There and Back Again

The Hopeless Wanderer




I almost wrote a "retraction piece"a few months ago.  I giggle typing that, like my writing is some important article in The Times.  I wrote my vbac blog post,  Intellect and Eve, feeling very strong and empowered.  Then something happened.  My op report came in on my previous sections and in the large print it said "primary classical"  in the small print, it dictated almost every move the delivering doctor made, which was basically this... "low transverse cut was made with a knife, then a low vertical cut was made which was extended superiorly with the bandage scissors." WTF.  He basically cut across my uterus (normal) then when he couldn't get Warren out (which I've been told multiple times now by multiple birth professionals, is idiotic) He cut upward from the middle of the horizontal line.  When that still didn't work, he extended the cut... how much is in question, but he labeled it "classical" and that's where my hopes and dreams seemed to die.


My doctor (one of two in the most VBAC friendly practice in my area) said, "so we won't be talking about vbac's anymore".  Then she went back to looking at her stupid lap-top and was talking to me about other things which I barely heard until she said this, "I'd like to deliver at 36 weeks."  Alarms went off in my head. Uh, no.  I had already been through this... I had fought and clawed for 38 weeks with my third (post special scar baby) and no one was ripping this kid out of my womb at 36 weeks.  I said, "Dr. G-C, 36 weeks really makes me uncomfortable.  That is just way too early for me.  Even my baby sectioned at 38 weeks ended up in the NICU for a week because he wasn't ready."   She suddenly looked up from her lap-top as if remembering that there was an actual person there and said, "Well, we will play it by ear and see if we can get you to 38."

I went to my car, called my husband and cried again.  Then I told myself to get rid of Eve and use some intellect.  I kept telling myself that all week.  But something weird was happening.  My intellect kept telling me to listen to Eve.  By the end of one week I had decided that I wasn't going to schedule a section.  I would wait for labor, labor at home as long as possible and then go in and either have a section (if that's what I felt was needed) or have my husband block the door and VBAC this kid.  I almost wanted the hospital to get rowdy, call the police, call social services... I wanted to fight them all.  Fight them for every women like me and take all their big insurance checks.

I told my husband what I was thinking.  "Ok." he said, "But, I thought you wanted to do some research on your scar before making this decision.  You know... get your old scar ultra-sound, talk to the perinatoligist that told you that your scar was strong and thick, see if he knows if it really is a classical."
 "You know what?," I answered, "I don't even think I care what kind of scar I have or how long it is." 
"Oh, I didn't know you felt that way about it."
"I didn't either."
Then, I thought I lost him.  I thought my partner in crime had jumped on his horse and high-tailed it out of there.

But when he came home that night (or the next, or the one after that... he works so much I don't know when I see him).  He was still on board.  He is such a all-star. He still got it, got me, got the importance of all of this.

The next thing I did was tell a few (a very, very few) number of friends my plans.  One of them, told me about her homebirth midwife, Laurice, and that I should meet with her. And we did.  Outside her office David and I once again got into a domestic disturbance over my terrible parallel parking but inside he was again my champion.  I remember listening to him speak to the midwife thinking, "Didn't we almost have the police called on us over my parking spot?".  But regardless I just didn't click with Laurice and when it came down to it, she just didn't seem supportive of a homebirth with me.  Instead she kept steering me towards an OB she works with, Dr. K, and kept telling me that my C-section would go best with him.  In my head, I wanted to scream, "I'm not looking for a good C-section surgeon!  All of these clowns are proficient with a knife! I am looking for someone who is not scared of BIRTH!" And so we left, with the name of a new OB and not much else. 

I did go meet with Dr. K, and he (as I suspected) was not vbac supportive for me, but I wasn't vbac supportive for him either.  He was completely weird and I wouldn't trust him with a vaginal swab.  But, the guy did say he was comfortable waiting until labor to do the C-section, which is all I really needed from a doctor at that point anyway.  Since I was going to labor at home as long as possible and try to show up at the hospital so far along that either 1) they would just let me proceed with a vbac or 2) I would have to fight but it wouldn't be as long of a fight.  A doctor who would wait until labor provided me with the opportunity to try this as opposed to the ones who would schedule waaaaaay before labor had a chance to begin.

I shared my plans on a FB support group that I belong to.  It's called "special scars - special women".  It's basically a group of C-section moms who have weird scars on their uteruses which gives insurance companies and hospitals and excuse to phase them out of the medical model for vbac'ing.  There something life-changing happened. I was starting to ask the group about "unassisted birth".  You see, if I was going to labor at home, what if I did so well the baby just came out? But before I could completely fall down that vortex, Sarah, a member from Indiana, contacted me and told me that she knew of a highly experienced homebirth midwife that had done vbac's on all kind of scars.  She was not located in my city, however, but I was still interested.  Sarah gave me her name and number and I was excited to call her and scared at the same time.  Hearing "no" so often was not a fun thing.

But I called.  The next morning around 10 am, with shaky hands and a shaky voice, I called the number.  The phone rang... "Hello, this is Anne!" a voice said.  I was a little shocked to be immediately in contact and it derailed my thought process a bit.  "Uhh hh, Hi! My name is Leah..." I began.  I felt like I was sending out a signal, like - "Help me Obi One Kanobi, your my only hope!." Then the words started to come.  I told her that I was looking for someone to help me birth and I had three things against me.  #1 I was already 32 weeks pregnant, due August 1st, and she may not be able to fit me into her calendar.  Her answer - Let me check my schedule... Ok, we are busy but we can make it work. #2 I am in a different city and I don't know if it is too far away? Her answer - We have some options that you could stay in to birth #3 Ok, This is the tricky one that has thrown me out of every place possible... I have had one vaginal birth and 2 C-sections.  One of the sections is a t-scar with a possible classical extension.  Would you be willing to work with that?  I just need someone who can see that I can do this and help me do it. Her answer, and one of the most important answers of my life - There is a lot of fear surrounding vbac's, but when I started delivering babies, classical section vbac's were all I saw.  I have a lot of experience and we fully believe in the body's ability to heal...

Then she started to tell me more about herself and I suddenly felt like she was reassuring me instead of me trying to reassure every other doctor or midwife I had met.  On the phone she exuded confidence without sounding rash or cocky.  She told me that she new her limitations and that we would know if something wasn't going right.  My biggest impression from her on the phone... no fear.

She made a consultation appointment for me the following week.  We hung up, some tears of relief rolled down my cheeks, and I called my husband.  He was busy at work but excited for us.  I told him my appointment was next Wednesday at 3, and would he be able to come?  He said absolutely and I knew we were finally on our way somewhere.

June 5, 2013 - Meeting The Midwife



Wednesday, we packed the kids in the car, except for James because he had final exams, and started the trip to Anne.  It took us about 1.5 hours with some traffic.  Not too bad.  We pulled into the parking lot at Anne's office and to my kid's delight, an Amish horse and buggy pulled right in.  We all got out of the car and walked up the path.  I noticed the Amish and Mennonite husbands sitting outside or sleeping in cars, so I told my husband to wait outside with the kids while I checked in.  I went inside and there were 2 or 3 Amish women already waiting.  I checked in with the women at the desk.  She said that they were running behind so I went back outside and told my husband to keep playing with the kids and I'd call him in when Anne was ready for us. 

Back inside and looking around the waiting room, I was fascinated by the posters about natural herbs and cloth diapers.  There was antique wooden furniture and pictures of happy little Amish kids.  There was also a collection of antique medical equipment.  As I looked around, I locked eyes with an Amish women about my age.  She was pretty and plain, and as she smiled a shy but warm smile at me, her peaches and cream complexion was completely broken by a set of horrible teeth.  But there we were smiling at each other, crossing the boundaries of community and culture, looking into each other's eyes and being present with each other.  We were both there for some undeniable commonalities: our births, our babies, and our womanhood.

The woman behind the desk, and the other women working there were not plain people.  They did, for the most part, have an earthiness about them that I found fun.  Then Anne came out and I almost fell off my chair.  The women looked like an attorney... stylish clothing, smart glasses.  She's going to have a damn lap-top, I thought.  I called my husband and kids in and we went back to an "exam room" that was more like a living room with a random exam table against one wall.  There were really cool wooden toys that my kids immediately took to, and in the world of angry birds and Nintendo DS, this amazed me.  My husband, Anne, and another midwife, Greta all took chairs while I sat center stage on the table.

They sat expectantly, allowing me to speak first.  I told them my birth history, I told them the ease of James's vaginal birth and also the realized disappointment of it.  That the doctor was irritated with a teenage girl giving birth, that they just railroaded me into meds, and at the end had no patience or input for my pain or inexperience during pushing and cut a nasty episiotomy to get him out faster.  Then came Warren and David's births, the cesarean sections. The breech they wouldn't let me birth and cut a T scar when he was so descended he got stuck in the section.  Then the rcs I had when I thought I had no option.  The nicu stays, the sick newborns struggling to nurse, my own sadness and anger over it all.  The midwives listened and understood, and when I said I could do it they believed me and easily took me on as a patient.

We left Anne's office and before we even got to the car the tears were coming agian.  David pulled me into his arms and said, "I know, I know, she was awesome."

June - August 2013 - The Waiting

I had prenatal appointments with Anne every two weeks at this point.  I loved driving down to see her and the other midwives and assistants.  It was such a comforting, calm place and I would leave feeling more and more normal and confident every time.  Anne would often ask me, "How are you feeling about your vbac?" I told her honestly, "I feel... comfortable." I wasn't overly confident but I didn't have much fear, I honestly just felt comfortable, like everything fit.  Anne said that that was a perfect feeling.

At the end of June, we went to the beach for a week and Anne gave me a bunch of books to read from her library.  I loved them.  I sat on the beach in the early mornings reading about greek Chronos and Kairos, staring at the open ocean and feeling the timelessness of my baby in my womb.



on the beach...

When we got home, it was early July and I was 36 weeks pregnant, the time I would have been sectioned.  It was such a scary thought.  I realized that I thought sectioning at 36 weeks sounded crazier and more dangerous than driving 1.5 hrs to deliver with a midwife. I felt strong and very much at peace.

The weeks went on and I kept busy with regular appointments with Anne and weekly appointments with a prenatal chiropractor.  I also kept busy with my kids... swimming, parks, movies, whatever I could do.  I had been seeing a close "shadow care" OB for emergency convenience and dropped him at 38 weeks feeling he was just an annoyance. 

40 weeks came and went, and I started to get the annoying post-date comments and questions.  David got a txt from his sister (childless of course) asking what was up with me and informing him that inductions are supposed to happen at 41 weeks.  Oi Vey! If you are going to spout off where you don't belong at least have the correct info.  I mean even Kate Middleton had just gone a week late in her very famous pregnancy.  I saw Anne for a regular appointment at 40 weeks 3 days.  I told her about all the stupid comments and questions. She casually and happily said, "You go as long as it takes!"  I smiled at her.

August 12th - The Birthday

At 1 am, at 41 weeks and 1 day, I woke up with a contraction.  David was next to me in bed watching TV and after the second contraction, I let him know that it might be time.  We timed contractions for an hour and they were 10 min apart and about 50 seconds long.  I called Anne around 2 am, and she told us to start heading down.  I took a quick shower while David packed the car, then we woke up James and told him we were leaving.  We gave him instructions to call his grandparents in the morning to come get him and his brothers.  Then we headed out. 

We passed the hospital that I would have delivered at only 3 blocks from our house.  David joked sarcastically, "There's the hospital! We could just pull in. It would be a lot easier!"  I laughed, "It might be closer, but it's definately not easier!".  We grinned at each other and the big bright hospital faded in the distance.

On the way down we stopped at Walmart for snacks and drinks so we arrived at our place around 5 am.  There we were met by Tessa, one of the midwife apprentices, she showed us to our room and helped me unpack. She listened to the baby and checked my cervix.  Baby sounded happy but my cervix was too high to even feel! Tessa emphasized to me that I was very soft and that was good.

Tessa told us to try and get some sleep, so David and I climbed into bed. I couldn't sleep well through the contractions so I got up and sat on the sofa.  Tessa sat with me and kept me company while David caught some zzzzz's.  As time past she noticed that my contractions were getting tougher for me and spaced closer together, so she started to rub my back during them.  Around 10 am she checked me again and told me again that I was very soft, but didn't offer a dilation number.  I knew that must mean I wasn't very dilated but they only wanted to offer me positive information unless I asked for more, which I didn't. I wasn't at a hospital, so I wasn't worried about being on anyone's timeline.  As long as the baby and I were doing well, I knew they would allow my body to do what it needed.

Around the same time as my 2nd cervical check, David woke up and took over rubbing my back during contractions which were becoming increasingly more painful and closer together.  I tried a couple of positions to labor in which definitely helped keep my mind sane.  At one point I was laboring laying down on my left side because I was tired from little sleep.  Tessa checked his heart rate (which she was doing every 30 min at this point) and said it sounded a little slow and that he probably didn't like the position I was in.  So she got me up and sitting on a birthing ball.  His heart beat immediately went back up. "Amazing", I thought.  What if I was in a hospital, lying there with an epidural and his heart beat dropped?  No one would causally say, "Oh, jeeze, he's not digging this laying down stuff you're doing.  Let's get up and get on a ball."  They can't get you up on a damn ball or really up at all!  What would they be left to do but start talking about sections!

At noon I told David to go out and get some lunch.  He was reluctant but I told him better now than later.  He left and by that time Greta (Anne's 2nd in command) was there.  She had brought in another mother in labor.  That mom was put in a room somewhere upstairs but they told me that she was Amish, having her first baby, and the baby was breech. I thought about this mystery woman many times during my labor, like a kindred soul.  After all, my first section, and special scar section, was a breech baby.

Of course, as soon as David left, my labor felt even worse... then around 1 pm Greta checked me.  Again I wasn't offered a number but only given encouraging facts.  She suggested I get into the birthing tub to help with my labor as it may give me a chance to rest.  I said sure and Tessa filled up the tub.  As I was undressing I heard Greta tell Tessa that I was dilated 1/2 cm. Got that? After 12 solid hours of labor I was only 1/2 cm.  But, for some reason I didn't care, I just got in the tub.  I ended up hating the birthing tub.  This was so weird because for years I have been jealous of women who have been able to use them.  Plus I was a swimmer! This should have totally been my thing.  But it wasn't... I was uncomfortable and for some reason my labor pains felt worse.  David was back and he tried to help me thru it in the tub, but it was awkward.  Suddenly I was moaning with the pain.  Up until that point I had been a quiet laborer... just breathing away thru my contractions.  Now I was moaning and groaning.  Then I started to throw-up.  David, with his lightning fast reflexes grabbed a trash can and held it for me.  I puked, and the midwives said I should be checked again.  I wasn't excited to be checked.  I knew that throwing up was a sign of transition, but I was only a 1/2 cm last time and I didn't think there was anyway I could be transitioning.

Now it was 2pm and when Greta pulled her fingers out of me she said, "You are 5-6 cm".  My spirits totally lifted.  Literally 40 min after I had heard that I was 1/2 cm, I was 5-6! I was getting somewhere!   And that somewhere started to come fast.  Suddenly over the next hour my labor was out of control, and at one point blood leaked down my leg sending my husband into a panic.  He yelled for Tessa.  She came and calmly told us it was just "bloody show" and that because I was a vbac we should expect to see a bit more blood that usual.  Again, in some small sane part of my brain, I remembered women who had attempted vbac's in hospitals and had ended up with repeat sections because nurses and doctors has scared them saying that there was "too much blood coming out of them." I was so glad I was where I was.
The contractions were coming fast and crazy hard.  I preferred sitting on the birth ball and around 3:15, during a contraction my body pushed a little and it felt a little good.  I told David, "Tell Tessa I'm feeling 'pushy'".  He went and got her. She asked, "Are you feeling like you want to push?"  I said, "I did push a little during that last one and I think that's what I want to do now."  I can't say that I felt a strong urge to push, like you hear about... it was more like that my body just started showing me that that was what was supposed to happen.

Tessa asked me an amazing question.  "How did you picture yourself giving birth?" I knew the answer like I knew my name.  I had dreamed it, envisioned it, even drawn it.  The answer had been with me a long time.  It was in the dead stare I gave doctors, it was in my anger that I lashed like a whip at unsupportive people, it stared at me in the bright lights of the OR rooms, it surrounded me in the nicu, it lived in the happy heart of my young self, and it came with me when I was born.  The answer had been waiting a long time.

 I answered, "Squatting with my husband supporting me"  "Ok, let's get you going with that."  She said.  Now, somewhere during the last hour, Ally, another apprentice midwife had arrived. Tessa turned to Ally and said, "Call Anne and tell her she's ready".  Ally made the call and then assisted Tessa with positioning David and I for pushing.  I asked Tessa, "What do I do? Do I push now?"  She said, "If that's what you feel like you should do."  "Ok, I said." 

During my first push, Tessa felt my cervix and said "You are at 10 and baby is right there."   I barely cared what they were saying at this point.  I felt like my body was on auto-pilot and was just following along.  I kept pushing with the contractions and moaning.  The midwives kept trying to redirect my moaning to low sounds and I tried the best I could with that.  I honestly didn't feel like I was pushing very much, but they kept telling me how awesome I was doing, and that baby was moving down.  I remember pushing with James (my oldest child)  and how hard I worked, but I was in a hospital, pushing on my back with an epidural.  I think squatting and being so aware of my body and the pain made all the difference. 

David was awesome during this.  At first I was holding onto his waist and my knees were digging into his calves as I pushed.  He joked, "We don't need a hospital to birth but we might end up there later after she breaks my legs!"  Anne saved David by walking into the room with her "birthing stool".  It looks like a little foot stool with a padded toilette seat shaped sitting thing on top.  I got down on it and it was immediately relieving to most of my body and I could push in a squatting position without loosing my legs. David was behind me with a pillow that I could lean back into and he rubbed my arms and back as needed. 

I kept pushing with the contractions and I was getting better at it.  I could feel my moaning connect to the push and the efficiency of it all.  My water still hadn't broke and Tessa told my that my sack was really tough but then suddenly during a push I felt it break and the fluid came out.  It was a little green, but I was expecting that with a 41 + weeker. Tessa asked Ally to get a mirror and I knew that was a good sign.  After the next pushing session they put the mirror under me and angled it up.  "Look at your babies head" Tessa said.  David and I looked and there it was... a dark head of hair.  That was it, that's all I needed.  The next contraction started and I connected my moan with my push and suddenly I felt him slide out.  Everything next was a whirlwind.  Tessa caught him and Ally and Anne were telling me "He's here! He's here! Look at your baby! You did it!"  They put him right into my arms and I was crying with joy and amazement.  David cried along with me.  I kept telling Brody (my new baby boy) how beautiful he was and telling everyone else, "I can't believe I did it!"  The midwives kept saying things like, "You did amazing! You trusted your body and your body knew what to do." I did, didn't I? I thought.

Brody born at 3:37 pm and over 5 weeks past his would-be csection date immediately started sucking at the skin on my breast so I redirected him to my nipple and there, with his cord still attached and connected to his placenta, he latched on an nursed.  It was surreal.  I was still in shock that was sitting there, still on the birthing stool, baby in arms still connected to my body, no IV's in my arm, no drugs in body, no wounds to be stitched up.  The midwives looked so happy for me and yet so calm at the same time. It was like I was at the end of what they knew I could do all along and were happy to see me realize it. 

I had been on the birthing stool for a while at that point and the midwives wanted to get me off and in bed. The had been working with me trying to pass the placenta but I was having a hard time finding the energy.  The cord had stopped pulsing so they clamped it and had David cut it.  I gave the baby to him while the midwives helped me up and into bed.  There Anne and Tessa sat and worked with me on the placenta while Ally did Brody's newborn exam on the bed right next to me.  His first apgar score was a 9, literally the healthiest newborn I had ever birthed and his newborn exam showed him to be in perfect condition.  Then they put him on the scale and did his measurements.  He weighed in at 8 lbs, 10 ounces, 21 inches long and head circumference was 14.25 inches.  Again another amazement!  My vba2c baby was my biggest baby in every way and I didn't even tear my perineum pushing him out!

They gave the baby back to me and left us to bond.  So, we nursed and had skin to skin and happily chatted with the very proud new Dad.  I was so nice not to have nurses running in and out.  No one was trying to take my baby to a nursery or for baths or whatever unnecessary nonsense.   My new little Brody and I just laid in bed, both naked and sweaty and a little dirty and just smelled each other, listened to each other, and became secure that our bond would continue outside the womb. 



Skin to skin...

The midwives did come in every so often to check my uterus, bleeding, and blood pressure.  All was normal and by 7 pm we were "discharged" and moved to a Bed and Breakfast down the road.  The plan was to stay the night because Anne wanted us around at least 24 hours so that she could check me and the baby the next day before we made the trip home.  Plus we needed to do the state "newborn blood screen" and I am Rh- so we needed to wait for the baby's cord blood sample to come back from the lab. 

The B&B we stayed in was great.  The owners daughter had worked for Anne and came back when it was time to birth her first child. Betty, the owner, swears her daughter would have had a section in the hospital because her daughter's long labor would have been labeled as "failure to progress".  I feel like everywhere I turn I run into someone who is eager to tell me that they had been victimized by or saved from a bad hospital birth experience.  I know I am sadly not alone and that the overwhelming support I get comes from places of enlightenment instead of the fear and ignorance I get from detractors.  My husband sent out a birth announcement email to people that night in the B&B and along with some "Congrats!", got responses like, "You are lucky." (as in you are lucky to be alive) and "Glad the baby is ok." (have you ever said that to someone who just had a good birth and a healthy baby?) and some usual dramatic nonsense involving dead grandmothers that often get's thrown around.  I don't know what disappoints dead grandmothers more - natural vaginal birth or grandkids throwing their name in people's faces every time there's an issue. 

Breakfast!

The next morning Betty brought us homemade, organic, farm fresh breakfast and I ate like a champ. Anne came in the late afternoon to do our check-ups.  Brody and I are were both doing excellent and the only bad news I got was that Brody is A+ blood type and I had to get that damn Rhogam shot. After 13 hrs. of natural labor and delivery, I closed my eyes and whimpered like a little girl while the Rhogam shot was administered.  Then 27 hours after giving birth, we hugged and kissed our birth savior Anne, got in the mini-van and headed home.

Besides the midwives and attendants, there are a lot of people to thank on this journey. Some, I've known for years and some I have just met in this pregnancy.  Some people I was in regular contact with and others were a kind, informative soul in passing.  You all know who you are and I thank you deeply and with much love.  I would like to give a special shout out to my parents for their support and understanding of my birth choices even if they were a little worried and for always being willing to watch my kids during appointments 1.5 hrs away with Anne and for keeping them while I delivered.  I also want to thank the "Special Scars - Special Women" organization and the women in the support group.  I honestly would not have done this without all of their collective knowledge and support.  I thank my kids for just being themselves and my oldest, James, for trusting his parents and helping with the little ones. 

But mostly, I would like to thank my husband, David.  He was my rock, my research assistant, my mouth piece when I didn't know the words, my protector, my birth partner, and my biggest supporter.  You are a man that is one in a million and I am happy and proud to call you mine. 

I wish the world happy and safe birthing, after all - "Childbirth should be your greatest achievement not your greatest fear." (Jane Weideman)

Making Outlaws

Let's say I was out to a family dinner with my parents, brothers and their wives.  My brother kept asking people for their food and trying to give it to his 2 year.  My sister-in-law, on the other hand, was annoyed by it because she had ordered food for the baby and it was on it's way.  Let's say I grabbed a bunch of French fries (I wouldn't have... I would have already been in tune to my SIL's annoyance and there is no way I would take my brother's side, even though he is an excellent father, on anything having to do with their children.) and started to pass it down to the table to the 2 year old, and my SIL said, "No, Leah, he really doesn't need any more French fries."  My hand would have stopped.  I would have said, "Ok, no problem." The French fries would go back where they came from and I would have gone on with my dinner.

This is not what would have happened.  I wouldn't have given her a weird look back.  And when she firmly held my gaze, I would not have dared to open my big mouth and say, "Well, is he starving?" No, He isn't starving.  He is a well fed child. "Well, my brother is worried about it!"  Then when all she was left to do was roll her eyes in exasperation at 12 years of pushy in-law interfence, I wouldn't have started talking fast about her "rolling her eyes and that everyone is uncomfortable."  Seriously, none of this would have happened because I know my place as a SIL and would have stayed in it.  The French fry debate would have remained a cute, funny issue between my brother and his wife because that's where it belongs, with that couple over their child.  It's not a debate for brother, wife, and SIL.  It's my job as a SIL to stay out of it.  My job is to not add more French fries to the fire and it's certainly not my job to talk back to the mother of that child.  My job is to continue eating and act like I don't even know what's going on because I would appreciate the same if the table was turned.

Now, to be honest, I have a lot of experience at being an in-law to people.  My sister got married when I was 7, my first brother got married when I was 16, and my 2nd brother got married when I was 21.  I am used to my siblings bringing new and different personalities, view-points, and parenting styles into my family and by now I have been around these additions for a long time.  In fact, they aren't considered additions anymore, they are my true-blue family. 

How does this work?  How does one be a good in-law to someone?  Here is my basic premise:  Whenever you have the feeling that you are accepting someone into your family it is your job to make them comfortable in their new situation.  It's not a new situation for you.  You have been in your family for your entire life.  All you have to deal with is this new person, they have to deal with a whole situation.  And you do this on an individual basis, and if everyone does their part, a good relationship with the new person is established.  I have a good relationship with my brother's wife because I made it my job to make her feel safe around me.

She is safe in talking to me, confiding in me, that I won't be critical or judgmental, that I won't talk about her to other family members or tell what she says, safe in knowing that I basically know my place in her and my brother's life.  And that place is a far second, third, fourth, 20th, to her and her relationship with my brother and their children.

And this extends beyond confrontational meetings over dinner.  When I call their house or email them, I almost always ask to talk to her about things relating to their family or schedule. I don't get involved in things about my brother that are he and/or his wife's job, like pestering him about health decisions, what clothing he needs, what suit color he should buy, how much sleep he gets, or his nutrition.  At family functions or dinners I spend more time talking to SIL.   This is very natural now... we laugh and joke and share secrets, and her children see that Aunt Leah has a good, kind, loving relationship with their mother.  That is a huge point in all of this.

If my nieces and nephews were to see their mother feeling uncomfortable, stressed, and sad around me, that would be terrible.  They would grow up knowing that Aunt Leah makes Mommy sad and Daddy annoyed and that would greatly hinder my relationship with them.  What kid feels comfortable around someone hurting their mother? None.  So, also for those kids sake, I make it my job to have a good relationship with BOTH of their parents. 

My other SIL is an ex-SIL now.  Her marriage to my brother only lasted about six years, but that's ok.  It was still a very real and important relationship and I have a niece from it.  This SIL was a little more difficult for me.  She was very different from me and I had a much harder time relating to her.  Still, I tried my best.  I made it my job to know what she did and didn't like, what made her stressed, what would upset her, etc.  I didn't write her off as a "nut" and just walk around like my shit doesn't stink. Or throw down a bunch of cosmo's (or whatever lame, fake martini thing) and get confrontational.  No fucking way.  She was my brother's wife and niece's mother and that alone garnered my respect and patience, and basically my mouth remaining closed... a lot.  It was really no skin off my back.  I didn't see her that often... a day here or there on holidays or family gatherings.  I could eat my words and be friendly during that time and pay attention that I wasn't upsetting her.  It was really not hard.  It would have been harder on everyone if I just did or said what I wanted and pissed her off.   I still side with her on things and it was kind of a messy, painful divorce that might make it easy to jump on a "I hate everything she does" bandwagon.  But just read my "The Ghost of Christmas Past" blog.  That whole thing was started because I stuck up for my ex-SIL on a parenting issue.

Just like real outlaws, in-laws become outlaws  by their own actions, their own indifference, their own selfishness, and sometimes from traumatic childhood issues.  Basically the fast track to looking like a smooth criminal is to maliciously lack understanding, patience, and the ability to keep your mouth closed and give relationship space.  I don't care if you think she's a nut, she's your brother's nut and he and his kids love her.  She is paramount in his and his kid's lives, and that's that.  Don't dwell in a land of misty memories of what fun you had as children and mourn the fact that your sibling has grown older, a little different, and chose a life partner that you wouldn't.  Don't be resentful that your sibling sides with his partner or values her opinions or judgments. That's the way it should be.  If done right, the bond that your sibling creates with his wife and kids will be stronger and different than any bond he had with his siblings.  And that's ok.  That's a healthy thing.

Support your siblings relationship, whatever that means for them.  If it means your SIL likes more space and privacy then don't get involved if you haven't been asked, and do your best to make your in-law feel safe in "your" family.  That is your job and if you do it right, it will become natural.

Confirmandi

Confirmandi.  I don't know how many times I heard that word on Sunday.  It's one of those Catholic words that's kind of cool in that anceint, Latin, holy type of way and also scary for those exact same reasons.  I'm my niece's Sponsor for her Confirmation and on Sunday I had to go to Confirmation Practice with her.  Any type of Catholic sacramental practice has a lot of "you stand here" and "you sit there" and then at what time you process (are you processing by height or alphabetical order) and what hand is placed on what shoulder of each "Confirmandi".  The sponsor next to me whispered, "Which hand did she say to use?"  I answered, "Your right hand on the right shoulder. Christianity doesn't like lefties."  She smiled uncertainly at me and said, "I never thought about that before." 

This is my second time being a sponsor for a niece's confirmation.  Both times, I have felt very honored.  When you are asked to be a Godparent, you feel special to the parents.  When you are asked to be a Confirmation sponsor, you feel special to the child.  This time is Natalie, my brother's daughter.  Natalie picked Christina for her confirmation name.  When a child is confirmed in the Catholic Church, they pick a Saint whose qualities they would like to emulate, and that Saint's name becomes their confirmation name. St. Christina of Bolsena has this type of fabulous female Martyr story... 

Christina was beautiful and rich.  Her father was the governor of her town, and by the age of 11 she was so beautiful that men already wanted to marry her (creeper alert!).  Her father, however, had other ideas for his daughter and commanded that she become a pagan priestess and locked her in a tower where he set up a bunch of gold idols.  He commanded Christina to burn incense and worship before them.  At some point an angel visits Christina and instructs her in Christianity.  So, Christina smashes all the idols in the room and her father is not happy.  He has her tortured in all kinds of fun Roman ways including iron hooks, grilling by fire, placement in a furnace, torture on the wheel, assault by snakes, assailment by arrows, drowning tied to a millstone, and other assorted methods through which, as the story goes, Christina survives by her own strength of faith in God.  

These female martyrs were probably some of the first recorded feminists.  The weren't fighting for out-right gender equality, but they were persecuted all the more harshly for being women and sticking up for what they felt was important.  And these women were tortured by people they knew- their families, their towns, their local government officials.  Tough stuff.  Glad I don't have to hear about this anymore!

But then I hear their names, new names that have been etched into my memory.  Beautiful names...  Amina, Jyoti, and Rehteah.  Some from far away, third world lands, one from just north of us, in first world Canada.  And these are just a clip of the ones that have made headlines. Victims of gang-rape and persecution for displaying femininity. It seems St. Christina will never be bored in heaven.  She will constantly have a flock of female souls to comfort and attend to.

There is a Latin phrase, "Caelitus mihi vires", it means "My strength is from heaven", and this is what I imagine St. Christina to being saying to herself as she was publically humiliated and tortured by her father.  "Caelitus mihi vires", she probably whispered to herself over and over again. "Caelitus mihi vires", were probably the last words on her lips as she saw the face of God and gave herself over to Him. 

And now, over the centuries, she sees her sisters' suffering and whispers "Caelitus mihi vires" to them as they are gang raped with a lead pipe, bullied at school, stoned to death, have acid thrown on them, are sold into the sex trade, or left in a gutter as a infant to die.

I think of St. Christina and her company of souls taken too early and too harshly and I know that I have no daughters to teach, no young girls minds to shape, and no feminine virtue to protect.  But I do have sons, lots of sons, and they can be enablers of righteousness.  So, I turn to my oldest son as we are (of course) driving in the mini-van, where my children are strapped in and forced to listen to me. I decide I must talk to him about safe sex.  Not personal safe sex, but concern for the safety of others.  I talk to him about gang-rape, date-rape, intoxicated girls, how to talk to male friends about leaving drunk girls alone. I talk about what to do if you hear of someone who was date-raped.  I talk to him about what to do if he sees pictures on phones or social media. I talk to him about what to do if he is somewhere and he thinks a girl is in trouble.  At one point he asks me, "What if she is slutty and I think she's agreeing to whatever?"  I told him, "Her sexual choices do not make her less of a person or less of a victim. If you have any question about whether she knows what's she's doing, you go get help."

More parents need to have these discussions.  Daughter's get lots of talks about personal safety, but our sons don't - they get handed a condom and a pat on the back.  Most of our sons will not be rapists, but they could easily be the kid who doesn't do anything to stop it, or laughs along at the pictures, or avoids eye contact with her in the hall-way because the whole school knows what happened. Your son could easily fall into a large group of people who force St. Christina to whisper, "Caelitus mihi vires" into the heart of a broken young women.

So, tomorrow night I will be Natalie's sponsor... beautiful, smart, Natalie.  The kid who tells me that Math is her worst subject, and I commiserate until I find out that "honors math" is her worst subject.  Her parents are liberal.  My brother started a scrap-book when she was a baby full of news articles about what a dummy GW Bush is and every bad Republican policy and funny comics to go along with it all.  My sister-in-law owns a book titled something like, "So, You Married a Socialist." They are also obviously Catholic, so my dear niece is being raised with mixture of liberalism and Catholicism.  And let me tell you, from personal experience, that is not an easy place to be. 

Being a liberal and a practicing Catholic, I never seem to fit in anywhere.  In the midst of my two favorite groupings I am forever uncomfortable. But, I am generally an awkward person, so I wear uncomfortable like an old pair of sneakers. Natalie is anything but awkward, she will be strong women in whatever she believes and feels for.  And her heart is good, so no matter what she does, it will be with a good heart.  Her martyr saint, Christina, will be watching her and anytime Natalie comes across fork in the road or a large speed-bump, I hope she pulls her strength from heaven and carries on.

Tomorrow night I will walk with Natalie up the aisle with my right hand on her right shoulder and present her to the bishop, who will call her "Christina".  A good name, a strong name, and name dripping with femine ferocity and Godly strength. To Natalie and all young women and men of burgeoning principle - look out for each other, don't let fear or ridicule compromise your principles and goodness, and in your deepest moments of despair and confusion remember to say, "Caelitus mihi vires".  It's one of those Catholic phrases that's cool and scary for all the same reasons.

My Letter to Boo Radley

So, if you ready my last blog "The Final Order", you know what happened on Monday.  Well, later in the day I received a few angry emails from Boo Radley. They said things like, "Stop being a victim" and "stop being miserable and trying to bring other people down with your misery."  Yikes! Wrong things to say to me buddy.

It all started when James left his last two counseling sessions early.  The first of the two was an alone session with Boo, the counselor, and him.  He felt ganged up on by the two of them, and pressured to say that he would be open to a relationship.  He also was disgusted with Boo's conversation and answers, so he left early and called me.  The next one was just him and the counselor and James was fuming mad at the dude going into it.  He left that one even earlier, walked a few blocks away, and called me to get him. So, the counselor wrote and email to Boo and I explaining that James was angry, left early, and didn't like his wording in the evaluation he wrote to the court.

I responded back to Mr. O (the counselor), and Boo, letting them all know what James was angry about and that he would be submitting a new letter to the court again requesting no visitation.  Boo didn't respond to my email until after court on Monday, and he was full of anger.  His email, like my own, was a "reply to all", but really he was speaking to Mr. O and taking side jabs at me.  He said things like "I know where James's real anger is coming from" and "I hope you help my son realize the real reason he is angry."  That kind of stuff.  He also took issue with the fact that I had called his wife and him, the Scheindlin-Radley team.  Then came more emails to me directly telling me the victim and miserable stuff.  I told him, in response to those emails (as camly as I could) that speaking to James's mother that way would not go over well for anyone and that it didn't seem like he had learned anything from James in counseling.  I also told him that I am only miserable around strangers trying to make my kid's life hard.

I had to eat a lot of anger reading these things and I felt like I had fallen down a vortex to 1996 and was listening to a teenage douche-bag with too much facial hair having a temper-tantrum because his mom wouldn't let him go out that night with his friends in that stupid orange van.  Listen, I can be as crunchy and fun as the best of them, but I now have to fight a natural reflex to pore sugar in the gas tank of any old VW Van I see.

But, I have this blog, and here is the email I wish I could write back...

Dear Boo,

I understand your comprehension skills are under-developed.  This may be from having an over-bearing mother who has a hard time keeping her mouth shut about everything, thus leaving you in a confused state where you just don't want to listen to anything for the rest of your life.  Weirdly, the old adage is true and you married someone exactly like your mother who is willing to translate for you for the rest of her life (or until a divorce) as well as loyally pep-talk you even when you are a bad boy. 

So, I understand that having your hand slapped by the court is tough for you.  I also realize that listening to a woman (me) tell you that you have been a bad boy is not something you usually deal with.   And having a child, who you deserted, start to dislike you and then when you reappear, not immediately fall in love with your jovial cave-man disposition, is frightening.  I'm sorry that he gets his serious, hard side from me along with his ability to use logic.  You can blame me for all of his excellent personality qualities.

What you can't blame me for is your own actions.  You didn't want to have a baby that young and either did I.  But you were/are dealing with serious personality deficiencies that made you turn your back on a sweet new-born baby boy and continue to party on in that god-forsaken orange van with your team of idiots ("Woo-Hoo! Boo is so fun! Who cares if he's a deadbeat with a baby living less than a mile away.  Let's get another 6 pack!).  That baby did nothing to you and did not deserve to be ignored or forgotten in a drunken stupor.  You want to be angry at me for keeping the child, fine.  But that's where the anger should have stopped, and the care of a child should have started.

And then it was off to college 3 or 4 hours away.  It's always good to put some distance and time between yourself and your problems.  It gives you clarity, or at least the ability to get drunk more.  Then college ended, that problem was 5 or 6 years old, and his mother filed for government benefits.  Jesus Christ! (oops, I hope Joe and Sue Radley didn't hear you say that, having a dead-beat son does not hurt their Christian sensibilities, but cursing surely does). You had to drag yourself to domestic relations and look at the face of a woman you had tried to forget about as you threw up in a frat house toilette. Ah, good times, good times.  So, you fought child support saying that James had a man taking care of him (my David) so why should you have to pay anything?  You know what? You were right.  I just needed a little help and the state wasn't going to help unless you did, sorry to bring you into all of this.

Well, since I settled with you because I didn't want to fight, and you had to pay less than $100 a month for child support (something that I never had increased for 10 years even though your income went up substantially), you decided you might as well get your money's worth and see the kid every once in a while, on sporadic occasions, and usually just dump him with your parents.  But that kid already had bonded with a father, and you were a weird annoyance to his day every so often.  So, when James turned 11 he had had enough of you showing up once in a while and whatever weird activities you tried to get him to do - trying to goad him into jumping off a 9 ft. wall? Not the best activity for a naturally cautious child.  He told me he didn't want to see you or your parents anymore. 

I took the blame for James's decisions to shield him from whatever anger would come our way.  Most of it came from your parents, but that's to be expected.  So, you went away for a while and we lived peacefully for years until you got married to Judy Scheindlin and filed those court papers last July.

Well, the kid doesn't like you, doesn't need you, and doesn't want to spend time with you.  I know it's hard to imagine after years of people telling you how fun and awesome you are, that someone would not think that you are valuable.  But you let that kid bond to another man who turned out to be an excellent father.  So then James is left with two men... one who has been in and out of his life and is weirdly immature and another man - kind, responsible, smart, naturally good hearted, and sometimes a serious discipliner ... everything a kid thinks a father should be.  And this man has been in his life daily - teaching him to tie his shoes, coaching his baseball and football teams, tying his ties, giving him his baths when he was little, coming to school events, working and supporting his family.  Who the hell do you think he's going to value in his life?

I'm going to be honest here.  Your personality is so weird, immature, and selfish that this kid does not even want to have lunch with you now and then.  He's seen for himself now.  He's done the counseling with you and it has just frustrated him more about you... because it's right there, in front of him.  You're badness is smacking him right in the face.

I don't have to say anything Boo.  Your life has said more than I could ever say.  You may continue to live blissfully ignorant of this, continuously shielded by embarrassing women who ignore your bad traits and pump your ego.  That is a sad thing indeed.  Or one day, when the people you surround yourself with start to fall away, and you are left looking at yourself in the mirror, you will see what James sees.  And that will be a hard day for you.

As always,

My children's devoted mother and biggest champion

The Final Order

This morning was sunny and it was another show-down with team Sheindlin-Radley.  My kid's had off from school for Easter Monday, so I got up early (court was at 9am) got ready, drove over to my mom's and dropped off the little ones.  Then I stopped off at Starbucks and got a coffee, drove home to get James and spilled coffee all over myself in the driveway.  Classic.  I considered just leaving on the coffee outfit. Since I'm pregnant I thought everyone would over-look it, but I knew I was facing a lot of hair & makeup prep-work from Judy Sheindlin and I figured the least I could do was show up in clean clothing.

So, I went and changed and James took over his father's job and made sure I had meter change.  We parked, fed the meter and walked to the courthouse.  There was murder trial going on so there were lots of police and photographers and we felt very glamorous walking through it all.

We were about 15 min early, and my attorney never showed.   I probably should have called or emailed to make sure he remembered, but to be honest I think I didn't on purpose.  The last few times when the attorneys went in alone, I didn't like it because Boo's attorney is also his wife so I felt like they got to be everywhere while I sat outside.  This time, since I had no attorney, I was there for everything.  The "adults" went in first.  Judy really annoys me, and at the risk of sounding like the scorned, angry woman that I sometimes am, she really is a snotty-bitch.  And that would probably be fine if she was a hired cut-throat family attorney, but she's not.  She's his wife, so it all comes across wrong.  It's all "stand-by-your-man", fighting the old baby-momma who's kept her husband away from being a loving, involved father.   It stinks of female desperation to make her "man" good, or grasp at straws to believe that he's good.  All while I sit there annoyed, pregnant, and desperate for the bathroom.

James had written another letter to court, correcting a statement that his counselor had made in his "evaluation".  He also adamantly reiterated his position that he did not want visitation and would not comply with it if it was granted.  The master had lots of questions for Boo, and then would turn to me and ask how I felt about it.  At one point he asked, "How did you find the counselor?", which in the context of what he had already been discussing meant, "How did you like the counselor?" or "How did you find the counselor to be?"  Boo started to answer by explaining the logistics of an internet search.  Judy stopped him to explain what the Master meant by "find".  Boo still didn't get it and started talking about locating a counselor.  Judy has a very pretty, well preformed smile when she's embarrassed by her husband and I saw it often there, because this went on at least three times before Boo got it.

Team Sheindlin-Radley was still was adamant that they want visitation.  They said their plan was to have James on the first and third Sundays of every month.  The Master was like, "Well, what are you going to do when he sits down in the front yard and refuses to go?"  They didn't have a good answer.  The Master turned to me and asked me what I thought of it.  I told him that I thought it was a lot of weight on James's shoulders to have Boo come twice a month and try to force him to go with him.  Judy piped up that two Sundays a month should not be stressful for him, and he is just a child after all. Ahhhhhhh, Judy, you should just shut that lip-glossed mouth of yours right now.  I have 3, soon to be 4 kids, and you have none.  Don't you tell me what's stressful for my child, let alone ANY child.  If you want to tell me about your BMW maintenance schedule or how to flat-iron your hair, I'm all ears.  But don't you tell me what's up (we all know I feel about that!) with my teenager.  I was pregnant at 17, I have a new in-law mad at me on every alternating Thursday, and I am about to birth my fourth son... I eat pretty little fashionistas like you for breakfast.

So, then the Master wanted to know if we would like him to speak to James.  He said there are two options for this, one is with the attorneys present and the other is with the child alone.  I said that he should to talk to James alone because my attorney is not present and the other attorney is technically James's step-mother and that's weird (any time I can bring that up, I do, because team Sheindlin-Radley looks uncomfortable). The Master talked to James alone for a while then he brought the "adults" in and sent James back out.  He told me that he has been doing mediation for 28 years, and that James is one of the most intelligent and mature children he has ever spoken with.  After that "how did you find the counselor" situation, I think we all know where James gets his smarts from.

So, the Master wrote up a final order and I think we kind of won.  Later on, in the car, James told me that the Master told him in private that he did not want to give Boo any visitation but did not want this to have to continue in the court system.  So, he and James worked on a solution.  The solution, and final order, is that James will attend up to two counseling sessions a month.  No visitation or partial custody was awarded, and I retain full custody.  It feels kind of good.  I don't like James to be forced to do anything, but I'd rather it be counseling than visitations with Boo.

So, it ends for now... until I annoy Judy with something and she wrangles up her husband, puts on her heels, and comes for blood again.

The Red Tent

This week I felt my age and lot in life.  On Thursday I was speeding in my mini-van trying to get my hot home-made breakfast casserole to a "mother's group" on time.  I know, I know, I just said mini-van, casserole, and mother's group all in the same sentence. But this group is good for me, it's full of the type of women that I am slightly embarrassed to tell that I had never made a breakfast casserole before.  They also do daily things like praying the rosary and always seem to know what Novena is good for what.  And I nod along like, "Oh, of course you say the Novena to St. Rita of Cascia when you need personal courage!" And all this is good for me, I need a little of these women in my life.  I need to see women who handle their children's cancer, take on foster kids, and bake bread all while homeschooling like it's as easy as breathing.  And if I did say a Novena to St. Rita and actually had the courage to tell these ladies that I hadn't ever made a breakfast casserole before, they would whip out their day-planners and binders and start passing me their best organic recipes without an eye-roll.  I love it, it keeps me balanced.

Well, every group session starts with a group prayer, and every person is supposed to say out loud what they would like the group to pray for.  This part, I hate.  I am not a good group prayer person and always feel like I have to make up something important and meaningful to pray for.  But I was late this time (you know, making a casserole) and they were almost done with the group prayer.  I sat down relieved that I had missed my turn until the group leader said, "Leah, you can go now." Ugh. I asked for prayers for my husband to have an easier time with his job and then I considered making up a marriage problem or ailment but all I could think of was that I just saw another penis two days ago. So, I told them all that I had just found out that my fourth child would be a fourth boy and I would like to ask God to help me appreciate that.  Everyone nodded solemnly like I had just prayed for someone in hospice care and they closed the prayer.

Today we had a play date birthday party for my little guy.  He turned two this week.  Friends from Boston, Greg and Jess were in attendance.  Along with David's gift, Jess handed me a present as well.  After the play date party was over and the guests had left, I reached my hand inside the gift bag and pulled out a book.  I saw the woman on the cover and my heart stopped.  "The Red Tent" someone whispered in my mind.  It was me whispering from the past, 12 years ago, in college and I had just finished the book. 

I double majored in college. Gov-Law and Religion.  Most of my religion courses where taken in "Jewish Studies".  I am fascinated with Judaism and basically have had a love affair with it since the time I was 10 and picked up my first Chaim Potok fiction.  Judaism is everything I love about religion and studying it made me love and understand my own Catholicism more.  Most of my courses had to do with the Old Testament or the Jewish experience in history.  I even had one heart wrenching course on human suffering and forgiveness dealing mostly with the Holocaust and reading Elie Wiesel.  I left that class feeling shell shocked and tired and scared that there was something inside of me that I did not know.

Then I took a cross-over course dealing with women in literature, and that's where I  first saw the cover of "The Red Tent".  I was excited to read it.  I loved the biblical story of Leah and Rachel and all the sons they had and Leah's one daughter, Dinah. But "The Red Tent" turned out to be an emotional roller coaster for me and I didn't want to buy another ticket too soon.  It starts out with the story of my name-sake and continues with a fictional account of the life her only daughter, "Dinah" might have had.  Dee-nah... Dee-nah... I can hear her saying her own name.  The name is as soft as music and as powerful as a scream.  I haven't opened the book since.  I remember seeing it catch on and end up on best-seller lists, I remember noticing it in the check-out line at Target and pretending that I didn't see it. "Dee-nah" the book said to me.  "I don't know you", I said and turned away.

One of my favorite nerd authors, George Martin, in his book "A Dance with Dragons" wrote, “A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies, said Jojen. The man who never reads lives only one.” I couldn't re-live Dinah's fictional life in 12 years.  Now, I open the book to Dinah's voice in the prologue.  One passage reads:

     "My mother's were proud to give my father so many sons.  Sons were a woman's pride and measure.  But the birth of one boy after another was not an unalloyed source of joy in the women's tents.  My father boasted about his noisy tribe, and the women loved my brothers, but they longed for daughters, too, and complained among themselves about the maleness of Jacob's seed.
     Daughters eased their mothers' burdens - helping with the spinning, the grinding of grain, and the endless task of looking after baby boys, who were forever peeing into the corners of the tents, no matter what you told them.
    But the other reason women wanted daughters was to keep their memories alive.  Sons did not hear their mothers' stories after weaning.  So I was the one.  My mother and mother-aunties told me endless stories about themselves.  No matter what theirs hands were doing- holding babies, cooking, spinning, weaving - they filled my ears.
     In the ruddy shade of the red tent, the menstrual tent, they ran their fingers through my curls, repeating the escapades of their youths, the sagas of their childbirths.  Their stories were like offerings of hope and strength poured out before the Queen of Heaven, only these gifts were not for any god or goddess-but for me."

The rest of the book is not easy.  Dinah gives birth to her own sons and her love and experiences with motherhood are painful and wonderful.  The book is rough for me, the want of a daughter and the love and blessings of sons, the trials and tribulations of womanhood, motherhood, midwifery.  The book feels earthy and ancient, transporting the reader back to a primal time.  The beauty of the novel is hard and painful, just like the beauty of the red tent itself.  I close the book.  "Dee-nah" it whispers.  "Yes. I know you." I reply with wet eyes.

For every pregnancy, I'd have had to mourn the idea of a daughter even just a little.  I want my Dinah but I also am Dinah.  For every lost memory un-shared with a daughter is the very present and cherished memory made with a son.  I have four chances to make lots of memories and leave sons that will appreciate and love their possible wives and daughters.  That will be the gift I leave for posterity.  I may be forgettable blip in the family tree just like Dinah's short paragraph life in the bible.  My story may not be passed down on the lips of my daughters, but my son's lives will echo my
name in their lives and lives they create.

Two nights ago I was walking down a dark hall in my house and my teenage son came up behind me and scared me.  I shrieked and then laughed.  "James! You can't scare a pregnant lady!  I just pee'd in my pants!"  "Oh my God! That is so gross"  He choked as he doubled over in laughter.  My other two boys joined in dancing around and laughing at Mommy peeing her pants. I even felt the little boy in my womb wiggle.  Ah, my boys and our memories, what would I do without them?  The tent I create with my sons may not be red but it is definitely colorful.

Holes

You know when people really upset you and you struggle between feeling really, really angry at them and trying to convince yourself that they really don't matter.  I hate being there.  I think it would be easier to dig a 6 ft hole in the middle of winter.  But I usually go ahead and dig.  I dig through the angry part even when the soil is cold and rock hard and sometimes tears are involved but I usually end up at the other side of the earth in Go- Fuck-Yourself-Land where I continue to happily reside as commander and chief of my own life.

But while you're digging away trying to get to your happy place, let's admit it, it's awful.  You put the shovel in and pull out a heavy load of, "Who the fuck do you think you are?" and then the next one is an equally hard, "Who the hell cares who they are? They don't matter to my life."  Then you hit a large rock that says, "They don't get me, they don't care to get me, they are just so freaking miserable and judgmental and they just want to put their know-nothing foot in the door of my life and bring me down."  That rock takes a bit of work to get out.  You have to put the shovel in at different angles until you find the right one, then you might have to stand on the shovel to get the right leverage and strength.  It's hard labor, it's a real pain in the ass... and there you are digging a very deep hole just to get back to where you were... confident, happy, yourself.

You wouldn't have to be digging if people would just leave you alone, but that becomes harder with Facebook and a blog. I kind of put myself out there a bit.  I like to laugh at myself and others.  The things I write are dry, sarcastic, sometimes funny, sometimes angry... but I do strive to be honest. However, not honest in that cruel or "up-in-your-business" sort of way that people use to hurt you or get in your face about something.  They say something hurtful and then follow it up with "but, I'm just being honest!" or "I'm just a very honest person." And I'm honestly going to punch you in the face.

So, I'm pretty sure my single, childless, brother-in-law thought he was just being "honest" (honestly out of his league) when he posted two links about fetal alcohol syndrome under one of my funny posts on FB. I was at my father's 70th birthday brunch and partook in my family's Bloody Mary tradition.  Just one, in the midst of a breakfast buffet that I eagerly filled my belly with.  I am 5 months pregnant now, and my alcohol consumption has been consisted of a glass of excellent Greek wine on Valentine's day and the now infamous Bloody Mary.  Except for my first pregnancy (I was too young to drink or vote or be pregnant for that matter), I have had a drink here or there during pregnancies 2 and 3.  And it's 2013... we are past the Mad Men era of constant drinking, smoking, and weird prescribed drugs during pregnancies and the follow-up backlash against it all.  In 2013, I have plenty of information and maternity experience to make my own informed decisions.  And my FB friends know me... either personally or via my posts.  I'm a concerned parent but not neurotic, a little bit of a hippy, and a bit saracastic.  So, when I posted the comment, "Bloody Mary for the pregnant lady? Eh, why not, it's the 4th baby."  I expected my friends to get it... and they did.  Except for my brother-in-law who took it down the "You are maliciously hurting your unborn child" road and now I'm digging a damn hole.

But let's not stop there... remember that VBAC blog I did titled, "Intellect and Eve"?  My husband's family is suddenly full of medical experts. Apparently all you have to do is have access to the interwebs and know a doctor, any kind of doctor... and you suddenly know more than me, my obstetrician, and my medical history combined.  And with this wealth of knowledge you have acquired, you are going to let my husband know all about how wrong my decisions are.  Because, you know, that's what matters in all of these medical decisions, my in-laws comfort level.  And I keep digging that hole faster and deeper.

Now, I wouldn't tell anyone how to throw a football, or swing a bat.  I certainly didn't advise my father on his recent bout with prostate cancer.  He is intelligent and had good doctors.  I could be online for weeks filling my head with internet prostate knowledge and still not feel comfortable telling him what is right and wrong.  Likewise, I could hang out with a pro-baseball player and talk hitting technique and never even dream of tweaking any of my ball playing relatives swings.  And that's just g-damn baseball which these people take seriously enough, imagine them trying to get in the middle of my motherhood.

In my head, as I'm shoveling, I’m like - haven’t I shown everyone what a caring mother I am?  Do you really think I would “maliciously” harm any of them?  I guess you do, and that is upsetting.  I have been pregnant 3 times before and have birthed 3 healthy, intelligent children.  I’m on my 4th pregnancy have been pregnant more times than anyone alive on either side of our families (except for my mom and g-mom, who each had 4 pregnancies). You really think I don’t know how much alcohol/coffee/tuna fish/lunch meat/allergy medicine/soda/exercise/etc. is too much?  And let’s say I don’t, is it really your place to advise me as opposed to say... my doctor?  How many healthy children do I have to birth or raise before anyone has an ounce of trust in me?  Or at least says, “Hmmmm, That makes me uncomfortable but it’s really none of my business.”  This will probably never happen, which is why I need to figure out how to stay on my side of happy so I don't even have to begin digging a hole to get back there.

And then there's the single factor in this.  My biggest critics are single well into their late 30's and early 40's, and who cares until.... until they fucking stick their nose where it doesn't belong.  Then it's a fast trip to "what the hell does he know?  He's never had children or a wife or even been in a 60 mile radius of anyone giving birth besides attending his own."  And this causes resentment for the single person.  They think, "Oh, just because I'm single it means I can't offer parenting advice or tell you about maternity issues?" Uh.... Yeah, that's EXACTLY what it means! Think about it professionally.  Do you feel comfortable taking legal advice from someone who is not an attorney? No. Would you pay someone to make your wedding cake that wasn't an experienced baker or licensed caterer? Probably not. Do you take medical advice to heart from someone who is not at the very least a nurse... oh, wait, ha! Then why the hell would you think that anyone wants to hear what you have to say about their parenting, marriage, or pregnancy? No one does, get over it. I am an experienced parent and pregnant lady and even I don't feel comfortable dolling out advice unless asked. Who the hell do you think you are? There, that was big shovel load.

Ok, time for some inspiration.  Have you read "Pride and Prejudice"?  Remember Elizabeth Bennet telling off the only in-law she would possible have - Lady Catherine?  It was awesome.  Elizabeth finally says after enduring cajoling, manipulation, and straight out insults from her future in-law, "I am only resolved to act in a manner that will constitute my own happiness without any reference to you or any person so wholly unconnected with me." Sigh. Put that shovel down Miss Bennet, you made it to the other side.

So, how do I get there and stay there?  There will probably always be a little bit of shoveling through hurt feelings and downed confidence.  But I'm pretty sure that as I continue to get more confident, the shovel-loads will get lighter, there will be less rocks, the soil won't be so hard and cold and the actual trip back to Go-Fuck-Yourself Land will be shorter and shorter.  Until one day, I am as rich in confidence as the new Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy was in money and satisfaction, and I will reign supreme of my own happiness.

Then a friend from far away (that's where you have to be sometimes to see these things clearly - far away), wrote to me with a suggestion for letting go of what people think and not giving them my energy for digging holes in the first place.  She told me to pray.  Pray for those who piss me off.  Pray until I mean it -  for them to have the best of everything - and when I do mean it, I will start to feel compassion for them and it will free my head to do the things I enjoy more.  She finished, "Maybe you've already tried that. I figured you'd be open to it since you practice a religion/spirituality."

Uh, no, I am embarrassed to say I haven't tried it. And that type of thought process is straight out of Catholic school.  How could I be so remiss?  And funny enough, it took a gay, feminist, tree hugger to slap my knuckles and send me to the confessional. 

 

Another friend of mine is Mormon.  When I asked her to keep my Boo Radley situation in her prayers she said, "Well, Mormon's don't pray for specific things or outcomes but we do say, 'Let God's Will be done." Hmmmmm, that's tough and cool at the same time. It is very hard to give up control and leave it up to God or the Universe... but if you can get there I bet it's awesomely free.  I bet in "Let-God's-Will-be-Done-Land" you aren't digging any holes.

 

But these two have great points, I need to pray or meditate and find a way to be at peace more consistently and that takes internal work.  Working in your mind or soul on yourself is the hardest type of hole to dig and you can be digging a long time. But that type of digging is completely worth it.  It's good, wholesome labor with a good outcome.  The shovel loads can be prayers and the dirt thrown away is relieving. You end up with a big pile of yesterday's worries and a hole straight back to your true self.  And don't worry, God will fill it back up with good soil to keep you from going back there.