I’ve heard childbirth described as “painful.” I think that this offers no more insight into birth than chocolate could be comprehended by use of the word “delicious.” Both are judgments, not descriptions.

There are women who have pain-free births. There are women who don’t like chocolate. I am not one of them.  If you want someone to tell you “Birthis peaceful.” or, “Your body will open like a flower.” I suggest that you stop reading now.

Analogies are often the best way to grasp the unknown. I offer two; the first is making love. Do you remember the very first time you made love? Were you scared? Did you know what to do and expect before you started?Birthis like making love. Even if you’ve never done or seen it before, you know how. Your body teaches you along the way. It tells you clearly and immediately what works and what doesn’t. Just as one would not want to forgo the joy and pleasure of making love because of fear of discomfort and pain of losing ones virginity so too is it a loss to numb oneself to the full experience of birth. Just as a baby can be conceived through making love, sex, or rape; so too can a baby be born. Feeling respected, supported and loved makes a huge difference.

My second analogy is a bowel movement. A very big bowel movement. I know, it’s not what you want to hear but how could it be anything different? Before having children, I had the misfortunate experience of seeing a home movie filmed from the rear end of a woman who gave birth on all fours. Her anus literally went from an “innie” to an “outie.” Then and there, I promised myself that I would never give birth in that position. When my time came (I stayed upright, thank you.) the actual experience felt even stronger than the visual had hinted.  It felt like I was passing the biggest BM ever. I was so grateful to be in an upright kneeling position; not because of anal shyness (I was shameless) but because I’m certain that it would have been physically impossible to get that baby out without the leverage that it afforded. Imagine attempting to have a BM on your back, with masked doctors and nurses around you, your legs up in the air and bright lights shining down between them. Sound fun? If not, don’t assume the position.

I’ve had three babies, two by Cesarean and one by natural birth. The Cesareans sucked. Though I didn’t feel pain during the procedure, the surgeries were miserable and the recoveries awful. Natural birth rocked my world. It hurt more than I thought possible. I fought to keep control of myself, to be strong enough to do it, to not break. It was only when I when I surrendered that the most remarkable thing happened. The pain disappeared. It was replaced by the most beautiful and sensual experience I have ever experienced. Pleasure greater than any I had ever known took its place. If I could bottle the feeling, compress it into pill form, it would be the most addictive drug on the planet.

“Is birth painful?” You want to know.  That answer is easy because we all understand pain. We have experienced it. Yes.Birthhurts. It’s the pleasure that’s impossible to share with you. I have no words to describe it. There are no comparables. I crave it with desire that’s greater than my need for chocolate, sex or fine wine.

There is power that comes to women when they give birth. They don’t ask for it, it simply invades them. Accumulates like clouds on the horizon and passes through, carrying the child with it. – Sheryl Feldman

“Doesn’t it hurt?” Avram, age 10, chimes in.

I don’t know how to answer them. From the moment I first knew I was pregnant, I believed my children to be perfect, just the way they were. Leaving them intact was an obvious decision. As to the pain, I imagine that circumcision would hurt but, not having a penis of my own, I’m really not sure. The acrobats Jonah is performing with his look painful to me but he’s obviously pleased with the results.

What I choose to believe is that we all make the very best choices that we can and nobody sets out to cause their newborn pain or interfere with his relationship with god (Jewish people believe that circumcision is a covenant with g-d.) While here in America, 75% of our boys are circumcised; in Canada 30% are and in Europe only 10%. On the other side of the world, in Northern Africa and parts of the Middle East, female circumcision is practiced. The possibility that I will grow to acceptance and understanding of female circumcision is about as likely as my developing a taste for monkey’s brains or grasshoppers or that Indians will decide to grind their holy cows into hamburgers. My point is that much of what we do is the result of our culture and habit. It takes an unusual and empowered sort of person to stand up to the norm, to taste the grasshoppers.

Norms around our children are especially difficult to question. It’s a terrifying thing being a parent, taking responsibility for an entire life. We don’t want to screw it up. Doctors, experts and the rest of the herd help relieve some of the pressure on our grey matter; they make us a little more confident in the impossible-to-get-perfect-job of parenting. Who among us doesn’t screw it up sometimes?  The only one thing I am truly certain of is that we all must support each other choosing our own path. So, even though I’m not down with circumcision, recent news of the written attack on blogger Jill Powley Haskins whose son died after his circumcision (not necessarily related but used as an opportunity by “intactavists” to forward their agenda) makes me really, really mad.

Reading back over Jill’s blog, there is no doubt that she is a responsible and loving mother. In the beginning, it was sweet and innocent: recipes and cute pictures of her children but the blog morphs into something dark when, in the beginning of an already difficult pregnancy, Jill learns that hers will be a “heart baby.” she does not quit blogging but fiercely revels herself through her entire journey. Three days ago, her shortest post reads simply. “His heart has stopped. Chest compressions and a room full of doctors.”

Then the hate-posts (Now removed from Jill’s blog.  They can be viewed at Navelgazing Midwife)  began coming  in:

“she got exactly what she deserved. If every baby who was mutilated died, it might put a stop to the practice. This so-called tragedy is good publicity for outlawing genital mutilation. I hope she feels guilty for the rest of her miserable life & my sympathy for her is ZERO.”

“They didn’t care. It was more important that his penis be cut up than he live.”

“That poor poor baby…those stupid stupid parents…..WTF is wrong with people?”

“The doctors are trying to feed them the lie that the circumcision didn’t kill their son. This is why, even though it doesn’t seem ‘compassionate,’ people need to let’er rip on her. No, people should not be silent and ‘compassionate.’ While everyone is feeling sorry for the mother, what about the child?”

I never wanted Birth Rite to be a baby blog or another place to debate other people’s choices. Yet here I am writing about circumcision. LOL. Life doesn’t always turn out as planned. Sometimes we must step out of the box. Sometimes our babies die. All we can do is support and accept each others choices. Without this basic trust in humanity, we cannot help but become the oppressors that we fight so hard against.

Labor is no different than any other bodily function. If a woman feels fear or embarrassment, adrenalin is released. Adrenalin slows labor creating the “need” for interventions which, in turn, lead to increased adrenalin and further interventions. I don’t know about you, but being naked under florescent lights is enough to scare and embarrass me. I must have been full of adrenaline because both of my hospital labors were painfully  s. . . l. . . o . . .w.

To make matters worse, I didn’t like my doctor. The feeling was mutual. She didn’t like me either. Think of the most repulsive person you can. Now imagine being naked and vulnerable in front of her. Does your body instinctively want to shrink and cover itself?  Again, it’s no different with birth. I wanted to be nowhere near my doctor. Every time she came into the room, my contractions slowed from two minutes apart to six or seven, rendering it physically impossible for me to give birth.

My best friend from junior high school, Stella, now an accomplished herbalist and doula says that putting a woman on her back with her legs up in the air, shining bright lights on her and surrounding her with masked strangers while expecting her to relax enough to birth a baby is about as logical as expecting a man to ejaculate under the same circumstances.

“Luckily” for me, when adrenalin flooded my body bringing labor to a stand-still and will-alone wouldn’t compel birth, the doctor was able to cut my baby out by Cesarean. But I can’t help but wonder: if I had been in a comfortable environment with people I liked, would I have been able to give birth naturally?

It was only when we asked what caused a woman to suffer when she gives birth that we began to see it was her FEAR that made her fight and tighten up, lock herself into the vicious circle: the more pain, the more fear; the more fear, the more pain.

- Frederick Leboyer

“Travis and I have decided to give birth in a hospital” my sister Sarah told me. “I hope that’s OK with you?”

With my sister Sarah and her beautiful pregnant belly

This question annoys me. It demonstrates exactly what is wrong with our maternal healthcare system. Pregnant women are disempowered. They are passive and docile and allow others to make decisions for them.

“Ok with me!?” I replied. “It’s your body. Don’t ask anyone for permission to use it as you see fit.”

I can think of no other occurrence where otherwise powerful and independent women blindly turn control of their bodies over to another person. As a home birth advocate, I have no more business telling my sister what she “should” do with her body than a doctor does which is to say that neither of us do. All we can do is offer opinions.

I am not anti-western medicine. Obstetricians are necessary and important; they can cut or pull babies out in emergencies. But they do not actually “deliver” them. God, Goddess, science, the divine- whatever you choose to call it delivers your baby to you. It is your responsibility and privilege to deliver your baby to the world. Women are the rock-stars. Obstetricians are back-up dancers.

There is only one person who knows how to give birth to your baby. That person is you. The only thing you have to do is pay attention. Just as when your body needs nourishment, you feel hunger and when you need sleep, your eyes grow heavy, so too will your marvelous and all-knowing body teach you how to give birth. Our bodies have been giving birth since the beginning of time. 490,000 other women will give birth with you on the day you give birth.

Sarah, Travis and Drake

My sister had her drug-free, vaginal hospital birth. And it did empower her; I know because she says that next time she’s going to have a home birth.

My nephew Drake

I never doubted that I would give birth without drugs; I certainly didn’t imagine that I would beg for them. Like many of my other birth plans, I was wrong. My body never opened like a flower. I didn’t calmly breathe my baby down. I forgot the music and candles. I screamed like a rhinoceros. I begged for drugs. I have no doubt that, had I been in a hospital, I would have been given them. Having a drug-free birth in a hospital is like dieting in a candy store, it can be done. But I wouldn’t recommend it.

Knowing the midwife didn’t have “real” drugs, I screamed “Advil” They brought ice chips. If I knew how, I would have explained to that ice chips are no substitute for drugs. Instead I pushed handfuls of it into my mouth, chewing and swallowing and shoveling all at once. It cascaded down my body, over the floor, into the tub, some of it made its way down my throat.

But the need for drugs passed quickly and the power I gained by giving birth without drugs will stay with me forever. I gave birth. I can do anything is etched in the fiber of my being. It lifts my chin when I would feel inadequacy; it propels me forward when the path ahead is turbulent; it holds my soul when I look in the mirror and do not like what I see.

This I know about myself: my own personal discipline lies in not bringing chocolate into my house to begin with, in never shopping when I’m hungry or going to a hospital to give birth.

I, with a deeper instinct, choose a midwife who compels my strength, who makes enormous demands on me, who does not doubt my courage, or my toughness, who does not believe me naïve or innocent, who has the courage to treat me like a woman.

~Anaïs Nin  (just slightly edited)

If I were an obstetrician I would LOVE the new app from Airstrip OB, the one that promises the ability to “be there from anywhere.” Just imagine – I could monitor multiple women in labor while home with my kids, taking a walk or cooking dinner. No mess. No fuss. I could stay away from labor and delivery until it’s time to cut or catch. The appeal is undeniably irresistible – just think of the freedom!

But will it last? Will this game-changing app provide overworked obstetricians (96 hour workweeks are not uncommon) reasonable working hours? LOL – no! OB’s work hours were determined long ago, back in the days when they handled a quarter of the patients that they do today. Freedom-promising technology never delivers for obstetricians. This app, like ultrasounds, electronic fetal monitoring and Cytotec will allow administrators to pile higher patient-loads onto every OB. By “freeing them” from labor and delivery, OBs will be forced to manage twice as many patients resulting in twice the stress for OBs and twice the profits for administrators.

How many mothers-to-be can one obstetrician connect with in a year? How many faces and stories and plans and hopes and dreams can she remember and connect to? That’s how many patients an obstetrician should manage. Not. One. More. Without this connection, mothers-to-be are nothing more than cogs in the machine.

Since my most profound healing: the exquisite natural birth of my daughter Dalia, the pain rarely surfaces. It’s been replaced with a beautiful ten-year old boy. But, every once in a while, a new layer unveils itself and I find myself in tears again. I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s like the incision; it’s always there, a thick band crossing my core.

Today the tears came as I watched a short interview with Dr. Fredrick Leboyer, a French obstetrician who revolutionized birth with the epic claim that newborns babies are cognizant. Before him, it was though that babies cried not because they were in distress but because they needed to expand their lungs; that they could not see or hear properly; that they were not aware, that they did not feel.

While today, it seems incredible that we were ever so oblivious, Leboyer did not stop with newborns, he says that babies in utero are also aware. They understand and feel what the mother understands and feels and they respond to what the mother asks.

In the video, Dr. Leboyer, gives the secret to getting a woman’s cervix to open. He says “Now I am going to tell you a very beautiful story. Very difficult. It cannot be understood but it’s a fact. During labor it happens at times that the opening of the cervix stops, meaning to say labor is not progressing anymore. . . . It is for the woman to talk to the child and tell the child “’Now come out; pull yourself together. Be brave. Leave me.’ And the child understands when there is no language yet. So it is a communication from heart to heart which bypasses language.”

I wonder, has anyone else tried this? Could it really be so simple? Could it be that the ranting and raving, the walking and squatting, the Pitocin and herbs and the Cesarean were unnecessary? I said a thousand things during labor but never once did I try talking to my partner in the dance: my son.

Dr Frederick Leboyer

There is no way out of the experience except through it, because it is not really your experience at all but the baby’s.Your body is the child’s instrument of birth. -Penelope Leach

Turns out I was an idiot. Not about labor being painful, it was. I was an idiot to think that bed would be a good place to labor. How was I supposed to know that the horizontal weight of my body would increase the pain? That it would press sideways, constricting blood vessels and disempowering contractions? I might as well have attempted to eat without opening my mouth or see without cracking my eyelids.  My body became its own worst enemy. Like a beached whale, I craved the freedom that a vertical position offered, one that utilized gravity to my advantage.

The hard way, I learned:

• The birth canal is not a hole. It’s a long and twisted tunnel.
• The baby literally has to bend, flex and turn forty-five degrees twice to maneuver through the birth canal.
• Lying prone closes the pelvis by up to 30% making it 30% more difficult to give birth.

Watch this wonderful animation to better understand how a  baby maneuvers through the birth canal. Unfortunately, the mother’s pelvis appears fixed so you’ll just have to imagine the relief movement would afford it.

“Every [hospital] intervention is a lesson in who really owns your body and your baby’s body.”                – Jock Doubleday

Sensible and responsible women do not want to vote.  The relative positions to be assumed by man and woman in the working out of our civilization were assigned long ago by a higher intelligence than ours.  ~Grover Cleveland, 1905

Language is important. Words create reality or at least, herstory. While each of us feels we are the center of the universe, the sun does not actually rise and fall around us; our planet rotates. And, though most people don’t think that god has a penis, she’s generally referred to as a “he.”

Language nuances matter. They define our roles in relation to the events of our life and, in doing so, define us. I choose to avoid words like “need” or “have to” because they imply that I’ve no personal power. With the exception of bodily functions, it’s rare that I “have to” do anything? I choose to go to work on time, not because I “have to” but because I don’t want to loose my job, not because I “need” it but because I like having a home and food and a closet full of fabulous boots. Besides, it’s just as easy to say “I’m going to go to work” as “I need to go to work.” The former keeps me in charge while the later turns me into a victim.

I believe that the language our culture uses in relation to health-care is a contributing factor to our rapidly declining health. Take, for example, the word “patient.” Its definitions include: “bearing or enduring pain, difficulty, provocation or annoyance with calmness” and “one who suffers.” Forget that! I’ve no desire to be a patient – ever! I prefer the term “client” which means “the party for which professional services are rendered” or “one that depends on the protection of another.”

More subtle, but just as insidious is the phrase “As long as the doctor says its ok.” I’ve been the recipient of this one more times than I can remember. It is, in my not-so-humble-opinion, crazy-making. The only person with god-given authority to make health-care decisions is the one who must live with the consequences for the rest of her life: the client. Don’t misunderstand; I appreciate and respect doctor’s expertise. I seek out their opinions and take them into consideration when I decide what to do with my body.

It is not my intent to suggest that we take influence away from doctors but rather, that we put responsibility back on ourselves. When it comes down to it, we are each responsible for our own health, for what we put in our bodies, the exercise we do (or don’t) do and the health-care decisions we make. Doctors are human. They make mistakes. This doesn’t make them less important to our health and well-being; it makes each of us more important.

Medical errors kill as many as 98,000 people a year. “If the Centers for Disease Control were to include preventable medical errors as a category, these conclusions would make it the sixth leading cause of death in America” – American Association for Justice

Having grown up under my father’s care, I’m unfamiliar with womanly ways. Most of my friends are guys. I’ve been groomed to prefer action over feelings. Girly things, from high heels to lipstick, fail to entice me. But conditioning is no match for nature. Despite my masculine tendencies, I am all woman: primal hormones pump through my body, demanding motherhood.

I focus all of my attention on the goal: my baby. In the background, I hear people say that birth is painful. I dismiss them, rationalizing that women have been doing it since the beginning of time, how hard can it be? To me, birth is no more than the means to a baby.

Besides, I’m pretty tough. At least, that’s what I think. Then labor pains reduce me to a moaning, unintelligible statistic. Like one in three pregnancies, mine ends by Cesarean, a painful, violent, and degrading experience.

Though grateful to have a healthy baby boy, I dissolve into a puddle of tears daily. Replaying the birth again and again, “If only” becomes the skipping CD in my mind. If only I had tried harder, if only I had gone to a different hospital, if only I had made a birth plan. . . I detest this voice in my head but cannot stop it. It will not be ignored, rationalized, or ranted away. Long after my physical scars heal, I am still emotionally broken. Logically, I conclude that if a Cesarean has done this to me, a real birth will fix me.

The doctor says my hips are too small to birth a baby. Refusing to submit, I turn to alternative healers, who offer an abundance of snake oils, each holding out the promise of hope. Without reserve, I try every one: from drinking frog extract (sweet and thick), to enduring the manual relocation of my liver (ouch) and the psychic removal of a knife from my side (?!), to—horror of horrors—giving up chocolate, and more. If someone is selling, I buy. I commit myself to the battle of birth.

When my second labor begins, I know that I will prevail. I give my all, believing that my unyielding willpower will ensure success. But in the end, after a day and a half of labor, it is not my resolve that fails; it’s my uterus, which has torn a hole in itself—a physical demonstration of my inadequacy as a woman.

People bring gifts: balloons, flowers, and congratulations. I lift the corners of my mouth into a smile. I will not complain. I am thankful for what I have. The violation of my body is an acceptable price to pay for a healthy baby. If the doctors hadn’t intervened, I would be dead. Now I know that I am not strong enough to bring life into this world, not good enough. I am unworthy of procreation. I am an actor playing the role of a woman.

I want this to be the end of it. I am happy with my two boys. There is no reason to hope that I could birth naturally. But, when I find myself pregnant for a third time, I’m tempted to try. Even though the doctors want to cut me, even though the odds against me are outrageous, my spirit insists that birth is something I must do, a rite of passage. I do not want to be tied down and cut open without a fight. For the sake of my self-worth, regardless of how it ends, I need to be able to look myself in the mirror and know that I tried.

Even believing it to be futile, I ask midwife Laura Roe to help me birth my baby. I tell her that I am determined and strong. Laura, bearer of ancient women’s wisdom, can see through my bravado. Reflected in her eyes, for the first time I glimpse the mangled mass of fear cowering inside my tough-guy armor. While I would prefer to ignore it, Laura insists that fear, by its very nature, only grows larger when abandoned. She knows that I do not need to give birth in order to prove myself, but rather that I need to become a woman in order to give birth. As my belly grows, Laura asks me to do something I have never done: to listen to my heart’s voice and welcome vulnerability.

That is how I arrive here, inside a tub of blood-tinged water in my own home. I am begging for drugs. Laura brings ice chips. If I could remember how to talk, I would explain that ice chips are no substitute for drugs, but consonants have left me. Only vowels scream from my body: Ooooooeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaa! As, deep inside, my flesh rips, I face my own irrelevance. Birth is happening through me, in spite of me, and with complete disregard for my being. I see Death in the corner, grinning gleefully, waiting to see what will become of what was once my body, and is now nothing more than Creation’s obstacle. When I cannot bear it any longer, when control leaves me, muddying the birth tub with shit, I know all is lost. I cannot do it. I am not enough. I surrender, a crazed, screaming madwoman.

Only then does the Divine come, taking my body for her own. As strong as the pain was before, now there is pleasure. Infinity becomes tangible as generations of children, their dreams, defeat, and glory, all pass through me. I experience completeness. I find religion. The future is here, between my thighs, a beautiful, shining ball covered in thick, black hair. She whooshes out. Bobbing face down in the water is a shiny, blue-and -purple merbaby.
First contact is mine by right. I reach for my baby and, instinctively, do what every uninterrupted mother since the beginning of time has done; I cradle her to my left side, to my heart, where the first sound she hears is the steady and familiar beat of home. She is, slippery like a dolphin, and oh so soft.

This is how I learn that true power comes not from overcoming, but through surrendering to what is greater than one’s self. Though I understand the inclination of the fearful to plan birth, to pick the exact time and day, to hide their vagina and make labor a sterile and planned event, to drug the violence away, I know that doing so denies us our greatest moment, our partnership with creation. I share my story in the hope that it inspires others to reach towards their pain, to walk through the unknown and join me in taking back our birthright.