I like the part of the book where I'm supposed to let go of anything traveling through my brain and simply ride the waves of my rhythmic risings. Rhythmic risings sounds much better than contractions, and while I want to believe every word of this guide to hypnobirthing, I keep on stopping to check and see if my brain is truly empty, if I am feeling a rhythmic rising foaming at the base of my uterus, if I'm ready, if I'll ever be ready, if I've wiped down the counters especially that corner where there's an ant trap and what kind of hypnobirthist traps ants anyway?
My due date is Halloween. By November first I'm rubbing my belly like a genie bottle, trying to conjure up a contraction. My two-year-old decides for an afternoon activity we should pick up leaves from the apartment courtyard, which seems distracting enough. Until she makes a beeline for the poisonous berry bush.
I don't know for a fact that they are poisonous. They are small, bright red buttons peeking through the mud and crumpled leaves. Of course my sweet daughter is attracted to them and I beg her to come inside but she continues to place them in her hand, then inch them towards her mouth.
"No!" I yelp. So much for gentle parenting. I bring her into the apartment where she clutches the berries in her tight fist. For a compromise, we lay them out on the couch cushions and practice counting. Having lived with OCD for 36 years, I am an expert counter and my daughter loves to repeat her one, two, three's. We make a great team. Only, when I turn to put her soup on the stove for supper, one of the berries goes missing. We clearly had nine just a minute ago and now there are eight. Asking her where the last one went does nothing. She is two. She smiles and says yes when I ask her if she dropped it. Then she smiles and says yes when I ask if she ate it. I make her wash her hands with me, rubbing our palms together a bit roughly, as I try to explain,
"I'm sorry Mama gets so upset. It's just this is hard for her. She gets nervous. You have a crazy mama, I'm sorry but it's true." While she dribbles soup on herself in the highchair I pull apart all the couch cushions and scrape through the carpet, still trying to make sense of my actions for both her and myself.
"It's just...it could make someone sick. And I don't want anyone sick. I love you so much and I don't want a berry to hurt you. You're such a good girl and I'm sorry. Mama's sorry she's like this..."
One day I will have to come up with a better explanation of OCD for my children. Yes, children! Maybe the case of the missing poisonous berry is what puts me over the edge. Hours later my husband inspects the couch and floor, assures me the berry is gone and that I should come to bed. The next morning, as I wake up, my body has clearly taken over. My water breaks when I sit up in bed. I tiptoe to the bathroom to pinch myself, to know this is real.
The next twenty-four hours are truly miraculous. And for all of my pooh-poohing, the words of that hypnobirthing course did help channel my thoughts into a space I never knew I had. An empty room that was just off the attic stairs, but I'd been cramming so many old shoeboxes and obsessions into that musty attic I'd never thought to open the door...
I won't give you the detailed account of the entire day. I can't remember it all anyway - and this is the part that I already miss, just two weeks later. That all-consuming and literally breath-taking activity of my body being everything. Each conversation about the midterm elections I tried to start I lost halfway through. I know at some point I was trying to impress my midwife with a story about different types of spaghetti sauce. I also know before the final push I made my husband turn on the news because I was sure there was a breaking story I needed to see. Almost like my brain was grasping at any attempt to prove it was in charge. But gloriously, it wasn't.
Our son came into this world at 6:57 am on November 3. I felt him slide from me and heard his cries, smelled his sweet warm skin as he was placed on my chest and his new breath, his never-before-beenness, the sheer weight of his physical body. All of this even before I knew if he was a boy or a girl. Before my mind had time to register this is the most amazing moment ever.
I still remember the overwhelming bliss of my daughter's birth. The love that jolted and quaked through me, rending me both giddy and helpless. What I don't remember, what maybe is completely new about me now, is this choice I need to make when my son is born. In many ways I feel like a newborn this time. I have to decide whether to jump right back on shore and plant my feet, or try to ride those rhythmic risings longer. I cannot live in labor, obviously, but I can carry some of its pure joy and unpredictability with me. I can dedicate myself to following through on my breath and quieting my mind so I can feel, hear, see, taste, touch more fully. So I can hold my children with patience and honest attention.
Two weeks later, I am still trying to find this new flow. I have cut back on a lot of my daily rituals, whether it was kisses and repetitions I needed to say each morning, or drinking a certain amount of water, brushing my teeth in a specific direction. I also am trying to incorporate new daily practices. Gently. I read to my new child from Thich Nhat Hanh. I try to feed him with the television and phone off. Even now, as I type this, I hold him in my arms, hoping I can live up to my ideals of a new mom. Asking him to please give me another chance when I yelp about the poisonous berries in the courtyard. Leaning in to feel his calm, extraordinary, new breath.
