The Natural Birth Movement

I learned of Ina May Gaskin and the birth movement that she is so known for, after the birth of my first child; I'd had a nightmarish, medicalized hospital birth and felt reasonably sure that I needn't perpetuate that legacy for the deliveries of my subsequent children. The current trend of highly medicalized births in the US is something that I've always found disconcerting; it took my own experience for me to take steps to educate myself about birth options, birth practices throughout the rest of the world, and the best way to spread a message that isn't just overlooked, but I find to be critical to the ongoing health and wellness of mothers and babies, nationwide.

In the early 1971, Ina May Gaskin and her husband, Stephan, bought a parcel of land in southern Tennessee that became know as The Farm. What started as a communal living space has become known the world over as the home of one of the premiere birthing communities and learning venues for birth without intervention and fear. Listed below are a few links to websites that discuss Ina May and her work as a pioneering midwife with a career that began in the 1960s and has spanned every decade since with no signs of slowing down.

She has worked tirelessly to bring women to and through labor and delivery in a calm, natural setting without intervention and invasive procedures. She believes fully in the female body and its ability to birth freely in its own time, on its own terms. She has made strides in the birth movement such that she actually has a medical procedure named after her, The Gaskin Maneuver; this is a method by which practitioners are able to deliver babies with shoulder dystocia without surgical intervention, nor with an end result of an infant having a broken collar bone.

http://www.inamay.com/

http://www.nytimes.com/2012/05/27/magazine/ina-may-gaskin-and-the-battle-for-at-home-births.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0

Here is the description of her latest book, taken from the jacket of Birth Matters: A Midwife's Manifesta, published on March 22, 2011 by Seven Stories Press; forward by Ani DiFranco.

 

Renowned for her practice's exemplary results and low intervention rates, Ina May Gaskin has gained international notoriety for promoting natural birth. She is a much-beloved leader of a movement that seeks to stop the hyper-medicalization of birth—which has lead to nearly a third of hospital births in America to be cesarean sections—and renew confidence in a woman's natural ability to birth.
Upbeat and informative, Gaskin asserts that the way in which women become mothers is a women's rights issue, and it is perhaps the act that most powerfully exhibits what it is to be instinctually human. Birth Matters is a spirited manifesta showing us how to trust women, value birth, and reconcile modern life with a process as old as our species.

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Sharing the work of Ina May Gaskin and midwives nationwide is something very close to my heart; it's my honor to use this platform to further spread the information that every woman deserves to know before, during and after her pregnancy and delivery. My third child was delivered in the comfort of my living room with an amazing midwife and her assistant in attendance; it was a life-changing experience for which I will forever be thankful.

In The Lap of Luxury

"Sorry for the bad vacation genes." - My mom, often

We call it The Swanson Family Curse - a widely known and oft joked about curse that has plagued every vacation we have ever attempted; dating from the early 70s, it has followed each of us girls on into our adult lives, never far from anyone's mind. Nevertheless, some of my fondest memories come from our obligatory family trip every summer, always via car, van, or rented RV because, you know, my parents were afraid of flying. Two adults, four daughters and one Astro van: what's not to love? In the interest of full disclosure I should mention that my two eldest sisters were out of the house and no longer vacationing with us by the time I was six. Lucky, lucky, those two.

There was nothing that the Swansons couldn't conquer in a larger-than-anticipated motorhome that terrified our conservative, drive-it-like-you're-85 father. Seriously, the one we got the summer of 1995 was enormous, an error in the reservation process from the rental company, apparently. The first three hours of the trip from western Wisconsin to Yellowstone National Park consisted of my older sister and I tucked up in the overhead bunk area, giggling and spying on our parents, below. The tension radiating from Dad was thick enough to feed all of us for dinner, though I think that's what they were going for.

More than once we heard our mom quietly suggest that it might be time to stop and "feed the girls" to which dad eventually snapped back "I can't park this thing in anything smaller than an airplane hangar; they can eat tomorrow morning." By the third day of driving, Dad had learned to navigate the rig as best as he'd be able for the remainder of the trip, which is to say, stressfully and at painfully slow speeds.

*This may not be my family, but it sure as hell could have been.

It seemed to take at least six months but we finally finished the long, flat trip through one of the Dakotas - does it matter which one? Because really, it'd be a crying shame to miss a single landmark in the desolate, flat, treeless vista that is The Dakotas, right? We barreled on into Montana with Yellowstone in our sights and relative peace in the confines of our little (enormous) home-away-from-home-on-wheels, though once we hit the park our trip headed steadily downhill. And fast.

*Something my parents totally would have done. By accident. Awesome.

A bear broke into our RV one evening while we were at a restaurant eating dinner, helped himself to the contents of the "kitchen" cabinets then shat on the rug before heading down the lane to the next campsite. We missed Old Faithful not once, but three mother loving times before we finally pinned her down; lemme tell you something, the name is as ironic as it gets. I spent almost every minute of the trip with motion sickness rivaling the aftermath of a 24-hour ride on a Tilt-a-Whirl because of the mountain switch-backs that are fricking everywhere in um, well, The Mountains.

The trip back to Wisconsin was fraught with near-constant bickering between my sister and I; I was bored, carsick and did I mention bored? She was in college, home with us for the summer and missing the daylights out of her boyfriend, Dan - but you can call him Tree. Because that was his nickname. Whatever. Because the fighting was enough to make our parents a little stabby, we took an extra-long stay-over in Cody, WY.

*This isn't us. Why, you ask? Because they're smiling, that's why.

While there we ate at a great restaurant, took in a rodeo and our toilet overflowed. Continuously. All the way back to Wisconsin. The last night of our trip was spent at a campground a mere 20 miles from the RV rental company because we arrived back in the area after they'd already closed for the day. We took turns using an empty Cool Whip container to scoop out the oozing toilet water while my dad spent the entire evening underneath our temporary home, doing his damndest to fix the issue before we had to return it with blue sewer water sloshing out all over the carpet, waving goodbye to our damage deposit. At 11:45 pm he came tearing into the RV - bleeding profusely from the head - started the engine and raced around to the dumping station, whooping and shouting with joy all the way. We were terrified.

Turns out, there was a secondary sewer valve that led to a holding tank and somebody had switched it to the "closed" position. The kinds folks at RV-Trainers-R-Us failed to point out the valve to my dad, thus the overflow and loss of our sweet on-board toilet for fully half of our trip. I'm not sure who was more relieved to be done with this lovely memory-making family vacation - the adults or the bored, unimpressed offspring. Though it may have been a typically disastrous Swanson family vaca, at least we have hilarious stories to carry with us, right? Right?!



*All photo credits to https://awkwardfamilyphotos.com

I Hate Your Kids

Aside from my general lack of desire to be around children that I haven't made, the primary reason I dislike children is a direct result of craptacular parenting. Specifically lazy, indulgent, non-parenting. We all know a parent or ten like this and I'm willing to wager that you have a specific family in mind right now.

My personal favorites come in two varieties: lazy and crunchy. The lazy ones often allow their children to do, say, act and behave in any which way with no consequence, no conscience, nor any guidance towards socially acceptable behavior. The sort of parent who says, often and with entitled dismissal, "It's not worth arguing with her, so I just let her do whatever she wants." Well now, that's exciting, isn't it? I look forward to hearing all about how that's working out for you when she hits puberty. Actually, nevermind, I don't want to hear anything about it - besides, I wouldn't be able to stop myself from offering lots of judgey-preachy-passive-aggressive comments about what a horseshit parent you were when she was three.

While this lazy parent is bad, equally awful is the crunchy parent who believes that he/she is offering his/her offspring the very finest upbringing by not tainting the child's experiences with rules or boundaries of any kind. Resultant behavior: kids who come barreling into your home with muddy shoes and immediately begin jumping on the couch. Yes, this actually happened to a close friend of mine. The mother of said offenders never made any motion to correct her children, nor to inquire about the rules of the home in which they were guests.

Crunchy parents can often be heard lamenting the state of education and processed foods while their children are peeing on your new shrubs and making a mural in your newly painted master bathroom with every lipstick you own. And be prepared for the lecture and shaming you'll get when their parents find out they've been handling toxic, chemical-ridden cosmetics - "I mean really, do you even care about your children?!"

Never have I ever uttered anything along the lines of "He's just expressing himself; I don't like to stifle any of his creativity." while my son colors your brand new siding with rocks. Nor will I excuse my daughter's violence towards your cat by explaining that "She's just not familiar with small pets and her aggression is a natural reaction to your cats' encroachment on her personal space." Again, actual scenarios from friends...

I'm often overwhelmed as a single parent to three children - ages 2, 3, and 4 - and while it may seem like an appealing idea to throw in the towel, take a nap and let the wee ones roam free and do as they please, the fantasy is much more rose-colored than the reality. Reality being that your free-range kids act like jackwagons and are the reason you and I can't be friends.