Midwife or doctor?

I will always remember how I felt when I gave birth to my second baby. Ecstatic, giddy, ridiculously happy. I also remember something that went through my mind almost immediately after I saw her little body slide out in a gush of water: it was somewhere along the lines of "Wow! That was easy!"

Yes, I said it. Giving birth was easy.

At least, for me it was. I won't speak for anyone else. I'm convinced that many women in labour must have felt more pain than I did. Then again I was once witness to a friend actually texting a woman who was at that very moment in the middle of the second stage of labour (the pushing stage).

It was actually quite interesting. My friend decided to text her friend who was overdue to have her baby. It turns out, from the reply, that the woman in question was at that moment lying on a bed in the hospital, and in between texts was pushing! I cannot imagine how she managed it, but she literally had the time and the leasure to take her ipod in her hands and text: "Labour started this am, baby will be here soon!" (Not sure if there was a smiley face after that). My friend then texted "So, are you thinking about having another baby after this?" At which her friend texted: "F*** you!" The baby was born twenty minutes later.

Anyway, back to my birth story. I must admit I would not have been in any mood to text anyone, but the entire process was so much less painful than I had imagined. The contractions started in the early morning, and by the afternoon I was in active labour. Only I did not know how advanced it was. I called my midwife and she said she would check on me sometime after supper. I made myself as comfortable as I could, sitting on a chair and leaning on the backrest. I forced myself to breathe deeply during each contraction. I ate when I was hungry; I had lunch, and later pasta for dinner at around 5:00. I would eat between contractions, then pause when I felt one coming on. I would close my eyes, breathe, and after it had passed, smile at everyone sitting at the table around me, and continue to eat.

My midwife came at 6:30. I put myself in a position where she could examine me, and that's when my water broke! She told me I was already dilated to 6cm.

We obviously made our way to the birth house after that. My baby was born at 9:00.

I wanted to experience a natural childbirth more than anything. I am convinced that having a midwife by my side helped me do just that. After the birth of my first baby, I had to force myself to believe that I was even able do it.

My first baby was born by cesarian. It was an emergency; she had been in distress. The doctor wanted to get her out quickly so I was given general anesthesia instead of an epidural. I was asleep when she was born, and I only saw her for the first time four hours later. I made myself be grateful to the doctors for saving her life, but I felt like something had been taken from me. It's hard to explain, but when you carry a baby for nine months, and you don't give birth to her yourself, you feel like something's missing. It took the birth of my second baby, nearly three years later, for me to finally be able to get over it.

I don't want to criticize, or be ungrateful. But I wonder if any of the interventions performed at the hospital almost as soon as I arrived worsened the problem. Could my first baby have been born naturally?

When I arrived at the hospital, I had not had dinner, and I was already hungry. But I was not permitted to eat. My midwife told me later that women who give birth in a hospital are not allowed food because they are being prepared for a cesarian (if one should ever be needed). But a woman in labour needs to eat! Contractions last for hours; imagine if you were running a day-long marathon; wouldn't you need to pause for nourishment?

I was given a narrow bed in a wait-room and told to lie still while I was being monitored. Because I had tested positive for strep-B, a needle was inserted into my hand and I found myself permanently attached to an IV, which I would, for the remainder of my labour, have to wheel with me to go anywhere.

About an hour later, it was suspected that something was a little off with my baby's heartbeat, and I was told that my water had to be broken because a more precice heart-beat meaurement system than the one they had strapped to my belly had to be attached to the top of my baby's head. The machine they had on now just wasn't giving clear enough readings. My water was broken by the nurse ... and that's when the uncontrollable shivers started. I was taken to a room and told to lie on my left side, and to not move. The baby's heartbeat just kept on slowing down after each contraction. A warm blanket was placed on me to stop the shivers. I was starting to show signs of a fever. Every hour or so, whenever a nurse had the time to stop in, I was examined. "You're at about 3 cm" was hardly encouraging. I was already asking for an epidural, but it was too soon for that. The contractions were painful, and since I couldn't move, they were all I had to think about. The doctor finally came in (not my usual doctor; it was her day off), and looked at the machine that was measuring my contractions. "They're not really that painful, yet" he said with a smile as he saw me screw up my face as another one was coming on. Did he think he was being helpful?

Finally, at around midnight, since the baby's heartbeat was not improving, I was told I would have an emergency cesarian. We all waited as the anestheologist made his way to the hospital. I was asked to sign some papers; I was shivering so much that I was hardly able to provide a decent signature. I was then wheeled to the operating room, where my husband was not allowed to follow. Between contractions a catheter was placed in me (ew, definitely do not want to experience that again!) and finally I was told that I was going to sleep. Honestly, I was happy. Labour had not been a good experience for me. I just wanted to stop feeling the pain of the contractions.

I woke up later, heavily drugged and, for some reason, feeling like singing a song. I was wheeled into a bedroom and was left alone until a while later, when a nurse came in to fiddle with my IV. She let out a loud fart as she was doing so, probably imagining that I was asleep and wouldn't notice. Out of politeness, I pretended not to have noticed. When she came back later I asked how my baby was. "Oh! They haven't brought her to you yet?" She left the room and about thirty minutes later my husband came in with our baby. I wanted to cry when I saw her, but couldn't because it was too painful.

I spent five days in the hospital, continuously attached to an IV that was pumping me full of antibiotics because of the infection it was discovered had spread to my uterus (this had been ascertained during the cesarian). My baby's heartbeat and my own temperature were measured constantly. I had to do so many blood tests I began to bruise. I especially remember how, as soon as the baby and I would finally get to sleep, a nurse would walk in during the middle of the night, turn on the lights and chirp: "Ok! It's time to check those vital signs!" Was I ever glad to go home at the end of that bloody week.

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Now, I have experienced childbirth in two enormously different ways. And it's obvious which of the two was most pleasant. My stay at the birth house lasted no more than twenty hours. The room was comfortable, charming, and the atmosphere was calm. After the birth, I was given a wonderful fruit plate, and we were left alone to sleep through the entire night. During labour, I had no machines tied to me; my baby's heartbeat was monitored every now and then by my midwife, who had a hand-held fetal doppler. I had tested positive for step-B, just like last time, and technically should have been given antibiotics, but since my water had broken before I went to the birth house, and it would have been pointless by then, I asked my midwife if we could dispense with the f***ing IV. She smiled and I never saw it again. I had absolutely no desire to have an epidural; the contractions were intense, but I could get through them on my own. And after my water broke (on it's own!) there were no weird shivers. In other words, this childbirth felt as normal and as natural as going to the bathroom! And that's the difference between giving birth with a midwife, rather than at the hospital: you realize just how natural childbirth is - and that you really have it in you to get through it.

Would my first baby have been in distress had my water not been broken so soon, and had I been allowed to eat, walk, or do whatever felt natural? I will never know. But I do know what it's like to give birth to my baby. Finally.

Moms mother; dads ... babysit?!

Why is it that almost every time I go out in public lately, and I mention the fact that I have kids, the first question that comes up is: "Oh? Where are they now?"

"Oh, you know, I kind of lost track of them while I was looking up the fat contents for two tablespoons of Nutella in the breakfast aisle at the groceries a couple of hours ago, and then I forgot all about them, but I'm sure they'll turn up eventually."

That should be my response to the next person who asks me that question. If I only dare ...

My actual response is usually the same: they're either a) at home with grandma, or b) at home with their dad.

The first answer receives an approving nod and a smile. The second one is followed by another, and even more infuriating question: "Oh! So Dad's watching them?"

"Watching them?" as in, "Babysitting them?!"

My husband becomes infuriated by people who use the term "watching" when describing Dad's role in his relationship with his kids. We were discussing the topic while having coffee together this morning (here I feel obliged to point out, because I just know someone will wonder: he's on parental leave), and he mentioned how it's not only in real life, but also in the media that there seems to be a general consensus that whenever a dad is alone with his kids, he is in fact babysitting.

"But it's 2013," I pointed out quite pointlessly, "not 1955."

At this moment I would like to say that I in no way blame the men for this viewpoint. All the people who have asked me if my husband was "watching" our kids were women. I have even known women who would not leave their kids alone with their father for anything, because, according to them, "he can't handle it." I feel sorry for those men - their wives must think they're idiots.

Now, as for me, I need time for myself. And I have complete faith in my husband. When our first baby was born, it quickly became obvious to me which of the two of us was more at ease with her: and it wasn't me. For the first week, my husband had to keep reminding me that it was in fact impossible to break the baby into a million pieces, and would I please stop worrying that I would accidentally do so every time I changed her diaper? But as any mom does, I quickly got the hang of it, and became a pro in no time. I believe I did my husband proud.

Anyway, as I was saying, I am one of those radical moms who actually needs time for herself - and doesn't feel guilty about taking it. I have taken an afternoon now and then to go out for a coffee and read a book. I have even (gasp!) left my husband alone with our first child for an entire weekend to spend some time with my brother and his wife in the next city.

We may not like to admit it, but when it comes to dads, time to do your own thing is normal. A beer with the guys, what could be more natural? But when it comes to moms, we need to justify it. "I've been up all night with the baby, I need some rest!" Of course, if it's not for sleep, what good is time alone?

I'm going to say something shocking: my baby has started sleeping full nights a week ago (she's two months old - pause for exclamations of "how unfair is that?!? from other parents), and yes, I still need time for myself. Just because I have children doesn't mean I should feel guilty about taking time to do the things I love, the things that define me. Like right now. Am I writing this while my baby's sleeping? No. My husband is with her. Spending quality father-daughter time with her. Not "watching" her.