Mommy, by Linda Schley.
by Skarlat Mortensen
Zaaven Rain Forest
Born: June 23
Vancouver, BC
Sitting on the floor at a low table, eating lunch with some of my many housemates, I notice I am distracted with anticipation, which mounts as the faint contractions become regular. I try to draw no attention to my glancing at my watch. “Carry on . . . carry on the day . . . who knows what or who today will bring,” I think. My partner Scott clears the dishes and I get up to gather the bags for shopping after the midwife appointment. As I am tall, my belly isn’t all that prominent, but being with child, I feel as grand as Gaia herself. My hips loose and baby’s feet pressing my ribs out from under, my gait feels like a classic waddle.
Scott and I are on our way downtown to Joanne—the midwife—when he wants to stop at the store Sweet Cherubim. I decline the walk, preferring to sit and be alone with my contracting belly. Wonder-filled, excited, but nonchalant—I expect it to be a false labor, and to be pleasantly surprised when I actually have a baby! The contractions (the tightness of my belly) are indeed regular and getting closer. I confide in Scott when he returns. Wholly excited, he rushes back to Commercial Drive to phone the midwife. “Carry on, carry on . . . ” She asks that we keep our appointment so she can check my dilation, etc. First babies, young moms, notoriously slow labors. We carry on.
A little more than two centimeters, and everything fine, we carry on to The Co-op for a bit of shopping. I crave sesame snacks and raspberry juice. Indulged! We pause at the freezers, the baked goods, and produce section as my belly tightens—my internalized concentration necessary now to keep the sensations monitored. I don’t want to be caught off guard and surprised by the intensity.
We make our way home. I don’t want to do more errands. At home I make calls to all invited parties to converge and the place is in motion preparing for Baby’s arrival. Tea and snacks are made and we prepare. The functions of the room, for the task at hand, come into clarity. We try to consider all that will be necessary or wanted, for comfort and safety.
The waiting. . . the anticipation . . .
My focus shifts for a bit with the arrival of the people whom I’ve invited to support me. They are waiting. I want to make them comfortable and meet their needs. I am reminded that they are here for me, so I can have a baby. They can and do take care of themselves.
My room is upstairs and the bathroom is on the main floor. I relax into my space and take each contraction as it comes—the waves building slowly to a crash at the end. I tone with my voice, deep and low, stretching my mouth and breathing deep down to my ovaries—ideal while the midwife checks my dilation. I also vocalize between and during contractions. I get a kick out of getting down or up the stairs between contractions, to use the toilet. I try a bath and a variety of positions. My friends keep me topped up with tea and massage . . . and I have a tape of a thunderstorm rolling for relaxing background music.
Occasionally I think of the neighbors wondering what is going on in there, as I smile, doing harmonic toning out the bedroom window into the still June evening.
On one of the trips up from the bathroom, I only make it to the bottom stair before a contraction starts. I sit down abruptly on the third stair, a little perturbed that it came so suddenly. I mutter to the entourage looking at me from the floor, “I think I’m going to . . . ” And without further ado I vomit, splashing sesame seeds, raspberry juice, and tea everywhere and on everyone. Oi!
I make it back to the bedroom, and the “waves” rush in (Thanks, Ina May!). Things pick up, but there’s no doubt I have a way to go. My desire to lean squatting against a wall is foiled by the lack of an appropriate wall, but the next-best option proves to be kneeling and leaning over the folded futon. The wave pattern changes and there is direction added to the tightness. “I feel like pushing,” I utter, and I do. I hear Scott whispering, “Isn’t it too soon?” to the midwife who is asking someone to call the second attendant. I worry. Briefly. And ride the surf . . . it’s up! I know that there is a great deal of attention at my rear end . . . compresses and oil, etc. I visit a moment of modesty and try to cover it with a witty quote from the Star Trek movie that had just come out— “Captain, not in front of the Klingons”—knowing full well that this moment is not about me or modesty, it’s about Baby! And it’s on its way!
I have a friend videoing; two friends plying me with water and massage; a roommate; an aspiring midwife; plus, the midwife present in the room. Dad is beside me whispering encouragement and providing a steady hand. The waters burst. With a sensational effort amazing to feel, that manifest being slips through me. It’s done! The birth is done! She’s a girl. She is set in front of me, all tears and cooing. Zaaven, you’re here, I coo as I stroke her skin, so fresh. I weep joyfully. It really is a baby, and how!
Scott cuts the cord and helps the second midwife (who had just missed the birth) dry Zaaven off and wrap her. I birth the placenta, which is the last thing I want to do at the time, besides the few stitches I get. Ugh. I am given back my baby, who latches on. I phone my mom. I am proud and exhausted. Only nine hours since lunch and its inkling . . . but now such a solid seven-pound baby in my arms and at my breasts.
I think I’ve just been through the most universal experience. I am filled with such connection and empathy for every mother everywhere through all ages. I joined THE Club, but what an initiation!
Rock-a-bye baby in the treetop
When the wind blows the cradle will rock
Ifa bird sings the baby may sleep
And night will fall gently like a dream from the deep
—Traditional, rewritten by Skarlat for daughter Zaaven
Skarlat is honored to be the bio-mom of three amazing people and the extra mom ofmany more. She has plied her creative and practical skills in a variety of volunteer community and work endeavors. She currently lives on Vancouver Island.
Mommy, by Linda Schley.
by Christopher Rodrigues
Dear Family &. Friends,
Around 3 a.m. on October 26, our daughter Tessa Star Rodrigues was born.
Myself, three midwives, and a doula helped Melissa deliver in a pool of water at our home in Vancouver. She refused any pain medication, but instead put into practice the array of pain-coping techniques she had diligently studied throughout her pregnancy. She remained focused and powerful for the seven-hour labor, stunning everyone with her strength and beauty.
Melissa sat on my lap in the pool of water and gave one final push. Tessa hardly cried as the midwives helped Melissa bring her gently out of the water and onto her new mother’s chest. As I cut her cord, she remained calm and alert, seemingly recognizing her parents’ voices, and greeting us with her eyes.
Planet: a piece created by Christopher at the
beginning of his and Melissa’s pregnancy.
Christopher, Melissa, and Tessa Star.17
Christopher is a Vancouver-based visual artist. His wife Melissa is a professional ballet dancer and yoga instructor.