Namastè!
I hope you're well-rested and glowing!
I'm not well-rested at the moment. I'm a bit sleepy! Baby Namastè's going through what I hope would be a growth spurt, and he cluster feeds at night.
Yes, he's 14 months old and still wakes occasionally. No, I'm not in a hurry for him to not wake. Fourteen months is hardly enough time to behave like anything but a toddler, and toddlers are entirely governed by their internal cues. Tonight, that cue governs that he nurse.
I digress.
Before I get into this one, let me remind you: I'm NOT an MD and I'm not a doula. I'm a mother, just like a fair slice of my audience. This blog is not a platform to shame or chastise, but to state my opinions and observations. You're welcome to disagree, but do understand the difference between me actually being vitriolic versus me saying something you disagree with or flat out dislike.
I recently returned to my social media! For a brief span I took a break. It burns me out. But as I browse and skim my newsfeeds on what I call the written social media--forums, message boards, and the Facebook--I am somewhat reminded why the hiatus felt so good in the first place.
The MOMpetition.
What?
The MOMpetition. The usually-harmful competitive edict among mothers to have the perfect pregnancy, delivery, then be perfect mothers to their perfect babies.
The most aggravating part of it (at the moment) is what I like to call the birth'lympics. Mothers all but drool over, and will beat themselves up for not having, the perfect delivery: unmedicated vaginal delivery, complete with minimal intervention, flower crowns and flawless makeup (those selfies gotta pop, no?). Bonus points awarded for hiring a photographer, who capture all those glorious moments leading up to the delivery of a cherubic newborn who sleeps through the night from day one and never fails to latch.
Why are these goals? Aside from the safest possible delivery, who added all the stipulations?
Because somewhere, someone deemed it bad or undesirable to have anything except that specific unicorn birth. (Please don't let that term become a thing. I'm barely accepting that we still use natural birth--I'll dish on that later.)
Specific bone of contention?
The fear-mongering doctors and moms alike lavish on those of us who have breech babies!
"Ohhh, was labor long?"
"Not really. I had to have a cesarean because Baby was breech."
*cue breech mama's head drop of shame*
But WHY. WHY drop your head. There isn't anything shameful about a cesarean, whether baby is breech or not. But there is something woefully wrong with blindly trusting a doctor who does not go over all your options. This person is monitoring your health and your baby's so exactly why would they casually suggest major surgery if it isn't absolutely required?
I'm specifically upset about how my breech mamas are basically coerced into cesarean deliveries that may not be necessary.
Note: I really hope this is coming off in the right vein. Every time I mention a cesarean I get an onslaught of emails justifying it. I'm not judging yours, whether you chose it other or it was a necessity! Your birth, your choice. Ah! CHOICE. The situations I'm addressing involve not knowing you HAVE a choice, and trying my best to bolster the confidence of someone just on the cusp of delivery dismay so she not only knows her choices but utilizes them.
I'm in favor of a safe delivery for mom and baby. Period. Whether it's vaginal, cesarean, or magic UPS truck. What I'm not in favor of is the lack of knowledge, preparation, and backbone in us moms (and a desire for a quick delivery and paycheck in doctors) that has led to the giant spike in cesarean births. They used to be only given in cases of medical necessity and now it seems like doctors schedule them as casually as an afternoon lunch date.
See, I speak from experience--I've had both a unicorn birth experience and a not-so-magical experience, and both my babies were breech. I totally understand where the desire to have YOUR personal best birth experience dwells, as well as how a breech delivery can alter that, because I have been there. Twice.
Story time!!!
When I delivered Princess Namastè, I was only 22 years old. I, at the time, knew only that I wanted a healthy pregnancy, an easy delivery, and to breastfeed my little cherub afterward. I got the easy pregnancy (hyperemesis notwithstanding), but the delivery was painful, lengthy, and harrowing. She was breech, presenting head up toward my ribs, feet down. She stood in the womb! I cried. I cried more. But because my doctor never gave me any indication I could not deliver vaginally, I did just that.
After a painful, painful labor and exhausting delivery, my little baby was rushed off to be attended to while I was stitched up. (I sustained a 4th-degree tear--shouts out to that horrendous and possibly unnecessary episiotomy!)
I didn't know I could refuse the episiotomy. I never asked if there was a way to avoid it. In fact, I rarely questioned my doctor about anything. I didn't know I could. Oh, how unprepared I was.
I mean, I took great care to make sure we had everything she would need in her room at home, and my hospital bag was packed in 100% accordance with the list I found in shine magazine or other. I had all the "right" toys and gadgets. Our coming-home outfits were coordinated.
I didn't know I could decline an episiotomy, though. Nor did I not know I had the right to know precisely what was happening on the business end of things in that delivery room. This was my obstetrician's nurse, the person who was trained and skilled in baby delivering! I didn't have a birth plan, I didn't ask questions. I was programmed to believe childbirth was a miserable experience, so the only thing I did to attempt to make it less so was TRUST. I put my trust in the nurses. Not myself.
I delivered her at 1:17 in a room with a nurse who only seemed aggravated that it was taking so long. A nurse who, despite all the monitors and tests indicating a real possibility of needing that cesarean, did not care.
Recovery was hell. Caring for a newborn is a stretch for any mom those first few weeks, but I had my "fresh ripped new one" and a baby with health problems to contend with on top of the plethora of new mommy emotions and discomforts.
In 2006, I was not an active presence online other than to shop. I didn't get my judgment online. Nope. Got it all in person!
I was in NO way prepared for the judgment. For that first year, unicorn mommies dressed me down for everything from having that epidural to not breastfeeding long enough. (Princess Namastè's nursing was cut short when my supply tanked 8 months postpartum. I didn't have a lactation consultant or a selection of high-end breastpumps back then, y'all.) I didn't feel dismayed by the unicorns, but I was determined that my next birth would go differently. I honestly didn't not feel less thrilled with my induction into motherhood!
Fast forward nine and a half years, to 2016.
When Hubby Namastè and I decided to expand our roster, we researched pregnancy and its complications. We researched delivery options. We decided we wanted to try for that unicorn birth.
When we got the big fat positive, we had already decided we would be seeing Doctor A. I'd have a doula this time also. We prepared a list of questions for both.
Let me tell you--you cannot predict how your pregnancy or delivery will go. Each one is different. I don't care who you are, there are no exemptions.
I had the dreaded hyperemesis, but I knew more about my options. After requiring several trips to the hospital for treatment, I decided to have medication and intravenous nutrition. I was on bed rest 30 of those 37 weeks. My unicorn of a pregnancy turned into a heaving hydra with a belly full of upright baby.
Did I like it? NO.
But it made no less wonderful, the anticipation of our son's delivery.
Baby Namastè was frank breech. After a failed ECV (external cephalic version--a procedure in which a doctor massages and manipulates the external abdomen to turn the baby so their head faces down toward the birth canal), he remained so. The ECV was originally thought to be successful BUT I literally felt him turn back.
Ouch.
When offered a cesarean, I declined. Baby's vitals were fine. ECV aside (it's a painful procedure, period), I was fine too.
Breech babies do not always have to be delivered by cesarean. (In fact, the vast majority of cesarean performed today are not medically necessary.)
I did not want a cesarean. More power to those who have walked that talk like a boss; alas, I am not among you! I was terrified of the recovery, but even more terrified of having an elective surgery when my body could very well do its job if I just let it.
"Tays, if you really want to do this, you have to trust yourself and me."
My OB is kind of a really big deal for that.
The OB met with another doctor, and then they both met with us. Game plan: we could deliver Baby Namastè vaginally. I consented, armed with information and reassurance, to a cesarean in the event that our baby shower any distress. I also agreed to pain management--I would not take meds unless my blood pressure increased. We proceeded.
I delivered my frank breech baby boy at 10:05 that night. Four ten-count pushes and he was out! He was healthy, and I felt so empowered. Not because of a perfect delivery--it wasn't. I bled, a LOT. I also tore, alas not a 4th-degree tear, thank goodness.
I felt empowered because I made the conscious effort to effect my desires result. While I didn't have perfect selfies or a flower crowns, I did get the delivery that ignorance and blind trust robbed me of before. Essentially, being informed and having a good team who respected my wishes yielded me an amazing peace.
It still wasn't a unicorn birth. Immediately after delivery, I was stitched up. I received an epidural when Baby Namastè was 20 minutes old. (I injured my pelvis in delivery, and by injured I mean fractured--I needed that pain relief, y'all.)
We didn't master his latch instantly. We didn't take those fantastic photos. My face was not beat to the gods, y'all. Instead I looked like I'd been beaten.
It seems like I took you all around the world, huh?
Nope.
My point is this: The only real differences in my two deliveries was the trust I put in my body and the information I had at my disposal to make decisions. What made the second delivery better was not the absence of pain and discomfort, but the absence of a self-defeating mindset.
I didn't escape unjudged. Moms chastised me.for not getting pain relief. Moms leapt into my inboxes defending their cesarean, as if my avoidance somehow undermined their value. Others still insisted I endangered my son and myself. (NOPE, we were carefully monitored the entire time.)
It boils down to confidence--in ourselves and our medical teams.
STOP justifying your deliveries, breech mamas. You did what you could, with what information and support you had. If you chose a cesarean, that's fine. If you chose vaginal, that's fine too.
Just know you have a choice. That's all I wanted to convey here, that we always have a choice. The first step to asserting that choice is finding your voice, getting the courage to stand up and ask questions. Get information. Don't be passive, not in pregnancy and not in planning and executing your delivery. You
Namastè!
-- Tayè K. ♡
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