Roger, roger! Baby birds to nest: we have flown!

*sigh*

My fifth and last child started kindergarten this morning.  Millions of mothers have been through this before me, and millions will come after me.  I am a little different in that I never went through this with my first child.  I homeschooled her through 2nd grade, so when she left me, she was 7 years old and very self-possessed.  We were also both very ready for that change for several reasons.

With my three other children, of course I felt tugs on my heartstrings as each of them entered school, and each first day of kindergarten was an event both celebrated and mourned, at least by me.  But it all felt like natural progression, and each of them was so excited and so ready that I had no real concerns about letting them go.  And all four of my older children have proven out my confidence by becoming outstanding students and good citizens of their school communities.

So now we come to the youngest.  She was equally excited and ready, even though she is still only four years old.  She passed the school district's assessment for admission to kindergarten before the birthday cutoff (which is in September, while her birthday is in October) with flying colors.  I have just as much confidence in her as I did in the others.  I watched her this morning, walking across the playground and uncertain where to go, approach a teacher and ask for help, with no fear or hesitation.  Clearly she can navigate this new environment and will be fine.

I'm sure I am not the first mother to be more deeply affected by her youngest child starting school than by some of the others, and to wonder if that makes me a less-than-stellar mother to my other children.  Of course I really do know that is not true, that each child is different, and that my relationship with each is different.  But feelings don't really respond to logic.

However, there is a certain element of my relationship with my last baby that is unique.  Not many people can say that God basically commanded them to have a specific child....but I can.  Every child is a gift from God and His creature, but let's face it, usually we decide when and if to have a child or not.  From our perspective, even if God works in the background, our decisions are the only ones we see leading directly to the creation of our children.  For me, with this particular child, that is not true.  It is impossible to express the sense of obligation and responsibility I feel about my baby girl, because her existence is attributable only to direct, and extremely obvious, intervention by God in my life and consciousness.

I know, I know.  Some of you reading this are rolling your eyes and thinking, "Oh great, another Jerry Falwell claiming direct messages from God."  I assure you, that is not it at all.  No one needs to send me money to prevent my being struck dead.  If anyone feels compelled to make sure, however, I am happy to provide a mailing address.  ;-)

I don't think I have ever shared this story with anyone besides my husband before, but I feel like I want to today, on this momentous day in the existence of the child God pretty much forcibly placed into my life.

I have never been a perfect Catholic, and have always struggled with the Church's teaching on birth control.  (In fact, earlier this year, I chronicled my ultimate failure to obey it.)  In late 2006, when my fourth, and what I thought would be last, child was a little over a year old, I had enrolled in a clinical trial for a new method of sterilization.  It seemed like the perfect solution.  No surgery, no artificial hormones (which can be abortifacient and so are a humungous NO NO, but which also made me feel horrible the short time I did take them), and no cost because I would be assisting in the testing of this new method before it was approved and marketed.  Basically it was to be a small spring-type device inserted into each Fallopian tube, which would cause scar tissue to grow and block the tube.  I was uncertain, but I figured all women go through some doubt before doing something as radical as ending their fertility, so I tried to dismiss it.  I also was fully aware that I was acting directly against my Church and its legitimate authority, and that was tearing me up.  I am not one of those that could claim ignorance... I had read and studied and struggled for years, so I knew exactly what I was doing.  Contemplating mortal sin and its consequences isn't peaceful and obviously shouldn't be!  But I was trying to ignore all that too.

We happened to be running a yard sale at our house a week or two before I was supposed to go in for the procedure.  So my husband took the kids to Mass with him early in the morning while I attended to our sale, and then I went to the noon Mass by myself.  During Mass there was a baptism, and I saw the sweetest little rosebud of a baby girl, all frilly and frothy in white, carried against the shoulder of her father.  The sight struck me to the bone, and I realized I would never see my husband that way again.  While my feelings were in turmoil, the ground under my feet rocked.  And I don't mean like the little 3.0 earthquakes I felt growing up, I mean the earth turned about 45 degrees under my feet, I lost my balance, and was forced to sit down on the pew before I fell.  Everyone else in the church acted normally, so I know I am the only one who saw or felt it.  (Literally, the altar was diagonal in my sight!)  I have since heard the quote from Blessed Theresa of Calcutta that goes something like, "I know God will never give me more than I can handle, I just wish he didn't trust me so much."  Boy can I relate to that quote.  Suffice to say that once my physical environment righted itself a second later, I was trembling and having a serious "holy shit" moment.

When I got home, I told my husband what had happened, and told him I could not possibly proceed with my plans.  He had never been really thrilled with the idea, so he didn't take much convincing.  Then I told him I thought we were being called to have another child.  That gave him a lot more pause.  We have struggled financially for much of our marriage, and adding a fifth child seemed irresponsible from that that standpoint.  There were also times we felt overwhelmed trying to be effective parents to the four we had, and so adding another child to the mix would mean taking the risk of parenting all of them at a lesser level than what they deserved.  But the biggest complication was that we had suffered two miscarriages in the few months leading up to this, and the desire to end our ability to have children was in part motivated by wanting to avoid ever facing that pain again.

Let me take this aside to say that our culture has absolutely no understanding or respect for the pain of fathers in that situation.  I was utterly shocked and stunned by how the loss of his baby destroyed my husband.  I can count maybe two or three times that I have held that strong, brave man while he cries..... and that was by far the worst one.  Even in my own pain, I saw that his was raw, deep, and primal.  It frightened me.

So asking him to be open to having another child was asking almost too much of him.  We had learned the hard way that there were no guarantees, that even if we conceived, we might never have another baby, but only have to mourn another death.  There is a saying that still waters run deep, and that perfectly describes my husband.  He is a man of deep faith, and he recognized God's intervention when I described it.  He put his fear aside, trusted God, and came along on the journey with me.

When the little plus sign showed up on the pregnancy test, we told no one.  After having had to tell our children that the baby in Mommy's tummy had died, we decided no one would know I was pregnant until after the first trimester, if I made it that far.  We never wanted to see that look in our kids' eyes again.  I think my husband probably didn't want to face a repeat, either, of his mother's comment when he informed her of the first miscarriage.  I really don't understand how when your son calls you to inform you of the tragedy of the death of his child, the first thing that comes to your tongue is, "Well, you really didn't need another one anyway!"  But that is what happened, and I still don't think he has forgiven her for it.  (I certainly haven't.)  So for many reasons, we waited.

That twelfth week blessedly came and passed, and we both breathed.  Maybe we would hold this baby after all.  We finally started telling people, and allowing ourselves to plan.  We took our kids to the ultrasound appointment at 16 weeks, and they all cheered to learn there was a sister in there.  They started calling her by her chosen name, Victoria.  They delighted when it seemed she could hear them and would kick their hands on my tummy.  My husband played his favorite pregnancy game again each night, pushing back wherever that telltale little lump appeared, and being rewarded by her thumping his hand again and again.  All of us still had a little fear, the kids would occasionally express concern that this baby would die too, but as I got bigger and bigger, the worry faded and some of our pain healed.  We looked toward birth and joyously waited for her to tell us she was ready.

As if we hadn't had enough indication that this child was special, her birth turned out to be unique as well.  I had had a planned home birth with my third child, after two cesareans that I am convinced were medically unnecessary.  When the doctor supervising my care in that small Montana city told me my only option was to lay down on that table and be cut open again, because that was how SHE felt comfortable, I rebelled and called a midwife, with support and encouragement from my husband.  I had to pay out of pocket but it was worth every penny to prove those impatient, meddling "professionals" wrong.  My body can birth the babies I grow!  When we moved to Arizona, differences in the laws governing midwives meant I had to give birth in a hospital, but we found one that allowed VBACs (and the fact that we had to search for that is disgusting), and had a wonderful and peaceful birth there.  We had planned to return to that hospital, which is about a 30 mile drive away in the middle of Phoenix, but Victoria had other ideas.  She was in an awful hurry to be born, and so she was, in my bathroom, while I stood holding onto the sink and the towel bar, and my awesome husband knelt underneath me to catch her.  All 10 lbs. 5oz. of her!  I found out later that even though my husband had kicked them all out of the master suite, my other kids sneaked in again and watched their sister being born into their father's hands.  I cannot describe my feelings when I think about that moment.  Few families can say they share anything like it.

After she was born, we settled into nursing whenever she fussed, sleeping fused together most of the time, and learning to incorporate her into the rhythm of a family with some kids in school and several activities going on.  She was amazingly calm and easygoing, and never lacked for arms to hold her, voices to sing to her, or faces to entertain her.  Such are the dividends of being a fifth child, born three years after the last one!  As she has grown she has never lost her serenity, except when mightily provoked by a sibling.  I don't want anyone getting the idea she is some perfect angel.  She is a normal kid, and she has been frustrated, thrown tantrums, and lied to get out of chores.  But her baseline personality is so calm....it seems weird to a high-strung person like me.

I have no idea what God's plan is for this little girl.  But I have no doubt He has one.  And to a far higher degree than with my other kids, I feel an obligation to stay out of its way and not interfere.  I am here to guard and guide more than direct.  Today is the beginning of a new phase in her journey to discover it.  She is going out into the world to achieve things that are completely hers, separate from me.

Today also represents a personal milestone for me and the fulfillment of a parenting goal I set before I even had children.  I have been able to care for my own children during their pre-school formative years.  I have been able to fulfill the commitment I made to them that their own parents would be the ones to care for them, and not any paid institution or outsider.  At times the sacrifices required to keep that promise I made to them have been painful, bordering on impossible.  But I did it.  We did it, my husband and I together, and it's an accomplishment of which I feel proud.  No one loves or values them like we do, no one is as invested in their futures as we are, and we thought they deserved to have that level of investment every day, all the time.  I am grateful we were able to provide it.

Even though there is a little sadness in my heart as my last baby bird starts her test flights out of the nest, today is overwhelmingly a day for joy and celebration.  It is truly the day the Lord has made! 

Damn it! It's still there.

Awesome.  All it takes is a hurt back and ruined plans for housecleaning to completely derail my life.  Seriously, I stopped off at Wally World after dropping off the kids this morning and stocked up for spring cleaning.  I came home with a brand new mop, a big pack of new scrubber sponges, and several bottles of my favorite cleaning products.  I was all set to have a good, productive day, and then I hurt my back bringing in the groceries, and am stuck on the heating pad hoping I can work Sunday night.

And of course, we all know what that leads to.....DAYTIME TV!  While flipping channels amongst the latest Maury paternity special and Dr. Phil's parade of parental misfits, I landed on A Baby Story.  I used to watch this show regularly, but finally had to shut it off while preparing myself to attempt a VBAC.  It seemed like every damned one was ending in a cesarean after really obvious doctor meddling, and it was, as Garth Algar so eloquently stated, "sucking my will to live!"  So I have probably not watched that show in a decade.

So what episode do I land on today?  Of course it was the beautiful, peaceful, midwife-attended water birth.  I watched for a few minutes, loving what I was seeing, especially when the mom said she didn't feel ready to push yet, and her midwife said, "OK, that's fine.  You'll know when you're ready."  And she did.  And she pushed that baby out quickly, with no trauma, and with no one screaming or counting at her, or shoving her knees in her ears.  And I promptly burst into tears.

Damn it.  It's still there.

My description says I am a newly-certified CNA and says that I will talk about my journey into the healthcare system.  But I am starting to think that it might turn into the story of my journey right back out of it.

Many people in my life were shocked by my decision to get certified and work as a nursing assistant.  Due to my birth experiences and history, I developed a serious dislike of doctors and nurses.  When it comes to acute trauma, injury, or disease, medical care in this country is second-to-none.  Lives are saved every day that would be lost anywhere else.  But when it comes to a natural process like uncomplicated birth, their involvement more often causes problems rather than solving anything.  For women who truly do have complications in pregnancy or cannot give birth other than by cesarean, obstetricians are a blessing.  But there is absolutely no way that more than 25% of women in this country are incapable of giving birth without surgical intervention.  If that were true, the species would have died out long ago.  Many of the things that are done to women in childbirth in this country would be sexual assault, or straight battery, if done in any other venue, and a lot of times, that's about how much consent is involved.  Birth does not have to be that way.

Honestly, my choice to enter the field of healthcare was purely economic.  My husband wanted to get out of the military, and for him to do so, I had to help support the family.  I figured that this was a field in which there would always be jobs, and it didn't cost much in money or time to take the class and get certified.  So here I am, and I hate it.  Oh my God, do I hate it.  I will stay with it for now, because my husband is in school and working full time, and I am carrying our health insurance.  But I spend every day before a night that I work dreading it.  And my expectations are usually fulfilled.  I thought I might progress to becoming a nurse, but now that I have seen the inner workings of it all.... you couldn't pay me enough.  I don't have the desire or drive to get through nursing school, and I don't want the job that waits at the end of it.

So where am I going with all this?  Midwifery.

I have many times considered pursuing a career as a midwife.  Natural, peaceful, healthy birth, that feeds women's spirits and empowers them as mothers by demonstrating their capability, has been a passion of mine since soon after it was stolen from me.  I eventually reclaimed it, but only with the help of a pair of midwives in Montana, and the support of a husband who couldn't stand to watch me suffer any more.

I have all the same fears and concerns I have always had every time I considered this in the past.  I am not sure I have what it takes to face the risks of starting a business, and I wonder if I have the right to put my family's economic well-being at risk just to pursue my own dream.  I wonder how I would be available for births at all hours and still take care of my family.  I wonder if I have the right personality, disposition, or enough strength to be so pivotal to women in need at their most vulnerable time.  Do I dare take on that much responsibility?

But the fact remains that the only two things that have ever inspired passion in me, from which I could make a career, are birth and politics.  I can't and won't do politics while I am still raising children, and judging from what happens to even the best people in the political arena, I am not sure I ever will.  And birth just keeps smashing into my stream of consciousness, like today.  I am starting to think God might be trying to lead me somewhere, and that He is getting tired of waiting for me to catch on, and has now resorted to bat-upside-the-head tactics.  Of course, He had to set a bush on fire to get through to Moses, so.....

I keep thinking that now that my own childbearing days are over, this passion will become less immediate and I can move on to other things.  And then I see a water birth on TV and act like a faucet.  I have run from this for a long time, because I know that working as a doula and then a midwife is going to engage everything in my being, take me up, and wring me out emotionally every single time.  There is no way I will be able to maintain any kind of detachment or distance.  It will take everything I am out of me, and then replace it.  Over and over again.

But isn't that what all the most successful people say about their life's work?