The Other Side of the World

Seriously, seriously - how am I supposed to not eat this delicious child?

More pictures up at the lovely daddy for the voracious among you.

And thanks to Claire for the ridiculously cute hood!

Self Portrait: breastfeeding in bed

we are the mother-baby; dishevelled, glamourous, lulling time into ecstacy - at the fountain of mouth-upon-breast.

We arrived for our scheduled 40 week appointment in the late afternoon to find on-the-verge-of-mama slung over the low couch moaning into her contractions. We were on time and she’d been expecting us so she hadn’t bothered to call anytime in the previous 6 hours of labouring.

A planned hospital birth, we arrived 90 minutes later and found ourselves gazing surreally at a very frank chunk of glistening oracle-like meconium.

At this point I have either lost you completely, or caused you to catch your breath ever so slightly. In the interest of maintaining my blog as my blog and not a midwifery textbook I’ll grossly paraphrase here: Breech.

Thanks to a comprehensive and oft-criticized study that I should probably be referencing here, or should probably have memorized the name of by now (but haven’t because, let’s be honest here, it’s 10pm and I am still in my pyjamas and my child is slightly crusty and the bread baking failed beyond all spectacular failures today), it is now customary in much of the developed world to perform a Caesarian section, no questions asked, for any and all babies who need, or want to enter the world a little, shall we say, ass-backwards. And of course, after this study declared unequivocally that cutting and ripping was always the safer way, the numbers of skilled breech-birth attendants promptly began plummeting like a particularily energetic monsoon mud-slip.

Which brings us back to the action, standing with this realization, a foot away from a beautifully labouring, glowing woman, her proud and constant partner and her encouraging, rapt mother. And just like that, the midwife, the With Woman, the guarder of the birth space, the protector and defender of the sacrity, came hurtling into the room with all the fury and force of blackening Tsunami sky.

Because this is New Zealand and we were in the hospital space with its protocols and its rules and its carefully conservative doctors (which all have their use, yes) calls were made and people rushed in with dizzying, frenzied movements, papers were tossed around, sharp pointy metal objects were wielded and voices were raised.

In the middle of the panicked melee, there was our space to do our work. We looked into the woman’s eyes, we spoke and we held her and we stood (metaphorically of course) between her labour-dance and the storm outside. And my Queen Bodaecia preceptor powerfully navigated the swirling tides of the obstetric team until there we were, Mother Father, Midwife, me, and newest born, perfectly born, bum-first born, birth-canal-route born, wonderfully born girl baby. Somewhere around us there were a dozen people with their unused iv lines, clean scalpels, their surgical gowns and their anaesthetics, but, huddled in the centre in my jeans and t-shirt biting back tears over the fresh nativity, I was safely in the guarded space, the Eye of Birth.

And ever so grateful to come home a few hours later to these -

I planted: endive, arugala, purple kale, romanescue broccoli, garlic, onion

she consumed: dirt, dead leaves, compost

bathing ensued

she breastfeeds: constantly, consumately, while mumbling around a nipple

I await: ripe bellies - one due, one pre-labouring

life ensues

let’s catch it all up, shall we?

1. Somewhere in the sky; baby-child writhed in her very own small, red seat-belt. An in-utero-seasoned traveller, she slept through a multitude of voyaging indignities including a stint in a precariously positioned bassinet.

2. Then we got to New Zealand which can best be described presently as; Winter, Green. Our new bed is a Family Bed. Ok, it’s two beds jammed luxuriously together. In any case, it is fantastic. Sometimes I lose people at night and have to organize impromptu search parties to source them out. Compare here.

3. School is a little mind numbing. All those pesky things you forgot you were forgetting and subsequently forgot to panic about forgetting. Seemingly important things too like; how to not be responsible for untimely deaths of innocents. However, I can still take a mean blood pressure, so all is not lost.

4. I’m on call again and it’s not scary yet. Probably because I have not actually been called - how trite! But, anyway, my bag is packed with a spare shirt and a spare breast pump and I am falling asleep with whispered prayers to either get the Knock on the Door (because that’s exciting) or, conversely, to not get the Knock on the Door (because I’m tired and want my whole night to sleep!). Haha, all hail the contradictory life of the student midwife.

5. Baby-thing has suddenly decided that food is delicious and what’s more, worthy of swallowing. Be warned should you try to snack on the leftover pizza sauce in her vicinity without sharing. Back arching is so very threatening to the peace. Family dinners and family baths and family nesting together like a perfect double eggcup + egg makes the whole universe right and whole and glazed in honey-light.

All good then?

good.

Way back, when baby-child was just an extraneous blob newly slipped from my body (so new, in fact, she was just named baby-child) I had cracked nipples that I thought would murder me with spikes of just-over-the-top pain every evening. Thanks to an infamous man named Bob Rae (or maybe no thanks to him, I just like to mention him to see if any of my readership remembers their Ontario politics) we have publicly funded midwives here, and that seems to translate into publicly funded breast pumps of great, quiet, streamlined, efficient, almost-painfree milk extraction. So, my ever-patient midwife visited twice that day, the second time to bring me the black mantra-hushing tube-rich contraption. And out came some lovely colostrum that made it seem as if I had spent the previous weeks nourishing myself on fresh spring grass (you know, the proper colour like proper cow’s milk should be).

Then things got better and it sat very deep and very far in the vast tundra of my mother’s deep freezer. Which is even on another floor of the house, so definitely out if sight and mind.

And then since we are, swooping off, trudging South, bungling our way into the pitch-blackness of here, just start this family stuff all over again somewhere new, it won’t be so complicated, really - since all of this - I removed it, broke it into precious pale watery-sun chunks and offered it up to my newly crab-crawling breast-milk savvy baby-thing.

And breathed a sigh of. . . relief? contentment? remembrance? sheer emotional exhaustion?

as she loved on it with all the fervour of her little clutched hands and cold lips

mmmmm mamasicle . . . . 

It’s one of my last nights sittting here at the computer by the balcony musing exhausted, blurry thoughts out into a darker version of the scene pictured above.

This is the first home of my non-child (see how I hesitate still to use adult ?) life that wasn’t chosen by me, and tenacious control issues aside, it’s one of my favourites. I know that this has a lot to do with sweet moments of baby-new-family-ness, but as far as backdrops go, ours has been pretty stunning in a beautifully gritty way.

My (claiming it as I may for the next couple of days) neighbourhood is rife with street drugs and stretch Hummers, condominiums where 70% of the stainless steel-heavy kitchens have never been used (over heard that fact in a coffee shop), friendly independent yoga studios, organic food shops, prostitutes, fair trade coffee, used hypodermics drop-boxes (useful if you have, say, unused vitamin K sharps* lying around), the homeless, disabled and our country’s top bureaucrats.

From my balcony, along with the fabulous view of sun sets and celebratory fireworks, I can hear crackheads singing and fighting until all hours, and the cars of diplomats gliding along in a haze of import. It is never truly quiet.

There is something comforting, actually, in hearing these noises all night long, and in seeing these grand juxtapositions every day I traverse the sidewalks. There is a certain reminder of one’s humanity, of the richness and rawness of it. Of the people who keep the night awake and alive, as if to fall silent were to give up and become invisible. It is real and ugly - people have died and suffered and frozen steps from my home. A gated community it is not - there are few facades here. It is a microcosm of what is best and worst in this country, and I am truly glad I was able to call it home for this little year.

And you know, people (not of the ‘hood) always ask me if it bothered me, or if I am glad to be leaving or if I was frightened. I can honestly say no - that what pleasures me about being amongst all people is here as well. That when people stop me on the streets, they are just as likely to give me congratulations on my fine baby than to ask me for spare change.

and to that I say, thank you. Thanks for the neighbourhood.

* as in, actually the vitamin. not ketamines!

It’s my birthday in 5 days and this is what I want!

Yes! It’s a little Goatling, so sweet and nuzzily and delicious -

I want to eat it!

~ I mean, eat its yummy milk-derived foods like yogurt and feta.

Anyway, I have serious doubts about a goatling’s ability to navigate safely through the uber-agressive gauntlet of NZ customs sniffer canines (truly the most aggressive thing about New Zealand, roaring Rugby players and sleep deprived midwives notwithstanding) and so, this year (and a few subsequent years) I will have to lay my goat desires in a soft little bed of mind-hay where they will be safe and happy until I can return for them - and gobble them up!

~ I mean drink their sweet sweet musky goat milklove

And yes, it is past my bed time.

What I really want for my birthday is a tart slice of rhubarb pie with a wholegrain crust and a long back massage and 10 hours of uninterrupted sleep.

That’s right baby-mine, I’m addressing that last one at you (or all three if you think you’re up to it).

(and if you’re not in the market for any of the above mentionings I could also use some organic shampoo, breast milk storage bags, a shopping spree at Value Village for some black long-sleeved shirts and a durable bag to take to births, a new bottle of Eucalan wool wash for diaper covers, something mind-numbing to read on the plane, socks, some thick, black hair elastics and one bloody package of disposable diapers that don’t contain crazy absorbent gel to use on the 38 hours trip to New Zealand

apparently it’s sooooo hard to find these. what’s the deal?! The woman at the store today informed me that without the gel, the diapers *would not work*. Very interesting. So, what you’re saying is that - in, say, the 80’s and 90’s or whenever before Super Absorbent Freaky Gel existed, babies just PEED right through every. single. diaper. Amazing. So glad we do not live in those Neolithic times, the hardships astound me.

Oh, or actually, I’m just trying to have my to-do list of necessary supplies given to me masquerading as enjoyable gifts. Because, really, who could enjoy

diapers that are like wrapping your child’s bum in a paper colander?!)

As I was saying, I’d like the goat please.

Thank You.

Everyone should have a baby to play with in bed.

Especially ones that sleep holding onto their toes.

Suction out their p-aunt’s nose .

And give, um, ‘hydrating’ kisses.

In 5 simple steps -

survey the great outdoors

select your greenery

chop and mix (violet greens, lambs quarter, chives, thyme, egg, s & p)

cast into pan ~ parmigiana atop

spring brekkie