Shaken
Baby
The Other Deadbeat
With Apologies to the
Boston Women's Health Book Collective
Adoption vs Home-Grown
Vote With Your Breasts
Preserving The Shape of Your Pregnancy
by Holly Hostetter
We often catch ourselves thinking, "it will never happen to me".
Brock was born August 1, 1999 at 11:59 p.m. after 20 hours of intense labor. He weighed eight pounds, three ounces and was 21 inches long. He was a healthy baby.
After 6 weeks of maternity leave, I had to face reality and return to work. I was nervous about leaving him at a day care, and chose to have my sister watch him at her home. Six months went by, so very fast. Brock was growing and developing, like any other infant his age. He was a mellow baby. Before I knew it, Brock was nine months old, it was May 1st, 2000. I received a call from my sister. She mentioned how he did not want to eat and was very sleepy. Brock was exclusively breastfed. He had been sick all weekend, vomiting, not sleeping well, and overall fussy (which was unusual for him). I became concerned when she said she was having a hard time arousing him from sleep. I left work at lunch knowing he would nurse, even when sleepy. I feared he was dehydrated from the vomiting and lack of fluids. I arrived at her house, reached down to pick up Brock, and noticed right away he was blue and cold. A mother's worst fear! My heart stopped beating immediately. Wait, he was breathing, yet shallow and irregular. I picked him up into my arms and yelled "BROCK!!!", no response. "WAKE UP, BROCK!!!". I used my fingers to open the swollen lids of his eyes, they reacted to light, but no response. I threw him in his car seat, rushed him to Insta-Care, which was less than 2 blocks away, and ran inside with my limp baby.
It was 1/2 hours later, I was sitting in the emergency room of Primary Children's Medical Center. They started asking me questions, ones I knew were leading to a very bad diagnosis of my very ill son. When they questioned what I had done that morning with my son, who he had been with, and when, I knew he had suffered some form of child abuse. It took the ER doctors just minutes to diagnose my beautiful, healthy baby boy with Shaken Baby Syndrome.
Brock was rushed to surgery, where they removed a large sub-dermal hematoma and stopped a bleeding vessel on the right side of his brain. He survived the surgery. I knew it was going to be a long night. Then, they showed me the brain scans, and pointed out how his little brain was twisted and crammed into the lower left part of his skull. I knew then, it was going to be an even longer night.
The Social Workers were kind, and asked what they could do for me. I said "get me a double pumping system and show me where the electric breast pumps are." I knew how much Brock loved to breastfeed. The doctors would not let me nurse him, but would allow me to put breastmilk in a bottle (so they could see how much he was able to drink).
It had been just 24 hours after surgery, Brock was awake, a very good sign. His eyelids were swollen shut tight. We were not sure how much brain damage he had suffered, but he was alive. No one knew if he was blind, deaf, or even able to eat on his own. I continued to beg the doctors to let me breastfeed him, I knew it would comfort him.
Finally, they let me give him a bottle of pumped breastmilk. I have never been so elated in my life! He tipped the bottle back, with pinky finger in the air, and guzzled 60 cc of breastmilk right before our eyes! My baby boy, Brock, was still in there. I continued to give him bottles of breastmilk and beg the doctors to let me nurse him. Finally, less than 48 hours out of surgery, they let me nurse him. He latched-on and breastfed with no problems, eyes swollen shut, hooked up to IV's and monitors.
The doctors were amazed. Even more amazing, he was recovering fast. Within 11 days we were given the o-kay to leave the hospital and return home.
I continued to breastfeed Brock past two years old. His last brain scan revealed he has lost approximately 12% of the white matter on the right side of his brain and has bruising on several parts of the brain (mainly the left frontal lobe). However, to the doctor's amazement, there are no signs of significant developmental delays.
I have often wondered why Brock recovered so quickly and with so few problems. There is no doubt in my mind that breastfeeding aided his recovery. Breastmilk contains growth factors, specific for infant brain development, among hundreds of other very important nutrients. Infants are born with underdeveloped brains, for many important reasons. As an infant grows and develops, the brain matures. There is rapid brain development to age 2 1/2-3 years old. Breastmilk offers the infant the nutrients it needs for optimal growth and development of many organs and tissues, including the brain.
Sometimes, we think of growth and development as weight, height, and the ability to meet milestones, such as crawling. However, the brain is also developing, rapidly. Feeding the infant brain the nutrients it needs for optimal growth and development can only be achieved through breastmilk.
Formula is not of human origin, and cannot offer the same benefits as breastmilk. It is recommended by the American Academy of Pediatrics to breastfeed for at least the first 12 months, without using formula. As a dietitian and lactation educator I have always recommended breastfeeding. As a mother, I now know the true benefits of breastfeeding, love and life. I encourage all women to breastfeed their infants, feed their brains, and give them a healthy start that will last them a lifetime.
If you would like more information on infant feeding or breastfeeding: Email me. I would love to help.
by Christopher Wilde
The over use of the expression deadbeat dad is a personal affront. I'm especially upset when I hear it used in national news reports where what the reporter really means to say is deadbeat parents. Not all deadbeats are dads. The truth is mothers fail to pay child support at rates higher than men but because women make up such a disproportionate number of those ordered to pay they go virtually unnoticed. I get upset because such mistakes leave my children and me out of the picture. A false perception has been created that deadbeat is synonymous with men much in the same way people assume all women are maternal.
I am the custodial father of my two children; their mother is continually in arrears anywhere from one hundred dollars to two thousand dollars. On several occasions she's held money in her possession for months before dropping the check in the mail. She does this as a means to try and punish me. She only punishes our children.
Deadbeat dad, the phrase paints a picture of a missing man someone in hiding both physically and financially. We think of them as men who don't visit their children and don't seem to care if they ever see them. Dissected phrase and you have two words of violence, dead and beat. Do we really want to associate violence with dad? In contrast deadbeat mom sounds so foreign its almost hard to conjure up a mental image of such a person. Most of us have met a woman and children who are the victims of a deadbeat man. We may even have met that man. Few have met the woman. I know when people learn my x-wife doesn't pay her child support you can see in their eyes they have no concept, no frame of reference for deadbeat mom. Most people can't get past the idea that she doesn't have custody.
While using the term deadbeat dad may be intended as a pejorative to shame men in our society its unequal application really just labels all fathers. The distinction can be seen in the way we view child custody. When a woman has custody of her children it is perceived as natural. When a man has custody of his children people want to know who their mother murdered with an ax. That we love our children, wanted our children, and wanted the responsibility as well as the joy of taking care of our children doesn't factor. In comparison to women who have custody very little public sympathy is afforded on men. Few seem to care if the distinction is made between deadbeats but a lack of child support payments are just as stressful on fathers as they are on mothers.
While women are seen as mothers todays men are not as readily seen as fathers. In New Zealand Philip Chapman, the president of the Nelson-based Father and Child Society received complaints over posters that showed fathers with their children. Among the series one showed a father dancing with his teenage daughter, another picture showed a man in the bath with his young children. Would either of these photos drawn fire had it been mothers in the pictures? Even though the pictures show no hint of malice or wrong doing clearly some look at these pictures of father and children and see something unsettling. Is this not an indicator of a generally negative perception of fathers in our society?
It's not that I want more recognition of deadbeat moms. Frankly I go out of my way to hide from my children that their mother doesn't pay her court ordered support. If they ask her for something she tells the children that I should be able to buy them anything they want because she sends money every month. A blatant lie that I am left to cover. It's a lie I cover because I wish to protect my children from feeling as if they have to worry about money. I also don't wish to use the fact that she hasn't paid as a means to influence the children's view of their mother for good or bad.
If there is any recognition to be gained I would like it to be an equal recognition for fathers both in and out of marriages. Today most men are equally domestic. We cook, we clean, we are breadwinners, and we spend time with out children. Outside of actually giving birth and breastfeeding, men hold in equal capacity, every single ability women have to love and take care of our children. A fact made all the more poignant to me because I do it every day.
Deadbeat is not a reflection of gender, but a reflection of individuals. Using it in reference to one gender polarizes the other. It weakens the perception of fathers in our society and detracts from the positive perception men should hold as dads. If we allow deadbeat to become completely synonymous with man being a man becomes a natural excuse for not paying support. Good fathers, who care and sacrifice for children also become deadbeats merely by virtue of the fact that they are men.
Christopher can be reached by email at divorcecoach@attbi.com
With
Apologies to the Boston
Women's Health Book Collective©
By Gail G. Schimmelpfennig
"If one woman told the truth about her life, the world would split open." - Muriel Rukeyser
My first thought when I heard the words, "You have breast cancer" was that I didn't want to die. I'd known that something was wrong in that breast for around two years. It wasn't a "lump", though. In seventh grade I'd learned the warning signs of cancer. "A lump or thickening in the breast or elsewhere." Mine felt more like a disc. A flattened hard place behind my nipple. I imagined some sort of infection. And I couldn't afford a mammogram. Maybe next month I could get to a doctor, I kept thinking. Maybe next month.
October was Breast Cancer Awareness Month, and my husband saw a news feature on the subject that mentioned free or low-cost mammograms for low-income women through the Health Department. I called around until I found out where, and set up an appointment.
I was not a little stunned when, after a brief examination, they set me up with a surgeon. Over the next few days, I heard from my new surgeon, from the mammography technician, and from the radiologist that I should be prepared to hear I had cancer. When I got my biopsy results, though, I wasn't prepared. I don't know how anyone could be.
The good news was that because my breast cancer had been diagnosed through the Health Department program, I was automatically qualified for Medicaid for the duration of my treatment. The bad news, of course, was invasive ductal carcinoma. Under a half inch diameter, my doctor said.
A woman with a lump of this size is generally given a choice between mastectomy, the removal of the entire breast, and lumpectomy plus radiation. They sometimes call lumpectomy "breast conserving surgery" in the literature. Don't let that fool you. I can tell you that it only conserved a little over half. I was immensely grateful, though, to my surgeon, who worked hard to save as much of my nipple as he could manage. Every time I'd asked him more questions about my choices, I'd asked him to tell me again why he couldn't save my nipple. So he had a good idea of how important that small circle of pink flesh was to me.
Most of the news after the surgery was encouraging. No lymph node involvement, clear margins, estrogen and progesterone positive, which means more easily treated. But my tumor turned out to be larger than they'd thought, big enough that they recommended chemotherapy. Big enough, in other words, that it could have started to metastasize.
I'll lose enough breast to look thoroughly mutilated, I thought, and now they want me to lose my hair? Will I even be recognizable as female? Will I ever feel female again? And I felt kicked in the teeth when I learned my new health plan refused to cover "hair prostheses." The woman at the Health Department suggested borrowing a used wig from the Cancer Society. I started sewing hats and scarves. And somehow my husband came up with some money for a wig. God bless him.
Three months of chemo seemed like a life sentence when I started. I learned that all my fast-growing cells, the cancer cells plus my blood cells, hair follicles, and the lining cells of my mouth and digestive tract, would be attacked. I would have virtually no immune system, and would have to protect myself by avoiding people as much as possible. Thank goodness for telephones and e-mail! With each of my four treatments, I grew weaker and weaker. By the final treatment, I wasn't even allowed to eat fruits or vegetables that hadn't been peeled or cooked.
I didn't lose my hair all at once. I didn't lose it the first week, as I'd been warned to expect. I didn't ever lose it all. I lost maybe ninety-eight percent of it, mostly over a period of about three days. By the time I was spending an hour a day in the shower just trying to get the loose hair washed off, I knew it was time to shave. My husband refused, saying he was afraid to hurt me. He knew how painful my scalp had been for days. He took me to my barber, who didn't shave me, either. She buzzed me about a quarter-inch long. The rest came out quickly. For the rest of my chemo, I had maybe two dozen quarter-inch long hairs on my scalp. Decidedly not a pretty sight. In fact, I took to avoiding mirrors, so I wouldn't start to cry. The wig and hats saved my sanity. Well, whatever sanity survived.
My father had died in 1994 of lymphoma, though he had been diagnosed with three kinds of cancer. He had tackled surgery and radiation with a cheerful spirit, but stopped halfway through his chemo, and refused to go back. At the time, it had been a hard decision for me to accept. Chemo became the badge of courage for me, the proof of my superior determination to live. But his decision was no longer incomprehensible.
Almost a month into chemo I finally worked up the nerve to visit the boob shop. I'd been wearing a little round pad shaped of cotton knit and polyester stuffing that I'd sewn myself. A real silicone prosthesis (shell)with natural-looking droop made me feel almost normal-looking in my clothes. No nipple outline, but I could wear sweaters again!
I'd read about women who refused to look like they had before, who said no to both reconstruction and prostheses. Maybe I'm just too visual for that. I knew how distressed I was as a young working woman meeting older women whose dresses hung flat on one side. I didn't want to elicit distress or embarrassment or pity in people around me. Most of all, I didn't want to recoil every time I looked at myself in the mirror.
It was during chemo that I read a book listing all kinds of physical complaints along with the mental and emotional "failures" that had "caused" them. "Cancer personality" became a concept to struggle with. Yes, I had been sufficiently nurtured as a child. So how had I "caused" my cancer? Was it the years when my marriage had been so troubled? Was it my heartache over some of my daughter's challenges? Was I getting some weird "payoff" in the attention I was getting? After all, I'd never had so many floral arrangements before in my life. And my hat collection was blossoming.
It was clearly my own cells, not "alien invaders" which were causing my trouble. How could I visualize death rays or violence on a part of myself, as some suggested? Instead, I decided to imagine shrinking very small, and telling my cancer cells that I was finally ready to listen to them. That they didn't have to carry around all that anger any more. That I loved them and forgave them. I imagined that they explained their need to feel appreciated and valued, and then grew weary and asked permission to lie down. They became more and more lethargic, and curled up and died, their purpose finally met.
As I did my exercises every night to fight fatigue, I sometimes prayed, sometimes mentally sent love to each part of my body. A beloved niece, a music teacher, had told me of research on "toning" that suggested the right vibrations might destroy cancerous cells while leaving healthy cells intact. She said Gregorian chants were the perfect way to immerse my cells in "toning," so I listened religiously (and still do). Many friends and even experts agreed that attitude was all-important, perhaps even able to activate the immune system, so I tried to make positive thoughts part of my therapy.
Writing was another tool for expression and healing that I used regularly. I had been writing for several years when I learned my diagnosis. Taking out my grief and fear and anger and then shaping it into a poem made the emotion productive. It helped me feel like the person in charge, the shaper of the experience, not a mere patient.
I didn't dread radiation, like I had chemo. But I liked the fact that chemo didn't require undressing. Radiation did. Five days a week, for six weeks. I was tattooed with seven tiny dots, so that the equipment could be aimed at exactly the same spot each time. I missed once, when I was with my granddaughter at Primary Children's for an injury to her eye. So my schedule was lengthened by one more day at the end. For the first three weeks, I joked with my radiation oncologist that they weren't really turning on the machine. The fourth week, the fatigue hit. I was surprised that it was as exhausting as chemo had been. But I never "sunburned," like some women do.
By now, my hair was starting to grow back. Not the same hair, though. My new hair was curly. Too curly to style it the way I'd imagined I would during my bald months. They say that curl after chemo is common, and will probably last for a year or a few years, and then go back the way it was. By now, I had a new appreciation of hair; eyebrows, nose hair, pubic hair, you name it. All hair was welcome to grow!
After radiation was finished, the next step was taking tamoxifen for five years. Again I was given information and discussion time with my doctor. Again, after asking a long list of questions, I chose the recommended course. I had learned enough about myself to know that I needed to feel I was doing everything I could to give myself the best chance possible. My oncologist says I have around a 95% chance of never seeing this cancer again.
There are other risks. As I understand it, a history of breast cancer means an increased risk of another breast cancer, and of colon and uterine cancer. Some breast cancers bring an increased risk of ovarian cancer. Chemotherapy means an increased risk of leukemia. Tamoxifen means an increased risk of blood clots and two kinds of uterine cancer. "You pay your money and you take your choice," as the saying goes.
Statisticians keep track of cancer survival numbers. For most kinds of cancer, five years cancer-free is considered a "cure." Breast cancer, though, is a sneaky little animal. It can return ten or twenty years later, or even more. So I shall always have a certain "looking over my shoulder" feeling. But I declared myself in "remission," whatever that means, in June. No one has yet given me evidence to the contrary.
It always surprised me when someone would ask, as one person did, why I wanted reconstruction after a lumpectomy. "Because I lost almost half my breast! Because I'm now bagel-shaped! Because I feel mutilated!" I replied. My surgeon had told me that I couldn't heal from everything at once. That he would not support reconstruction until at least a year from the last surgery. That my body would need all its resources to heal from surgery, chemo, and radiation.
My husband says it doesn't matter. He says it's okay if I wear a prosthesis (or not even that) for the rest of my life. He says he wouldn't go through more surgery if he could avoid it. I know I'm lucky to have any feeling left in my treated breast. But I still dream of two breasts that look like they might match. That part of my journey is still ahead of me.
In June I was able to participate in the Image Reborn Retreat. Three days in a beautiful home in Park City with nine sister breast cancer survivors. It was immensely healing. I learned to love every woman there. Our unifying experiences had swept away the clutter, and made real heart-to-heart connections possible.
It was at the retreat that I met two women with metastatic cancer. It was like looking my worst fear in the face. But also strangely comforting to watch these women coping with grace, dignity, and honesty in the face of insurmountable odds. I realized that the notion of "beating cancer with a positive attitude" had deficiencies. Both of these women were beautiful, brave, loving people who didn't deserve to die. Both were dying. The differences between us started to melt away. I realized that all of us were doing the same thing; hoping and praying and doing the best we could every day, no guarantees. I realized that's the best any of us ever do.
I have some identity issues now. I almost feel like I should have a different name. (Gail Two? Gail Reborn?) I've experienced so much in the last eleven months that I don't think I'm the same person. I don't look the same. My family says I'm much nicer now. I've heard some women describe their cancer as a gift. Well, it's a rotten gift. But it's definitely a turning point. A woman who receives a diagnosis of breast cancer (as one woman in every eight will) can choose to face it or not face it. To grow or not grow. To live or die. I don't think it's possible to remain exactly the same.
I see my "cancer adventure" as both a physical journey and a spiritual journey. We both are and are not our bodies. If our bodies were not ourselves, life, health, birth, death, sex, rape, torture, food, music, color, dance, touch, perfume, shelter, and a million other things would have no meaning for us. They do have meaning. And yet, there is meaning beyond them. I don't think the separation is easy or automatic. I grew up disdaining my body, and all things not intellectual or spiritual. (My parents' view of living a "righteous" life.) I learned that that point of view was distorted. That we have bodies because we are meant to have bodies. That we experience joy and sorrow through our bodies because that is part of what it means to be alive. That this state of fragility has its exquisite meaning partly because of the breathtaking balance between life and death. Yes, I see a need to acknowledge and respond to the spiritual elements around me. And I must also acknowledge and respond to the physical elements, since I am alive. I've read that Buddhists say that it is an advantage to have a physical body, because it helps us to learn to focus on the moment. I think that our physical experiences can also be our spiritual ones.
Post-Lumpectomy
Tonight I am part woman,
part woman-shaped emptiness
as I stand before my mirror
not quite recognizing
this stub
now an un-breast that will never again
pucker with delight,
never again
nurture.
Milk is replaced with
liquid sorrow, a thin fluid
the color of sighs,
lacking all ability to reflect light,
lactation of loss,
ghost of what was
sacrificed.
Beneath The Bandage
Linting on tattered tips,
bandage tape peels slowly,
flapping longer each day,
taking with it
grain by grain
scabbed clumps of old blood,
my surgeon's purple diagram,
a few tiny hairs,
all illusion that what
remains
could resemble the smooth
white breast
I once scorned
as not pretty enough.
Comparative Losses
This is
my benchmark now,
the way to judge
all other losses.
Does it outweigh
the double handful
of straight brown hair
matted into wet pads
gathered from my shower drain
two and a half weeks
after my first
chemo?
After Surgery And Chemotherapy
I used to share smiles
with her,
my friendly co-conspirator,
admire her light eyes,
part clover honey
part milk chocolate,
ringed in shadow
like the growth
of ancient pines
in a still forest.
Now I avoid her,
glance sidelong
when we pass,
turn my back when I can.
I suspect she may be
avoiding me, too,
that bald, mutilated
woman in the mirror
I no longer want
to recognize.
To My Nipple
You blushed
like the underside of rose petals
in my garden of flesh,
your nectar
dripped like honey,
and hungry bees
swarmed through the air
humming drowsily
of warmth and wetness
and the round center bead
of all generosity.
This is the way
I shall remember you.
All poems by By Gail G. Schimmelpfennig
by Karen Squires
Adoption.The word conjures up images in the mind. For example, my mother would think of a cute little girl in a pretty dress. Me? Well 20 years ago when I was trying to adopt, it brought up images of a baby, my baby, girl or boy, cute and tiny. It also brought to mind the end of aching for a child. And at least temporarily, the end to infertility treatments. Most of all it would bring me something I desperately needed and longed for, to join in the ranks of motherhood. I wanted to feel like I belonged when surrounded by mothers and their children, which is a daily occurrence when living in Utah. I wanted nothing more than to feel like a normal family.
I lived in the small town of Springville when I brought my son home from the adoption agency. News travels fast in small areas and 1/2 the town knew of the adoption so there was no getting on with life as a "normal family" as everywhere I went people wanted to see the "adopted baby." On one hand I wasn't getting the normalcy that I longed for at all. But on the other hand I loved having a baby to hold and my son and I probably got more attention that most new mothers so it made up for the years of seeing others having fun with new babies and feeling left out.
Another woman living in Springville who had also suffered though years of infertility adopted a baby a few months after I did. You've heard people say that couples who are suffering from infertility just need to relax and they'll conceive. This lady became pregnant with twins when her adopted son was three months old. The news flashed across town in days and of course the added comment was "See, she just needed to relax." (Incidentally, relaxing is not the answer to infertility. The spontaneous pregnancy rate for the infertile couple who do not adopt is no lower than for those who do. And to suggest to a couple that they need to relax is counterproductive as they will stress out trying to. Also, think what wonderful birth control it would be to just wish not to be pregnant, or to be afraid that you may conceive). Over the next few weeks as I heard about this woman over and over, I was surprised, then amazed, then sickened at what people said. One person suggested that since she was now pregnant with twins she should give back her adopted baby, as if the baby were nothing more than an extra pair of shoes. Can you imagine the reaction if somebody suggested to a mother who became pregnant with twins when her biological son was three months old that she give her baby up for adoption as she now had two more on the way? It was quite obvious that there was confusion as to how much adoptive parents love their children.
When my son was about three months old I was at a friends house visiting. I was telling her that I was exhausted from a lack of sleep due to feeding my baby during the night. I expected her to understand as she had three small children of her own. Rather than understanding, I was saddened to be told that if my son were my own child I wouldn't mind the middle of the night feedings as I love him so much. I felt awful. I love my son desperately. Didn't other mothers feel tired from a lack of sleep? I knew they did. I'd head them saying it before many times. As I was strapping my son in his car seat to head back home I looked at his small delightful face and wondered if something were wrong with me. I knew there wasn't, but something was bothering me, something.
When he was 5 months old I called the adoption agency to see if I could hire a lawyer to finalize the adoption, something you have to wait six months after placement to do. I wanted to complete the adoption to give me piece of mind that that nobody could take him away. My adoption worker told me not to get a lawyer yet as they had tracked down my sons biological father(they hadn't known who he was before this) and were waiting to see if he wanted to claim paternity. She said this so calmly, almost flippantly, as if I were going to be giving back a car, not my child. I hung up the phone and felt instantly sick. I'd seen shows and read in papers of adoptive parents losing their children. I didn't want to be one of them. Wouldn't be one of them. I told my husband that if they tried to take my baby away I would flee to another country. Didn't people realize that I loved him as much as they loved their children!
Luck was on my side and the father said no. We went through court and he became legally ours although he was already ours by love.
I moved to another town to attend school when he was 5 years old. I didn't tell anyone that he was adopted. Nobody knew me, didn't know of my struggles with infertility and subsequent adoption. At last to be free of feeling different.
I made new friends. I didn't feel the need to tell them and it wasn't something that I even thought about most of the time. But every once in a while I'd wonder if they found out would they be upset with me for not telling them.
As my son grew up I heard many more naive comments. They were usually a remark to suggest that he was "just" adopted, somehow not as important as biological, I didn't care for him as much. They were made by mostly kind people who had a skewed notion of adoptive children's importance in their parent lives.
I was and still am a strong supporter of adoption. I cheer on friends who are in the adoption process. And I've always voiced my belief that parents of adopted children love them as much as biological parents do. I love my son so powerfully, how could anybody love a child more? I didn't have a biological child at that time so somebody could have challenged me by asking how I knew it.
I became pregnant when my son was 12 years old. I wasn't doing anything other than what brings most babies into the world. No infertility treatments, no timing, no bargaining with fate, or God. He just came along. When he was born I was very aware that this baby was something that I had made and I was thrilled to have a child that looked like me. When I had brought my older son home I had been very aware that I had not made him. After a few months that awareness left with both babies and was replaced by daily living. I don't think about how my children got here, they just are and I can now say without any possibility of questioning, that I love them both the equally.
Some people may feel that adoption is second best. I didn't but I let their comments get to me. It was my insecurity that allowed it. Adoption may cure childlessness but it does not cure infertility and it was unresolved feelings of failure in that area that I was struggling with. I remember when I was about 8 months pregnant with my youngest. I was driving down Redwood road, my belly was big, round, and bumping into the steering wheel. At that moment I had a revelation. I was no longer infertile. At that moment I was as fertile as they come. What surprised me even more was that it hadn't occurred to me until that moment. After 16 years of feeling inadequate it was so ingrained in me that I had to be 8 months pregnant to let it go. I'm back to being infertile again. My sons are 19 and 5 years old. I've had many miscarriages in the last two years. I still feel the pain of not being able to achieve what I see other women achieving every day but not as acutely as before. If I were to adopt another baby now I wouldn't even bat an eye at comments suggesting I loved him/her any less. I would however, gently let the person know that what they were saying was inappropriate.
My sister-in-law brought home her new adopted baby girl a week ago. I tried to call her to say congratulations but there was no answer. The message on their machines said "Sorry we missed you but we're having too much fun to come to the phone." My guess is that they're out buying cute little outfits for their very much welcomed and loved baby daughter. I'm incredibly jealous. I wish I had a new baby in my arms, adopted or home-grown.
FREE ARTICLE: You are free to publish this article on websites and print publications. You can also email it to friends and/or associates. We just ask that you include this information with the article and let us know where you published it. This article first appeared in The Wise Mother magazine, published in Salt Lake City, Utah. http://www.motherchronicle.com email karensquires1@msn.com
by Christy Bills
Living in a capitalist society, how you "vote" with your dollars is more important than how you vote at the polls. This concept empowers every American to make community-shaping decisions every day. Since giant corporations are more powerful and have larger impacts on the economy than many foreign nations and since these corporations have incredible lobbying power, supporting those corporations financially is voting for them as world leaders, agreeing with their policies, affirming the way they do business, and condoning how they treat employees and manufacturers. By choosing to "vote" for local businesses, you choose to keep more of your own money in your own community, since local businesses return a much larger percentage of their earnings to the communities that they are based in. Also, local businesses don't manipulate municipalities for tax breaks to the same astonishing degree that big businesses are able to. You are also choosing diversity, local flavor and the spirit of enterpreunership. If your dollars go to a local business that supports local artisans or manufacturers, you are also voting against exploiting the resources and labor of developing nations. So, how you spend your money greatly influences the shape of your community and allows you to affirm the kind of world that you want to live in.
What about how we choose to mother? I think motherhood has stricken all of us as a surprisingly life-changing experience. And along with that comes changes in philosophy and concerns about the world at large. Is breastfeeding a political act? You bet! By breastfeeding, mothers vote against the unnecessary environmental degradation and health risks posed by plastic and rubber nipples, bottles and formula cans. Nursing mothers are clearly voicing a commitment not just to their child's health and intelligence but to a world where women's bodies are respected for the power they have to nourish new life. As Gabrielle Palmer says in "The Politics of Breastfeeding"..."His ignorance blinds him to the fact that breastfeeding represents a defiance against a dependency upon the owners of capital." Hooray for defiance!
Voting for a doomed alternative third-party candidate is still an important act because the candidate who does win knows that a significant part of her constituency voted for alternative thinking. Similarly, our individual acts of breastfeeding will not put formula makers out of business but it does send a message to corporations, health care professionals, policy makers, employers and everyone who sees you nursing your child that women are shaping the world - one breastfed baby at a time.
Christy Bills
Collection Manager
Entomology Utah Museum of Natural History
Preserving the Shape of Your Pregnancy
By Sarah Carter
I love my belly. When I was a girl I loved to fill it with liquid and listen to it jiggle and giggle. Even as a teenager, I loved my "pooch" because I had a wise mother who taught me that "Women store a little fat in their belly to protect their wombs. It shows that you're getting ready to be a mother someday. It will keep your babies warm and safe." So when my friends were complaining about sit-ups not working and taking diet pills, I just smiled at my little tummy, content that it wasn't a flaw at all. Safe in my blue jeans was a protected vessel, ready to fill up with possibilities when the time was right.
Years later I married and became pregnant. I was healthy and happy. After 12 weeks of grey-green mornings, I began to glow. And soon after, my beautiful belly began to grow. My co-workers noticed it, my parents commented on it. My husband reveled in it. One day I caught my reflection as I walked past a floor-to-ceiling window. I was wearing a peach sweater and looking particularly full, and I suddenly thought, I look like a fruit! When I was thirteen they said I was "blossoming" and now I was ripening on the vine. I felt like a garden, walking around. It wasn't all radiance and happy days-my growing belly itched as the skin stretched, and some days the walks to and from campus made my legs ache. But then I would come home, and sit with my belly, talking to my baby, singing to her. When I gave birth, I was surprised how much I longed to have her back inside me.
A few years later, as I tried to conceive my second child, I was shocked at how few pictures of my first pregnancy we had, and how... flat they seemed. I wanted more of a record with my second pregnancy. I made my dubious husband take pictures of my belly, stretch marks and all. Then I heard about belly casting. To make a plaster sculpture of my belly seemed like the perfect homage to my journey through pregnancy and birth. I was surprised as I did some research. It wasn't as difficult as it sounded. Birthing From Within, one of my favorite birth books, had easy to follow instructions. I bought the supplies and coached my husband through the casting.
I ended up making two casts of that pregnancy, one of my torso at 6 months, and one of my belly the night before she was born. I decorated them and gave one to the Birth and Family Place birth center, saving the other for my bedroom. It stands on my wall, reminding me of the journey I'm on, a woman and her belly.
Sarah Carter is a certified doula and teaches childbirth education classes based on the book, Birthing From Within at the Birth and Family Place. At the first Pregnancy and Birth Fair, she did a demonstration of belly casting, and looks forward to doing another one as soon as there is a demand.
Here are
few web sites that you can visit to read more about belly casting.
http://www.bellycasters.com
http://www.bellycast.com
http://www.yourbirthconnection.com