Love-Knowledge Baby

A symbol strongly associated with babies, for some reason.

“Babies are EXPENSIVE!” someone exclaims.  Everyone nods in agreement.  Then the list begins, “Hospital bills, crib, diapers and more diapers!  Formula!  Not to mention that they outgrow their clothes in three blinks of an eye!”

That’s the current myth.  Heck, I believed it.  My pre-birth parenting skills seemed hinge on the THINGS I bought for the baby, as if buying tons of bottles, strollers, a gorgeous round crib (which I’ve been trying to sell for AGES, having never been used), pacifiers, diapers, etc. would prepare me for the most momentous life-change that I’d ever never be ready for.

That’s right ladies and gentlemen, I would never have been ready for motherhood until the moment was upon me.  Even if I’d read all the AP books out there (I’d read exactly zero), gone to parenting classes, and watched every How To Care For Your Newborn video available on YouTube, I would never have been ready to be a mother.

There are some things that you can have intellectual knowledge of, but still know nothing about.  Pregnancy, birth, and parenting are very solidly categorized as such, in my opinion.  So, I was the best consumer mom that I could have been, nurturing the child in my womb by valiantly tackling garage sales and Target clearance racks.  I amassed the usual baby paraphernalia, but I was already starting to show my green tendencies.

I shopped online for the best deals (package deals, clearance items, seconds) on cloth diapers and bought 2 dozen fitteds, LOTS of prefolds, covers, and snappis.  Since I’d bought the line that babies were expensive, I figured I’d do cloth and save myself a few bucks . . . along with giving my baby’s bottom a more comfortable ride.

I pre-washed them, stacked them in their assigned bin, and waited for my home water birth (which I’d been paying for out of pocket- $$$=better birth?) to commence and conclude satisfactorily so that I could finally use my round crib with 16 piece bedding and those perfectly fluffed cloth diapers which I’d so lovingly prepared.

My life was epically derailed as I failed to progress through a long labor.  We ended up in the hospital, and my baby’s first experience in life was not on my triumphantly heaving chest covered in afterbirth, but on a neonatal resuscitation platform out of my view.  The next week introduced sugar water into his diet long before his first attempt to nurse.

The pacifiers at the hospital were plugged into his mouth over and over again as the NICU nurses called my room and waited with little patience as I made my way to that wing hobbling around an episiotomy which has forever changed the landscape of my cervix and pelvic floor.

The nurses briefly, and by rote showed us how to bathe our son, how to change disposable diapers, and asked repeatedly about whether or not we would circumcise (NO!).  It took weeks to build up the courage to snap that first cloth diaper on my son, and I’d like to say we never went back . . . but I’d be lying.  We were hooked on disposables, regimented into the use of pacifiers, and scared to do any one thing differently from the Nurse Mandate of Infant Care.

The crib that was never slept in . . .

But my hippie-mom tendencies (which I credit to being an intuitively-led person), fought their way to the surface:  It started with cosleeping.  I found nursing so much easier, and there that gorgeous crib was gathering dust.  I could have used the [WARNING: Thrifty moms avert your eyes!] $600 on something else.  The breast pump and all those bottles I bought — I thought I needed them for some reason, but I read a lot of breastfeeding books during the pregnancy and worked really hard with Bailey to have a successful and exclusive nursing relationship and thus didn’t need or use bottles.  They would have been useful, had I gone back to work.

Then my midwife suggested “E.C.” to me which blasted the disposable vs. cloth debate right out of the water.  At five months, right after introduction of solids (Never doing that again!  Child-led solids for the next kid!) Bailey developed severe food allergies which really made me aware of food content: additives, preservatives, and unrecognizable concoctions.  As a nursing mom, I had to go on an elimination diet to make sure my milk was safe for Bailey.  Cooking at home every day, I’ve come to appreciate local farmer’s markets, organic produce, and quality instead of run-of-the-mill.

I guess those hormones got the better of me, and I snowballed into the land of the hippie.  I stopped buying paper towels and replaced them with cloth.  Instead of chemical cleaning products, I use spray bottles with 50% water and 50% white vinegar (great for E.C. accidents on the carpet).  We only bought disposable diapers a total of 10 times before we quit cold turkey.  We replaced them with plenty of inexpensive padded training pants, which are easier to take off in a hurry anyways.

All wrapped up.

I can use a simple piece of fabric to wrap my baby onto my body, replacing all of the following equipment: strollers, car seat as a carrying device (only the 5-50 lb convertibles from now on), bouncer, excersaucer, walker (which all should be banned anyways), tummy time mats (because wearing in a sling is the kind of stimulation tummy time is artificially replacing), shopping cart covers, child leashes and more.  5 yards of Osnaberg fabric and a little sewing know-how can make something that can replace hundreds of dollars of equipment: a woven wrap.

Something about motherhood awoke in me a fierce desire to live in an ecologically sustainable manner, to be clever with the resources at hand, and to depend on as little as possible.  I’ve still got a lot to learn from moms like the author of Raising Them Green and sites like The Green parent, but buying things used from garage sales or consignment is more fun than buying new.

I’m having a really good time, getting less and less wasteful, and working toward a lifestyle that will teach my child that the world around us is valuable, not disposable . . . and that we are the stewards of the world around us, just as we are the stewards of our own bodies.

So, what about that myth that babies are expensive?  I’ve discovered that they really aren’t.  You’ve probably already got what you need to nurture that baby in exactly the way he or she needs . . . all those extra things are just specialized tools that might be nice in one situation or another.  All a baby needs is a wealth of love, respect, and your personal time.

Only if you live by the creed that “time is money” should you find that babies are expensive.  In that way, our children represent the wealth of our future — and instead of pushing them aside, we should cherish every fleeting moment with them (as I try to remind myself while waiting out another toddler tantrum).

Take a moment and tell me what you do to make your life more green!  Share some tips and tricks because every little bit counts.  *clears throat* . . . and I was also wondering if anyone happens to want a round crib plus bedding?  I’ll trade you for something!  Offers . . . ?

My hips percuss the air, my ankles flexing, my knees bent and pumping like pistons.  My arms are up, fingers and forearms curved and flowing.  I am standing straighter than I do in life — shoulders square, my chin up, my eyes bright, and the corners of my lips curling up of their own accord.

It’s actually quite hard to know where to begin on this topic.  We’ll start with the term.  “Babywearing” refers to carrying a baby on your body with a soft fabric construct of some sort.   I have seen a small protest to the use of the term “babywearing” as an objectification of the infant as a piece of clothing, but in general, when people talk about babywearing, they’re talking about a very special type of close nurturing which doesn’t require the constant occupation of your arms and hands.  In short, babywearing is a lifesaver.

As a non-babywearing culture, we are inundated with images of strollers, bouncers, playpens, and other devices to help us be more effective parents and to keep our little ones neatly contained.  All of these things can be useful each in their own way, but I have never found a tool that could match one soft cloth baby sling.

Bouncers, swings, and rocking cradles were all made to take advantage of the nature of babies to be soothed by rhythmic motion.  Newborns are used to being the beat of their mother’s heart and the bounce of her step lulling them to sleep and keeping them company at every moment as it did in the womb.  Sustenance was never far, being cold was a foreign concept, and mother’s voice resonated from a close source.  Even after birth, the most soothing rhytm to a baby is the exact tempo of an adult walk.

In our culture, we expect our young to get the memo:  As soon as you’re born, to prove you’re a “good baby” you shouldn’t cry, you shouldn’t mind being put down anywhere for any amount of time, conform to eating and sleeping schedules, and generally not make a fuss. The general consensus in our society is that a “good baby” is one who doesn’t demand attention.  I have many objections to this definition of a “good” baby, one being that it sets up tough criteria which creates a lot of stress for parents and caregivers and can harm the bond between mother and baby.

To expect these things from an infant is like rowing a boat upstream against the current, instead of letting the stream guide you along.  If we’re talking about evidence based practices, we would all be breastfed, worn close to the body, and have our needs met immediately.  Biologically speaking, human babies are categorized as “carried young.”

Imagine you’re the mother of an infant.  You’re a pretty normal woman adjusting to the role of motherhood.  Your baby doesn’t want to sleep all the way through the night, so you’ve started using formula right before bed to get her to stay down for (you hope) more than 4 hours at a time.  She has a beautiful crib in her own nursery next to your bedroom.  You love taking her out in her stroller to walk around the park.  A lof of the time, you end up holding her and pushing the stroller with one hand.  She just loves to snuggle and never seems as relaxed as when you’re holding her . . . which makes you worry a lot about spoiling her.  She also wants to nurse a lot, and you worry you’re not making enough milk.

One day something happens: A hurricane, a tsunami, an earthquake, flood, terrorist attack, or simply getting lost and stranded in a snowstorm on a holiday road trip.  This event, whatever it may be, is the test of your lifetime.  It could happen.  It has happened.  For whatever reason, you are left to your own devices.  Cars run out of gas, entire sections of the country have been cut off by flood waters, electricity becomes a fond memory, and keeping yourself and your baby alive become the number one concern.

You can’t push a stroller if the sidewalks are cracked and trembling with aftershocks.  Your first instinct is to grab your baby and hold her tight.  Your instinct is right.  Strollers also won’t make it as you wade through chest-high flood waters contaminated by sewage.  If you need your hands free to climb wreckage, grasp someone else’s hand, or to carry what few possessions you could rescue . . . you could sure use a sling to carry your baby.  In the aftermath of Katrina, there was a massive call for baby slings and carriers for the moms living in shelters or mucking out their homes.

When something happens, you want your child as close to you as possible, and soft fabric carriers are the best solution.  If you’re lucky enough to still be breastfeeding, the scarcity of potable water is no threat to your baby, and the closeness of a sling helps the breastfeeding dyad: the closer the baby is, the more she suckles, and the more milk you make–especially important in stressful situations which would otherwise threaten your supply.  Having your baby high and tight on your front, back, or hip facilitates their safety, your ability to nurture while still going about your every activity . . . even going to the bathroom if you don’t have anyone you trust with your baby, or a clean place to set her down.

I watched an episode of television about people who’d gone through things that would have killed most others.  In this episode, a husband, a wife, and a breastfeeding infant got lost and stranded in the snow.  They had very little food, and their gas ran out, leaving them with no heat.  They forged onward with the guidance of a map, but soon succumbed to thirst, hunger, and hypothermia.  In order to keep their baby with them, they bundled him up and zipped him into a garment bag which they dragged behind them.

If only they had come from a babywearing culture, they might have inserted him into the deepest layer of the mother’s clothing, closing her outer jacket as much as possible over them both, perhaps even tying him tighter with a scarf.  This would have held their baby securely and warmly as the skin on an adult torso actually adjusts specifically to the temperature needs of an infant in close contact.  Instead, as a natural defense mechanism against the cold, the child went into a near coma state, all his blood receding from his extremities to preserve his vital organs.  She was also very lucky she was breastfeeding because her body’s ability to rally and provide food for her infant was amazing, even in extreme crisis, thirst, starvation, and cold.

They all survived, but it was a near thing.  If they’d known some basic survival tips (like ALWAYS keep your feet dry), they could have saved some fingers and toes also.  The baby was dehydrated, recovered well once he got warm, and had VERY bad diaper rash.  (Now if that family had been practicing Natural Infant Hygiene, they could have possibly avoided that rash also . . .)

I’m not telling you this because I want to scare you.  Instead, think of the human body as a beautiful, amazing thing which is built to survive and determined to preserve the lives of our children.  Human infants are supposed to be carried young.  If we look at other mammals, we will see that they either cache or carry their young.  The mammals that cache their young, meaning leave them for longer stretches of time, have a very high fat content to their milk, designed to sustain their infants for the duration of their absence.  Human milk has a lower fat content, and our infants are specifically built to digest it quickly and nurse frequently, thus being in constant or near-constant contact with their mother.

So, you’ve been hit by some natural disaster and lost your home.  You arrive at the nearest shelter on foot, your arms past the point of aching.  A haggard crowd forms around you, all of you headed toward the nearest safe point.  A woman with a baby tied on her back with a colorful cloth carrier (like a backpack with long straps) taps you on the shoulder, and you nearly stumble from the shock of contact.  She has something for you.  She takes the length of fabric with two rings on the end and shows you how to thread it and hold your baby upright in a tummy to tummy position.

She gently asks you if you breastfeed or if you need formula and bottles for the baby soon.  You say you’re nursing.  She shows you how to latch the baby and nurse in the sling, leaving your hands free.  She takes care to spread the fabric over your shoulder and evenly on your back, her hands smoothing down your aching muscles, her tone confident and calm.  For the first time in hours, you let your arms lower, the muscles screaming in relief and protest.  Your baby quietly falls asleep within minutes and stays quiet as you check in with Red Cross.

The woman with a baby on her back moves through the crowd, finding mothers with babies, handing out various soft cloth carriers, some with four ties coming off a rectangle, some just pieces of cloth, long and short, until her backpack sags empty.  You realize she didn’t bring anything else, and you packed some non-perishables in your diaper bag.  She smiles really big, bouncing her babe on her lap, as you approach and offer your food, and for the first time in a long time, you feel like things will be alright.

In the weeks that follow, you use the sling almost every moment of every day.  You find that your baby nurses a lot, and sometimes you look down to realize you latched her on.  You stop worrying so much about spoiling her because she just seems so happy, especially compared to the babies in the shelter who aren’t worn in a sling.  Those babies cry all the time, and you’re the one who gets compliments on your baby being “so good” . . . Your milk supply must be doing more than enough because she gets so full she falls asleep.  You offered her a bottle once (someone had donated formula and bottles to the shelter), but she didn’t show very much interest.

When getting food, or new sheets, or using the bathroom, you don’t need to set her down or hand her off.  She sleeps peacefully through most of your activities, and you’re able to line up and fill out paperwork for assistance and recovery without juggling the baby.

So, let’s go back to our earlier definition of a good baby and explore that a little further.  In America the following points are considered good traits in infants:

• doesn’t cry
• doesn’t cry or fuss if put down
• falls asleep alone
• sleeps through the night
• eats on a convenient schedule
• doesn’t demand close contact

Let us suppose that you have a child who fits the definition of a “good” baby per the above criteria, and he has a cousin who does NOT fit into any of the above criteria.  Let’s call them Charles (“good” baby) and Chandler (not “good” baby).  Since you’re probably all tired of the catastrophic scenarios, let’s go back in time with Charles and Chandler.  Let’s go back to the American pioneer days when it was more likely to hear wolves howling than the sound of your neighbor’s voice.

There was no formula, there were no plastics, no car seats, no electricity, and definitely no strollers.  Both Charles and Chandler have mothers who were taught how to hold their babies on their bodies with large square shawls, just like all the women in their family did all the way back to the Welsh farmstead.  They birthed alone, or with the help of their oldest daughters.  They worked as hard, or harder than the men.

These two sisters lived in close proximity, only a day’s full travel away from one another.  They gave birth to their boys within weeks.  Charles seems like a very affable lad.  He doesn’t demand to suckle.  He makes no fuss to be put down.  Charles has many older siblings who share the tasks around the home.  Since he makes no fuss to be separated from his mother, she hands him to an older sister in order to do housework.  Several hours pass, and his mother notices she’s engorged with milk.

She calls for the baby and scolds the older daughter for not calling if Charles was hungry.  Charles nurses a bit, and doesn’t seem interested.  His mother takes a good look at him and tries to latch him again.  He turns his cheek.  She puts the shawl around her shoulder, longer on the left, wraps it around him and tucks it so he’s held snugly to her chest.  She tries to offer the breast often, but he arches and makes a fuss if forced, so she stops pushing.

As mindful as she is of her baby, she has a large work load, and Charles is often handed off to the older girls.  The weeks go by, and Charles doesn’t seem to be plumping up like her other babies did.  He doesn’t scream or fuss.  One day, the older girls set him on a blanket in the sun, sit around him and braid flowers into crowns.  One of their siblings cries out in surprise nearby.  He found something strange, come look!  The older girls get up and tell the youngest little girl to stay with the baby, and they all run off.  The little girl edges further and further away from the blanket, eyes intent on whatever is obscured by the crowd of older siblings.

The “good” baby doesn’t seem to mind being left alone, the sun beats down on his vulnerable body.  At this point, nature sees an opportunity to further the cycle of the food chain.  It could be a sneaky coyote, a rattler scared by the baby’s kick, or simple heatstroke.  Charles is the perfect candidate for reunion with the earth.  He hasn’t suckled much or for very long, diminishing his mother’s milk supply.  He is failing to thrive, not gaining proper amounts of weight.

If he had at least the inclination to cry if left alone, the littlest girl could go back to him and see the danger.  She could pick him up or call for help.

Let us turn our attention to Chandler who lives a full day’s travel to the west.  His mother also has older siblings, and likewise works hard.  She carries him in his shawl constantly because he screams his head off if he’s put down.  This close proximity makes breastfeeding easy, including comfort suckling which increases his mother’s milk supply and helps keep her period at bay.  This is the best kind of birth control women have available other than abstinence.

Chandler sleeps with his mother, nursing quietly and peacefully several times at night.  Both mother and baby sleep very well, the nursing sessions blending into the night.  Throughout the day, Chandler is wrapped in his shawl on his mother’s front, or her back, depending on the kind of work she needs to do.  The motion of her walk, her voice, the rhythm of her arms she works, all these things sooth Chandler.  He will tolerate playing with an older sibling for a short amount of time, but will start looking for his mother after a little while.  If he is alone, he cries until someone picks him up and comforts him.  He doesn’t like being on the ground alone; That seems dangerous to him.

Chandler loves to be held by his mother, to have easy access to nursing, and to feel her tickle him or stroke his back as he falls asleep while she moves around.  He sometimes goes through growth spurts which make him hungry every hour, and his mother sometimes ties the shawl so she can nurse him and work with her hands at the same time, perhaps cooking or sewing.  He cries and fusses often, but nursing usually makes it better . . . so the family hears one or two frustrated cries before he’s put to the breast.

This way, Chandler can tell his mother if he’s cold, hot, hungry, tired, dirty, or uncomfortable in any way.  Without hardly thinking about it, his seasoned mother pats him, nurses him,  cleans him up, rubs his belly or back to help with gas, and he is kept happy and healthy.  He soon grows plump and never gets sick.

So, what do Charles and Chandler have to do with you?  You’ve got electricity.  You can choose not to breastfeed.  You can use strollers, cribs, bouncers, pacifiers, and anything you want do.  I fully support you in your choices as a parent.  You’re the one in charge.  You are the person who determines the type of life you want to live based on your values.  I don’t doubt for a moment that you love your child . . . because I am a mother, and I know that kind of love.  It’s wonderful.

I wanted to take the time to share how my love is expressed for my child.  I love my baby every day by living as naturally as possible, practicing the kind of parenting that allows my child to thrive best in tune with his evolutionary programming, and maintaining certain practices which could preserve his life in the event of a catastrophe.  My parenting is sustainable, green, streamlined, and easy in many ways.

Given a situation in which I did not have access to disposable diapers, or washers to clean cloth diapers, we would still do just fine with Natural Infant Hygiene (EC).  If you take away electricity and clean water from a tap, I could still breastfeed my son . . . even if I had to take in contaminated water and suffer through the diarrhea, my breast milk would still be the perfect food for my baby.  As long as I can find a piece of cloth (tablecloth, bedsheets, etc.), I can nurture my baby hands free and on the go.

“Babywearing” is a lot of things to a lot of people.  It is a closeness and a bond which helps breastfeeding, a convenience for a mother or caretaker, a safe space for a baby, and in many women’s lives all over the world, it’s just how things are done.  Babywearing is a useful skill to have, everyday or in an emergency, and it will not “spoil” your child simply because your baby is built to be carried and will thrive best held close to you.

Sometimes it’s as simple as the fact that I slipped and fell twice on the ice this winter.  Both times my son was on my back and didn’t touch the ground.  If he’d been in my arms, I could have dropped him as my reflex to catch myself flung my arms out.  I could have fallen onto him.  He could have been hurt badly, but riding safely on my back, he was merely jolted and surprised.

Finally, a last note on the benefits of babywearing (reproduced with author’s permission), in response to the question “Do you remember the moment you fell in love with babywearing?”:

Do you remember THE moment?

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For me it was when the girls came home from the NICU (at 4lbs each) and for the first time I realized I had to keep them happy and our 16 month old entertained. What a huge job! I had bought a Moby, but hadn’t done much with it so I took it out and popped both girls into it. All of a sudden I could keep them happy (and close to me) and make lunch for Colin, color, entertain – all the things I couldn’t do otherwise!

But I have to say that the moment that I will always remember was when I realized that wrapping saved Teagan’s life (and no, I’m not being melodramatic.) She was 3 months old and had been home from the hospital for a month with her sister. That night I had been feeding her and she didn’t seem hungry, but was very fussy. So I wrapped her (something that had always calmed her before.) Still she was crying. Then I heard it – a slight wheezing when she took a breath. I didn’t think too much of it and went downstairs with her still wrapped.DH came in from mowing the lawn and I told him about the fussiness and wheezing and we called the NICU to talk to our favorite nurse and ask for advice.

She heard Teagan wheeze (I put the phone up to Teagan’s face) and told us to bring her in immediately. We brought her to the ER where she was diagnosed with Group B Step Bacterial Meningitis. (It was a form of group B that she had picked up somewhere other than birth since if it had been birth related it would have shown up much sooner.) This particular form of Meningitis is very deadly and very fast. By the time we got her to the hospital they told us if we had waited another half an hour she would have had major brain damage – another hour and she would have been dead. We spent 3 weeks in the hospital with her (DH and I rotated time at the hossy 24-7 for those 3 weeks.) I was nursing Meg and pumping for Teagan or vice versa, so it was challenging to say the least.

Now, I can honestly say that I wouldn’t have thought much of the fussiness if it hadn’t been for wrapping. Since I knew she was comforted by that and when she continued being fussy even wrapped, that was the first clue something was wrong. The symptoms for Meningitis are very vague in babies – refusing to eat and fussiness. So wrapping definitely did save her life. Today she’s completely healthy (they had warned about all sorts of wonderful complications that could arise from bacterial meningitis – not the least of which was brain damage, joint damage and hearing loss).

So that’s what I think of when I look at my stash. How wonderful it is to be able to hold your baby so close and really get to know them. It was another few months before I found the wonderful world of woven wraps, but my Moby did the job just fine.

Oh – and Teagan is now the one who gets SO excited when a new wrap arrives! She always runs over to the box and says “a new wrap – for ME??!!” Meg doesn’t let me wrap her much anymore, but Teagan still loves it.

I love my son.  Bailey teaches me more than I could possibly teach him, and every day is one full of wonder and discovery.

My son happens to be severely allergic to many different foods.  We keep him away from his allergens as much as possible, and I exclude those items from my diet in order to make sure that the breast milk he receives from me is safe for him.  Despite these challenges, he is a healthy and strong boy.

Yesterday was the first day of the new year, and my husband baked us a carrot cake with raisins.  We had both read the ingredient list on the cake mix box multiple times to make sure.  My husband worked his magic, and put it in the oven.  When the timer went off, I was so excited, I didn’t even let it cool for very long before turning it over onto a plate and cutting it into smaller wedges, the hot cake clinging to my knife.  I ate a few slices (delicious!), and started to share tiny bits with Bailey who was sitting on my lap.

I fed him bits about the size of my pinkie tip, and he refused the fourth little serving as I aimed it at his mouth.  I immediately asked him, “What?  What’s wrong?”  My beautiful boy pointed at the plate full of cake and very seriously pantomined scratching his face.

Before we knew what Bailey was allergic to, he suffered from allergen induced facial eczema that made strangers recoil in shock and disgust.  My lovely child’s most frequent social interaction with anyone outside the family was, “OH!  What’s wrong with his FACE?!”  Even after the blood test came back, and we eliminated everything from our diets, there were hidden dangers.  Playgroups were rife with snacks, the next forced dose of antihistamine in the crumbs tumbling from between drool-slathered lips, plastic baggies full of emergency room visits, and no-spill containers which invariably spilled.

Not only that, but we found that we could not trust the ingredient lists.  We had to look further down for the small print which states allergy specific information.  Entire sections of the grocery store slammed shut to our perusal.  I came to loathe the mention of “Manufactured/packed in a factory which also–” or “May contain traces of–” . . . Even worse, the products without allergy information and seemingly safe ingredient lists remained a Russian roulette for our son.

So, when Bailey indicated that the cake was making his eczema come back, we immediately stopped eating, and went back to the ingredient list.  We had to hit Google to finally find the culprit.  Apparently, ‘Baking Powder’ has ingredients of its own.  It was the traces of flour that Bailey noticed in time to alert us.  Like I said before, he teaches me something new every day.

Yesterday, he taught me the true importance of communication.  If it had been something worse, or a combination of his allergens in a higher concentration, we could have spent the night in the ER.  Worse, we could have lost our child to anaphylactic shock.

I spent a few moments thinking about our life and how we’ve chosen to raise our child.  Above all, I was thankful for the gift of knowledge.  We started using sign language with Bailey when he was way too young to respond, and he’s surprised us with how early he learned to sign back.  We can’t learn signs fast enough for him, especially now.  It’s wonderful to be able to communicate with an infant, and learn with him as he grows into a toddler.  He has a very large ASL vocabulary, and is working on his verbal English with about 40 (or more) words.

If we hadn’t been a signing family, he couldn’t have told us about the cake.  When we started, I just thought it was a cool thing to do, a convenience for the parent’s sake.  Now when I think of our journey, I see that Baby Sign Language is an invaluable tool which we decided to utilize because of my philosophy that we CAN communicate with our children . . . in the womb, the moment they are born, and every moment thereafter.  If I’d thought him less than able to communicate, we wouldn’t have had the opportunity to avert a disaster.

Still, the trace amounts that he ingested have opened the skin on and around the lobes of his ears, the ragged, seeping wounds a relatively minor price to pay for a really big lesson.

To be honest, I’ve never read a book by Dr. Sears or his wife.  I’m not into Attachment Parenting because the American obstetricians are now saying that you can’t spoil a baby.  I’m far from rich, and I didn’t stand in any lines to get my “official mommy badge” as an ad by Motrin insinuates.  I’m here, doing what I can because I love my son.  I’m here, doing what I do because it’s intuitive for us.  I’m doing it because it’s easy, and now I’m going to keep on going strong with my communicative and natural Parenting . . . because on the first day of 2009, my 16 month old taught me that he could save his own life.

Hug your baby close today, and welcome the new year.

Here are my requests as a pregnant woman: Above all, support me. Respect me. Allow me my dignity, my choices, and give me the benefit of your full attention.  I pledge to return these courtesies.

Support my pregnancy. Don’t voice your fears, but do encourage me to voice mine. Don’t tell me I’m too young, old, fat, skinny, rich, poor or anything else. You may tell me that I will be a great mother. You can tell me that I’m doing a great job. If you have criticisms, let them first be formed as questions and suggestions. Allow me to be in charge of my own body, my own decisions, and support my choices once I’ve made them.

Don’t tell me horror stories. Tell me joyful ones. Don’t tell me I’ll be begging for an epidural. Tell me you enjoyed yours, but that’s it. I want to hear about your experiences, and your choices, but I want to ultimately make my own. Just because you or someone you know had X, Y, or Z happen, doesn’t mean it’ll happen to me. Offer to rub my back, my shoulders, and feet. Offer to cook for me, or to take my garbage out, or to do my dishes.

Take me out to the farmer’s market for fresh produce. Cook for me, or cook with me. Take care of my older kids, if I have any. Don’t tell me I can’t eat X or Y because those alarmist fads change every year. Encourage my intuitive knowledge (especially in regards to my diet), and believe that I have my baby’s and my own best interests in mind (because assuming otherwise is insulting).

Encourage me to listen to the needs of my body and the baby within. Have faith in this natural process, and help me keep my faith in it.

Ask if I want hugs or contact. Don’t touch my body or invade my space just because you want to rub my belly. Ask first. Treat me like a physically able, healthy person . . . because I am not an invalid. Pregnant women are not weak or delicate by nature. In fact, with proper care, it is one of the strongest, physically wonderful times in our lives.

Keep inviting me out for fun things. Perhaps we won’t go bar-hopping, but I still need my friends and my social life. Ask me to go on walks, go swimming, run to the library with you, or just hang out and play games. I still want to play tabletop RPG’s. I still want to play card games or board games. I still want to watch movies and laugh until it’s hard to breathe. Keep being my friends.

Do me a favor and ask questions. I want to know what you’re curious about. I want to discuss the changes happening with me and the baby. I want to hear what you think and talk about your dreams or fears.

Love me and feel joy for me.

If I ask you to, be with me when I am in labor. If you are there for me, pay attention to my signals. Know that I might find it hard to vocalize. If you notice something is making me uncomfortable, ask me (wait until a contraction has eased) if you can help me by removing that stimulation. Be prepared to leave if I ask. Offer me comforts, but offer them one at a time, (between contractions) so that I may accept or decline with simple body language.

If you offer and I accept your touch, keep your hands firm and steady, with deeper pressure, slow and steady strokes. Quick, light touching comes across as frantic and distracting. Tell me I’m doing a good job. Avoid giving me orders, especially at the peak of a contraction when my full concentration is needed. Voice suggestions instead, and wait for me to accept. If I seem to be focusing on the pain (whimpering or making high pitched noises), tell me to think of each wave as the most interesting sensation that requires my full attention.

If a midwife or doctor wants to perform a procedure, make sure that they explain it to you along with reasons, so that you can put it into simpler language and ask me if I understand and consent. Simply translate for me, and act as my gatekeeper.

Make eye contact with me. Deep, steady eye contact is sometimes all a woman needs to get over one cresting rush of a contraction. If I want it, hold my hands and look into my eyes. Encourage me to change positions. Again, offer one suggestion at a time, and don’t rush me. Suggest that I stand, or kneel, or squat. Suggest I sway my hips while hanging onto your shoulders. Put on belly dance music and shimmy your hips for me. Tell me I can work that baby down and out. Ask if I want to dance.

If I say, “I give up! I can’t do this! NOO!” say “YES! That’s what we want to hear! When women say that, it means the baby is coming soon. You’re in transition! That’s wonderful! It won’t be much longer.”

Respect my wishes at the moment. If I didn’t want an epidural, then I decide the pain is too much . . . help me into a warm pool of water, help me move, let me try different positions, ask me to endure 5 more contractions, trying different things all the while, then when the 5 are over, ask me again. Tell me I’ve done such a beautiful job, that I’m so strong, that I handled those 5 SO WELL, and ask me if I’d like to try another 5 contractions before asking for pain relief.

Don’t remind me what I said before I went into labor. That doesn’t matter any more. That person doesn’t exist. The creature I am during labor doesn’t give a rat’s behind what the left brain thought it wanted. Do your utmost to support me, and if I ask for pain medications after all of those efforts, and all your encouragement, make sure you’re looking into my eyes as I tell you what I want. If I have to get intervention that I didn’t necessarily want in the first place, praise my efforts and my choice.

“You were in a lot of pain, and it was distracting you from your real work. Now you can rest, and you’re going to open up really wide and have this baby. You did all the hard work, and you’re making the right decision for YOU.”

Likewise, if I choose to have NO pain medications, let me labor! If I have to say no to a procedure more than once, and you ask until I give in, you’re abusing me while I’m powerless. Respect my wishes, and support the natural process of my labor. I would do the same for you. I would respect your choice FOR or AGAINST pain medications or other interventions.

So, for your own sake, and for the sake of others you will come in contact with, BE INFORMED. Do the research. Don’t accept the medlore, the myths, or anything JUST BECAUSE everyone does it that way. Look it up. Read books. Hit the internet.

For your own sake, and for every pregnant woman or new mother you’ll ever encounter, shed the burdens of the myths surrounding your OWN birth, or your mother’s births.
“Her/my hips were too narrow.”
“They needed to cut an episiotomy.”
“I/the baby was stuck, and nothing could have helped it.”
“The baby was just too big to come out the normal way.”

When I hear those stories, I ask a few questions, and the answers are almost always “No”:
Was she allowed to move freely during labor?
Was she given the support of one trained individual (doula, midwife) for the duration the labor?
Was she given any of the following options: multiple changes of position, equipment such as a birth pool, birth ball, birthing stool, a rope or sling to grasp and hang her weight from, acupressure, acupuncture, massage, encouragement to vocalize as needed, a comfort object or focus, mantra, any support person(s) requested, the ability to ask disturbing simulations to cease (even if it means banishing a specific doctor or nurse), etc.?
Did she or her attending physician or care provider consider birth a normal physiological event?
Was she allowed to progress normally, and let to push when she felt like it, and HOW she felt she should?

If I ask you to be there for me during labor and birth, give me all the benefits of an unimpeded labor and birth. Fight for my right to listen to my intuitive self and birth as I know how. Even if I doubt myself, reassure me. Have faith in my body, and know that I would do the same for you. I would do everything in my power to aid you.

Value me and my baby over hospital policy. Value me and my baby over schedules. Value us more than cultural norms. I would do the same for you. Tell me to scream and moan if you want, but guide me toward low, open moans, deep noises and grunts. Watch the tension of my mouth, and suggest things to relax it. Make me laugh, smile, or suggest I make out with my husband/partner. These things will relax my mouth and likewise relax my perineum.

Have faith that I can open wide without tearing. Know that it is a normal physical event for a baby to pass down the birth canal, twisting and wiggling and changing positions, and for my hips to widen, my perineum to dilate and efface (use the words “open” and “flower” and “bloom” and “relaxing” and “widening”) without any tearing or cutting.

When the baby is coming, let me be in an upright position or laying fully on my side. Help me avoid being flat on my back or even reclining on my back, because those positions narrow the pelvic opening. Turn the temperature up and dim the lights for me (and let me know what you’re doing as you’re doing it, and why). Shush people. I don’t want anyone to yell or scream at me at ANY point. Let it be quiet, let everyone be still. Let my baby come down, crown, and suggest I touch my emerging baby’s head. Let me feel every sensation. Catch my baby or help me catch the baby, but do everything slowly and with calm. It is not an emergency. The baby does not need to be separated from me. There’s no rush. Don’t even rush me to pick the baby up, or do anything. Again, don’t give orders.

Whatever I need to do, feel, or process . . . just let us do it. Don’t cut the cord. It’s still serving a purpose. Don’t touch the baby unless I want you to. Let me pick up my slimy baby and look at her. Let me shake and shiver and press her against my bare belly and chest. Let her take her first breath, but don’t jab things in her throat and nose. The mucus clears by itself. It really does. Wrap us in a blanket, and let me savor the moment.

Start cleaning up quietly, and only take the baby for weighing and other things when I’m ready to let her go. Take care of me, and offer a warm bath for mom and baby. Offer food, drink. Get us off to a good start with breastfeeding, and let the placenta deliver itself. Treat the blood, the cord, and the placenta with respect, and ask what I would like done with them.

Always offer more support, and if you’re no longer needed, say you’re coming back to help again soon, and depart quietly. Be available. Teach me how to latch the baby on the nipple, and talk to me about the benefits of ecological breastfeeding (including natural infertility). Teach me how to give her the benefits of skin to skin contact. Teach me how to use a sling or carrier, so I can have an easier transition into motherhood. Teach me the difference between Natural Infant Hygiene, cloth diapering, and disposable diapering. Teach me about baby sign language. Teach me the difference between family bed, co-sleeping, and crib sleeping. Teach me about the “fourth trimester”, and not to listen to people who urge me to let her cry it out.

Teach me to listen to my intuition when it comes to my health and the baby’s health. When I feel like something is wrong, go to the doctor’s and don’t take no for an answer. When I feel that something is right and good for us, let me make that decision and praise me for my assurance.

Give me resources. Give me education. GIVE ME CHOICES, and respect the choices I make. I pledge to do the same for you.

Before I was a mother, I was a student, a philosopher, and above all a self-motivated learner. As early as junior high, I was contemplating the meaning of our existence and searching for a universal connection between all people.

I wondered what my true purpose was. I wondered how we could know anything, especially each other. How could we bridge that abyssal gap between one human mind and soul and another? I was convinced that we could never know any empirical experience besides our own, each individual an isolated island.

These questions, the conversations of philosophers, and my own contemplations were shelved as I fell in love, graduated college, married, and became mired in the bog of a 40 hour a week obligation.

When I found out I was pregnant, I was overcome with feelings of love and responsibility so enormous that they threatened to crush my beating heart. I still cannot describe the combination of joy, exaltation, and sheer terror that overcame me, filled all the empty spaces of me, and overflowed.

The most apt comparison I can think of is to what The Romantics called The Sublime: that feeling inspired by the majesty and vastness of nature, filling you will awe while giving you a sense of how small you are in it.

My baby was an amazing gift of insight for me. I was a vessel of life. I felt as if I had a mission, a passion, and a true and irrefutable connection to the universe and to Creation itself. A part of Perfection and Spirit and the Universe was busy multiplying itself in my abdomen! The loneliness and monotony of life as a working adult just melted away, and I began to research.

In a cascade of breathtaking revelations, my knowledge about pregnancy and birth bloomed. I was not content with skirting the edges of knowledge and accepting the bare minimum summarized in those What-To-Expect books. I dug deeper.

I did not expect it, but when I found Birth, I fell in love.

I watched videos, read books, and scoured the internet. Overwhelmingly, people are disconnected from their bodies and taught to be in absolute terror of birth. I began to realize that women have no idea the miracles which reside in their own bodies. Whatever cause to which you attribute these wonders, evolution or design, if you find the research, you will be amazed.

The pregnant woman has super powers. When I was pregnant, my senses were more alert. I could tell by scent what food was good for me and my baby and what wasn’t. I was more emotional but also more alert to dangers and comforts. As I watched my body swell and change, I thought to myself, I am a shapeshifter!

How little knowledge and faith most people have in this miraculous process. My reading led me to believe that ultrasounds were over-used and entirely too liberally interpreted, not to mention that the studies on high frequency sound suggested that they could be harmful, rupturing cells and possibly disturbing the growth of the fetus. Based on a lack of conclusive research, I refused a routine ultrasound.

The nurse was aghast. She stuttered that it was necessary. I asked her why. She stated that they needed to check the gestational size and age of the baby so that they could get an accurate due date. If the baby was determined late, they would induce.

I told her I didn’t believe in routine induction. She looked further horrified, and said to me, “Well, THAT could lead to a dead baby!” Offended, I asked for my medical information to be copied so that I could switch care providers. She made sure I knew that she was telling the doctor that I refused the ultrasound AND the internal exam.

When a fetus has fully developed lungs, he or she releases a chemical into the shared bloodstream, and this begins the cascade of hormones which lead to labor. When I found that out, I was amazed and awed. Then I wondered why so many babies were being scheduled and induced.

How little faith do we have in our own bodies that we let others manipulate us into interventions and treatments that we have never researched ourselves? How have we come to trust that our bodies will fail us? Furthermore, how has this system come to exist in which professionals providing care to a pregnant women often feel it necessary to threaten her with the death of her baby should she not cooperate?

My spirituality and love of the Universe and all that resides within was conceived with my son, but my true faith in the Great Universe was born in adversity. For every revelation, there was a backlash. For every choice I made which supported our optimal health, there was a social stigma.

I didn’t want medications to dull the sensations of birth because if you medicate the burn in a runner’s muscles, you steal his runner’s high. If you numb his legs, his gait will become sloppy, and he will injure his ankles.

I wanted to climb the mountain of childbirth with my senses wild and enhanced. I wanted to feel everything and open wide for my child to enter the world, without chemicals in our blood, without harsh lights, sounds, and scents.

I loved myself and my baby, and I had to fight tooth and nail for what I decided was best for us based on our research and revelations. I left traditional OB care and found a midwife willing to support me, and kept reading, kept watch those grainy videos of home births, and studying that moment of exaltation on a woman’s face after she has borne a baby of her body and her will alone.

That expression, I thought, is the expression of someone meeting God.

Since the first moment I held my baby, my faith in this Universe has been affirmed and reaffirmed daily. Every discovery, every sensation, and every new revelation has generated a momentum akin to a locomotive. Every natural thing about us is perfect and beautiful. If we could truly discern the whispering voice of intuition and see these wonders within and around us, we would weep with joy.

The composition of breast milk is absolutely perfect, changing moment to moment to support the growth of a healthy baby. Breast milk fights off infections, containing a million white blood cells in each drop, has a different composition if your baby is premature or ill, and is consistently what nourishes babies in the rest of the world until the average age of 4 years. Between 4 to 7 years of age, the human immune system fully matures.

Breastfeeding obviates the need for artificial pacifiers, and creates a very strong bond, releasing the love hormone in both mother and baby. Breast milk is a living manifestation of love in a very literal sense.

We know babies are meant to be carried. Our milk resembles that of animals which carry their babies on their bodies, with lower concentrations of fat compared to mammals, like wolves, which leave their babies for long periods of time. Our newborns have thicker, denser fat on their backs which is meant to keep heat in and protect them as they are held against us.

The most soothing motion to a baby is the average tempo of an adult walk. The way newborns curl their legs when lifted up is a flawless adaptation to their need to be consistently close on an adult body. Babies move and shift with us, as we walk, so in-arms or in-sling time counts as tummy time, building core strength.

Those who are held or worn cry less, receive more vestibular stimulation, often sit up earlier, and are more social, more engaged with the world as active participants, and are able to learn from their safe and high vantage point.

The temperature of the skin of an adult torso adjusts perfectly to warm a baby, performing better than plastic incubators, especially in the case of premature babies. You might have heard of Kangaroo Care. Premature babies experience less apnea if stimulated by the sound and feel of adult breathing, and the skin to skin contact is an unquestionable boon to a breastfeeding relationship.

Newborns are aware and able to communicate about their elimination needs. Around the world, diapers are a foreign idea, and millions of families sleep together in the same bed as the newest addition to their families and wake up in an unsoiled bed. We Western mothers are calling it Natural Infant Hygiene, Infant Potty Training, and Elimination Communication, but it is just a natural part of life we’ve forgotten.

Starting with pregnancy and birth, I could go on and on with these wonderful affirmations of nature’s plan. I am filled to the brim with them, and this knowledge sings in every cell of my body.

Everything and everyone in the Universe fits into this miraculous scheme. There are no missing pieces. There are no isolated occurrences. I never need to look at another human being and feel a mental chasm open between us.

I used to question why we are here. That question is no longer important to me. This journey I undertook with and for my son has led me to believe that we are under no obligations other than to simply exist. I now know deep in my heart that Existence is Love. There are no beginnings and no endings. There is only change.

I used to search in vain for a one universal thing that could bridge the gaps between our islands. Now I realize that the space that separates us is an illusion, a mere thought-construct. We are all born, and we all die.

Our society shies away from both of these universal events and treats them with fear. The more faith we have, the more knowledge we acquire, the less we try to control both birth and death.

Birth and death are inevitable. There is nothing that needs to be done to save a woman or baby having a normal pregnancy and a normal, physiological birth. Trying to interfere and control the process merely complicates and endangers both the mother and child.

I wish to believe the same of death, for when it comes for me, I do not want to be afraid.

The cycle which connected me, connects every living being. I was born and have given life. My fellow human being was also once cradled in the womb, was born, and will also experience the change of death.

Through my pregnancy and birth, I found the Universal.

Through my son, I found an enduring faith.