Happy New Year! I sincerely hope everyone has had a happy holiday. I am having a little trouble snapping back into old routines, but I imagine that is pretty common.
Tomorrow is my baby’s third birthday! Gregory is my third and last child, and has been done breastfeeding for a year and can speak fairly well now, but I can see why the last child stays the baby. As happy as I am to say goodbye forever to those troublesome two’s, I know that he will be a big kid soon, in the blink of an eye.
I gave birth to him at home, in my dining room, with two midwives, my doula, my husband, my mother and my two older children (who were not impressed with the time or my vocals). It was absolutely perfect and amazing and everything birth should be-intense, safe, supported, loving, almost intervention free. I know how lucky I am. But it was a pretty crazy road to get to this point, and the irony was not lost on me.
Before I became pregnant with my first son Earl, I was a self-described liberal feminist radical (though not as radical as I fancied myself). I remember having thoughts about c-sections as being undesirable, epidurals questionable in their usefulness and birth centers as a wonderful place to have a baby. When I did become pregnant, I found myself seduced my by fancy Edina obstetrician that I had never met before that day I had come in to be fitted for a diaphragm (happy oops). It never occurred to me that he may have a different agenda than I, or a different view on birth than a midwife. IT NEVER OCCURRED TO ME. So when I decided to stay with him, I didn't realize I was walking right into a broken maternity system that would ultimately most likely be at fault for my cesarean section. This is a hard pill to swallow, for sure.