to be fully present and awake to everything that was happening.  And I know what the epidural covers and I know why it’s a blessing, too.

Speaking with a nursing friend of mine after the birth she wrote me:

God was definitely at work in guiding your choices and protecting you and Finn through the pregnancy, labor and delivery.  I don’t know if you’ve thought about the fact that typically, if they had known that he was actually going to be so big, they would have scheduled a c-section.

Even if you said no thanks, that lingering doubt as to whether you could really push out such a big baby could have been a mental obstacle that could have prevented a vaginal delivery.  Also, had you chosen to have an epidural, there is a good chance you would not have had the control and awareness to be able to push out a large baby.  ALSO…if you had an epidural, Finn would have received some of the medication, thus depressing his breathing.

In light of some of complications with Finn’s breathing after the birth, I’m even more grateful I declined all medical interventions.

One of the hardest things about pushing is that you push so hard and make like an inch of progress, but when the contraction is over the uterus sucks the baby back like ½ inch. So it’s three steps forward, one back, over and over and over.

The moment I felt real hope flood my body was when I heard Dale say, “I can see his ear!”

I knew I had done it. There was no way I could pull that ear back up and in.  I didn’t feel instant relief, however.  I still had the additional work of pushing his enormous chest out.  That felt almost as hard as his head, though Dale said it looked a lot easier.

I felt like I had control, even in that moment.  I wouldn’t think about the next push, I would push and breathe deeply for the next push. Sometimes I would push when there was no contraction, I was so eager to get the baby out.

Then, all of a sudden his head was out and he gave one squeal, then was quiet.  Knowing he could cry meant he could come and lay on my chest.  Dale cut the ambilical cord and I sighed a high breath of joy.  Dr. Leslie went to town with the bulb syringe beginning to pump his lungs and nose clear of liquid.  I have pictures but I don’t want to overwhelm you with them.

My first sensation was not amazement at Finn, but relief that most the pain was over. I had done it, I had birthed a baby without pain meds. I had achieved my prayer and goal. God was good. I just lay there feeling so thankful.

Then, I wanted to see him.  They wanted to clean him up, but Linda stepped in beautifully and said, “Let her hold him.”  I temporarily forgot to be afraid of the next stage of pushing the placenta, finding out if I had torn and how badly, and having my belly massaged to contract the placenta as I held my baby boy.

Later, I found out that he was in my arms for no more than 3 minutes. It felt like 10 minutes. I looked at him and felt awash with relief that he was not harmed, no broken bones, and so much cuter than the ultrasound had made him appear.

“Look, Dale,” I said, “He doesn’t look like piglet!” We both smiled.

Then, they took him to make sure he hadn’t gulped down any meconium, to weigh and measure him.  I heard Dale shout out from the baby station.

“Nine pounds, twelve ounces!” he said, taking pictures excitedly. “Jonalyn can you believe it?”

Read Part 9 “Complications”

The growing pressure on Finn put so much force on my back I was quickly reminded me of how I had injured my tailbone 5 years ago. Finn’s head on my tailbone was growing in intensity similar to the debilitating cracking sensation I had felt years ago.

At that point someone offered a mirror so I can see what was going on. Surprising myself I wanted to see, Dale was saying he could see Finn’s head of hair. I thought, “I’ve got to be close!”

I’m glad I didn’t know I still had an hour left of pushing.

In the mirror, I looked surprisingly well, not scary, even somewhat normal, I thought.

I caught a glimpse of my face in the mirror as I began to bear down for another series of pushes and I remember thinking, “Wow, I look intense, but I still look like me.”

That helped. Knowing I still looked like Jonalyn, not some out of control, distorted, birthing monster—as the jokes and myths might have led me to believe–made me feel more dignified and grounded in reality.

In the mirror I saw Finn’s dark circle of hair deep inside me.  Even in the mirror he looked far away. Someone suggested I reach down to touch his head. I felt like even that stretch movement would be impossible given the intensity of the contractions. But I leaned to the side, stretched my hand down and brushed his head with my fingertips. It was too surreal for me to process that he was actually going to come out and be separate from me. I felt too exhausted to think more about it.

Another contraction, another need to push came on and I was just focusing. About this time I heard Dr. Ahlmeyer say to a nurse in a whisper which was unfortunately just loud enough for me to hear, “This is a really big head!” Another time later I heard her say, “We already have a 2 inch cone head happening here.”

My poor baby’s head, I thought for a brief moment.  But even given this news, I felt no urgency to push harder or faster. After having talked with friends I realize how grateful I am for that gift of patience and peacefulness.  I didn’t cannonball him out of my body which gave my body time to stretch.

Dr. Leslie Ahlmeyey began to prepare my perineum (skin around the vagina) for delivery. This picture is her table of instruments that I decided to NOT look at to keep myself focused on what I was doing.  You can see the baby bed in the background that Finn would soon fill.

She’s the only doctor we know of in Steamboat who actually stretches the perineum with oil to minimize and often prevent tearing. The only difficulty is that the stretching hurts like the dickens.  During that next hour I was enduring the pressure on my back, the pain of the contractions, the doubled pain of bearing down and moving Finn lower and further out and then the pain of having my perineum stretched.

A few times I said, “Ouch, ouch, ouch, Leslie that really, really hurts!”

“I know it does,” she would say empathetically and then calmly keep working.  As Dale described it, she kept tucking the edges of my perineum around Finn’s head to slowly, but surely widen the opening so his head could slide out.

Let me tell you it didn’t feel like sliding or slipping. It felt like Finn had sandpaper hair and that the walls of my delivery canal were coated with superglue.

When I opened my eyes, Leslie had donned a mask, which gave me more hope that she thought I would be able to push this baby out.  She also started to joke a little, “I’ve got your slip ‘n slide all ready,” she smiled.

Her calmness, Linda’s confidence, Dale’s assurance all kept me going to keep on pushing, keep on trying.  I’d pull my knees back and Linda and Dale would help hold my legs back with me.  Then when the contraction was over I’d release my legs and prop them up on the top of the bar, so I was in a V-shape.

During this time I’d get a minute or so to rest.  Dale took a picture of me during one of those breaks.

I’m smiling, which baffles me, and I remember thinking how glad I was that Dale was getting a picture of this moment.  Looking at that picture now (which I cannot post for modesty reasons), I remember how Dale leaned in toward me after he snapped it and told me, “You look beautiful.”

Looking at the picture, I believe him.

Read Part 8 “GO GO GO GO GO”