Becoming Human Again

To All MOMS EVERYWHERE...you are so blessed. Blessed to be a mom. Blessed to expecting. Blessed to be adopting. Motherhood is definitely the highlight of my life. Every day a challenge-pushing me to be better, and to be a problem solver which has generated more knowledge than I was really ever hoping to acquire.

Mackenzie made this "card" for me. She is twelve, and her creativity stuns me. She wants to learn the guitar, so she picked up Daddy's guitar and found a youtube lesson, and...there she is...playing...singing...developing into the person God made her to be. I am so blessed.

Recently, I started righting a memoir and did a whole chapter on birth since the book is about my family, and my mom home birthed me. The chapter is pretty raw. I haven't even proofread it, but I can either write it again, or link it for those interested. I love the story because my mom is required to home birth by my Dad, and she is petrified.  Let's link to it.

I was looking at this blog, and there have been tons of comments and I never got them, so I read them today. Ugh. I am such a bad blogger. I need to read a book on how to blog or something....in all of my spare time. Please forgive me if I did not respond to anyone-well, everyone. I kind of wrote this blog as a way to honor pregnancy, natural birth, and squeezing out watermelons in the hot tub, but once I had Miley, well...things got sort of busy. 

I'm not sure why, but when you have your last child, and yes, I did say last. I think I'm too vain for a 15 passenger van...you go into a funky land-and it takes awhile to get back. I think I was in funky land for five years, and I 'm just beginning to feel human again. Maybe its' the only insurance God and my husband have against me having five more??? I liked birthing, and the whole process, but every person has to acknowledge their magic number, and I think mine is five.

Now, if I start blogging another pregnancy-tomorrow, don't judge. 

Our family talks ourselves out of pregnancy almost every day. And the more time goes by; the more I feel human, the more attractive another baby sounds-actually, when I write it like that I realize now I'm really struggling with a mental problem. I have taken FIVE YEARS to recover my fifth birth, and yet, I am PINING over having another child? 

Maybe I should go to Pregnancy Addicts Anonymous-or maybe I should start one. I know of several ladies from our church I could sign up, well, actually just one. I think she's on number nine-We could chat about our sicko addiction, and then talk each other into having another baby, and then get all excited that we are pregnant at the same time and have ladies church baby showers for each other, and co-write a blog.  Nope. I need to keep my addiction to myself and keep crooning over my five year old baby and begging her not to grow up. And also, to convince her to STOP CUTTING HER OWN HAIR after I've paid for a designer cut.

Well. All of that to say that I have just run a half marathon. Yes. You can clap for me now. 

I am having a 13.1 charm engraved for myself to put on my own charm bracelet and hope that someone standing in line at Target sees when I jingle the bracelet just right. Yes. I know you are jealous...although...Mark and I signed up for the next to slowest time available. They almost had to open the roads back up and let us just finish on the sidewalk.  Wow. There's a lot of fast people in Nashville.  30,000 to be exact. And, although it feels like cheating, we run 2.5 minutes, then walk 1 minute. Maybe that's why we are so slow.

Anyway. I have ten extra pounds on my body. I think its' all in my midsection, definitely nowhere near my boobs. I think I lose weight starting at my toes-they look more like little thin frail things once I'm at my goal weight, and of course, my face is one of the first to go-edging me to closer to a Mick Jagger look-super fun. Slowly, weight creeps off my body until FINALLY, the grand finale two pounds come off and I have a flat stomach again. And then, it's time to get pregnant again. JK. Ugh. So when Mark and I started training for this half marathon-in January-I felt like Fat Albert running down the road. 

My feet thudded heavily on the pavement and my backside wiggled and jiggled to the music piping through my headphones. I was sure I was dying, and I've always been a fit person, so nearness of death or passing out add insult to injury. 

Thankfully, I got that one minute walk after the two minute run, and it was my carrot that kept me running. When we ran the race, Mark seemed to suddenly think we were running the whole thing, and I just wouldn't do it. I did not sign up for a race. I signed up for a test of "survival". I just wanted to finish-isn't that the American dream?  Every time we passed an ambulance, I was thankful I was not being peeled off the pavement by the nice EMS person inside.

At the running expo, someone gave me some sort of jelly beans that make you keep going. Sports beans. I at a bean a mile. I hope they weren't laced with something because they sure helped. Thirteen beans later, I wasn't really even sweating that badly. Too bad I didn't know about the beans a long time ago!! A case of beans would have been helpful in January.

So, after we ran this morning-I realized I didn't feel like fat Albert anymore. I have only lost a couple of pounds, but I feel strong. Stronger than I have in a long time, and that's when it hit me, I'm becoming human again. Really, a better reward than a 13.1 charm. Although, I'm still getting the charm.

When I was pregnant, I was always pretty anemic. Postpartum, I still dealt with feelings of exhaustion-and lethargy. I read about getting vitamin B shots and those helped A LOT!! In fact. I was able to order them online, and Mark gave me the shots. They lasted about six days, and then I felt draggy again, so the seventh day was perfect timing for another shot. If you have pregnancy mask that has not gone away-take some B12 sublingual drops and it will go away in 4 weeks or less. For some reason, when we are pregnant all of the b12 leaves us...which is a feel good vitamin....

Another trick was Floradix Iron plus herbs. I was super tired last summer and one of my friends said she takes it every day and it helps her energy levels so much. I ordered the super sized bottle-and oila! what a big difference it made. I hope this helps all of those who feel like they could lie down on the sidewalk and take a nap right this second. 

My Mom's Homebirth Experience-1973

“But as for me, the nearness of God is my good.” Psalm 73:28a

HOMEBIRTH??? That was Daddy’s requirement of my mother. He “didn’t care if they had children together, but if they did, she would home birth”. My mom, a city girl who liked the chloroform she was given on her first three births, was chagrined. Her life was over. She wanted babies with this man, but she had no idea how to have a baby on her own.

Whenever a dilemma struck my mother, she headed to the library. There must be an answer there. And so her first visit to the downtown Nacogdoches library was in search of “how to have a baby.” Sure, she’d had three, but she had zero recollection of the births. Completely knocked out, she awoke to her new bundles of joy. 

Homebirthing seemed so primitive and outlandish, she wanted to be as prepared as possible. In her search for help, she found a record on the Bradley method of birthing. With the help of our record player, she listened to the nylon self-help recording over and over again. As the record spun round and round on our record player, Mom breathed, she stretched, she imagined, she embraced, she relinquished. 

She also found a book called “Natural Childbirth and the Family” by Helen Wessel. The book adheres to Dr. Grantly Dick-Read, the great pioneer of the natural childbirth philosophy, teacher of women and families, helping the woman to get in harmony with a natural and wonderful process, and to connect with God and with the baby in a supernatural process we call birth. He desired that women actively “give birth” instead of being passively “delivered.”

My mom’s book, copyright 1969, is now one of my most treasured possessions. All of her underlines draw me in to her soul, connecting me with her on a deep level. She underlines all the way until the last page. Sometimes its’ a green highlighter, sometimes it’s yellow, and then there are those times when she’s in the bath and the only highlighter she can find is that darn pen that hangs out by the bathtub, and she can’t help but underline yet another part: “The first chapter of Exodus reveals that the women in Moses day gave birth easily and often with out assistance. Moses himself was born to his mother without her receiving assistance, or his presence would have been known (exodus 2:2). The Hebrew midwives explained to Pharaoh that the Hebrew women were not like the indolent women of the Egyptian court and were often delivered of the children before the midwife could get to them…(and another underline),”In societies where women attempt to identify themselves with the men, childbirth and motherhood are not well regarded….” and on and on the underlines go, highlighting everything from theological considerations, to breathing, to coping with depression after the birth. 

She actually happened on a single “handbook” that has “outlived” all of the birthing books I have read since that one. The record she listened to, well, we don’t have record players anymore, but we have classes and support groups now that she did not have.

When I had my babies, I could see her, in my minds’ eye, listening to the records, breathing, and doing her exercises with every fiber of her being. Those black vinyls going round and round, her shiny black friends from the library, giving her the strength and confidence she would need to take on the task of birthing at home.

My parents moved into the hotel across the street when they arrived in Nacogdoches. Daddy knocked on the door of the Nacogdoches house, and after prying his way in, our family moved up to the two bedroom apartment within the house.

The Jones family had not yet moved out when it was time for the baby to come, so homebirth, was really apartment birth. Workers hammering, shouting, and pulling down old wallpaper, listening to mom groan and moan, preparing a home for the ten pound bundle, mom positioned herself so she could see the clock with the second hand. She focused on the road map she had mentally laid out before herself, once the contractions came, she breathed, lay on her side, and then breathed more deeply.

I came. I came faster than she expected. All of the preparation, all of the time invested into “being ready”, I almost came before she could think too much about the process. And with my arrival, power rushed in. A power she had never known, came into her soul, and she realized she could do anything she set her mind to do. 

Birthing, pretty much on her own, gave her something. Endowing her with she-woman status, not to the world, not to anyone else, to herself, it was one of the most empowering and defining moments of her life. she metamorphosed from a caterpillar to a butterfly in the span of two hours.

Dad may have seemed like a tyrant for the request, and the fallout from BOTH of their families was so intense, that she followed that birth with two humiliating hospital births, but she tasted something she realized was supposed to be for all women, for all time. It was something God created, that had been stolen and replaced with the fear of birth and although obligated to walk through the unknown “fire”, she came out another woman. She had discovered and happened upon a lifelong “gift” of empowerment that most women would never get to experience.

Trying to express what a life changing moment this was is difficult. Probably contributing to the life changing part was the fact that my mother was so spoiled as a child. She cried to get her way. She never had to endure very much, thus adulthood was a continual shock to her spoiled little girl system. And doing something that was “impossible” was a game changer.

Although I chose to homebirth, I felt it was not because my mom did it. Always independent, always looking to do things differently than my mother did them, I made up my mind at eight years old to home birth based on a distinctive realization coined in my memory. When I was eight, my father told me where babies came from. He also explained that that came out in a bed in the hospital. 

I was at the hospital all the time. It was my home away from home. I wandered the halls, I investigated the little drawers, I sat in waiting room, I knew that place like the back of my hand, and the groans coming from the rooms, the pallid fluorescent lighting, the occasional mean nurse and arrogant doctor, set my teeth on edge, even as a child.

When Daddy explained the whole thing, I made up my mind that no matter what, I would not be exposing my junk to the hospital crowd. No way. The whole thing sounded so gross, and then to think that I would be naked and groaning in front of others, “forget about it”. Maybe I was afraid. I can still smell Memorial Hospital in Nacogdoches, Texas. Bright lights and chemical smells and groans.

My mind was like concrete when it finally came time to talk about babies with my husband. It was final. I had decided things twenty years before this moment, but did not share this with him all at once. I slowly began brainwashing Mark about birth and how dangerous it was in the hospital versus the home. I gave him statistics and I interviewed midwives even before I was pregnant.

In the midst of my wife to husband real time propaganda, I had a dream. In my dream, it was time to birth the baby. We went to the hospital and I “played along” like this was going to go like everyone wanted it to go. In the dream, I knew that the bathroom in one’s room did not lock, but the one down the hall locked. I pretended to “go on a walk”, and locked myself in the hall bathroom when it was time to push, having the baby on the toilet.

When I shared the dream with Mark, it was a moment of unveiling my black box secret. He initially was a bit upset-“it sounds like you just are going to do what YOU want to do, not considering me at all!” But I think the dream relayed an undeniable element of truth-and we ended up home birthing.

My first birth was tough. It was long. I wasn’t dilated AT ALL and my midwives said-go on a really long walk-outside, and then they split-Midwives seem to know “this thing is going to take forever, it’s your first birth sweet pie”, a little piece of information they don’t dare share until later. To Starbucks they trot while I am feeling like someone has a noose on my insides. Mark and I to walk a couple of miles. They were so stoked when they returned and I was dilated to “1”. “Go on another walk the same distance as that first one”, they said. Meanwhile, I had been having hard contractions that whole walk, stopping to breathe on Mark while the traffic on Basse road zipped by us and concerned drivers stopped to ask us if we needed “a lift.”

I got in the tub and started moaning. I did not stop moaning for twelve hours until the baby came out, but it did come out. Holly (my midwife), did her first episiotomy, both of us thinking I did not need a local, the baby’s head on my perineum, and both of us being wrong as she made three decisive cuts right through very alive and very “I can feel this” skin.

But the 9.5 pound baby did finally arrive. 

After this moment, I actually wasn’t so intense about home birth, and thought, the insurance could just pay for the birth next time. Maybe I was just being melodramatic about the hospital, how bad could it be? I would probably just have it naturally and just as fast in the hospital next time.

Mark though, was hooked. He loved it. He loved being so involved and in control. He liked being in our own environment. He loved the midwife. He enjoyed the intimacy with whomever we wanted to invite or not invite. He relished that I could eat, drink, sleep, and get in the bath. He sort of had a Margi  Peace experience. It was one of the most empowering days of his life, and he still revels in that first night with his first born child.

Holly whisked me off to the hospital, as I had torn down to the rectum. She encouraged Mark to stay with the baby as hospitals feel they should keep “homebirth babies” for observation should they show up. I was not able to walk very well, so my father in law got an office chair and rolled me to the car-we silently drove into the darkness as Mark held Mackenzie. He said she just stared up into his eyes for hours while the midwife who had stayed behind cleaned sheets, kitchen, and got the house back into order. 

It was a rite of passage my husband had passed through, and he discovered a place of empowerment and joy-a gate swung open to fatherhood and independence that he did not know existed. The feeling was addictive, euphoric. He would get to experience this four more times, but the first birth would forever be etched into his memory, and unlatch something wonderful in his soul.

Coffee Enema Love Affair

It may seem strange when  a girl clutches her enema bag to her heart as if  it were a long lost friend before gingerly packing it in her suitcase. She would never think of leaving town without it. She rarely lets a day pass without doing a coffee enema.

 I wasn't intending on a long term relationship, it just sort of happened when I was least expecting. We met after my last birth. For some reason, my last pregnancy dealt my body a serious blow. I don't know if the hormones suddenly exploded inside of me and then talked to my whole body, and my brain, instructing it to do the opposite of what it had done my whole life,  but I felt toxic.

My nose ran for three months straight, my skin was broken out, my brain was foggy, and I looked like a poster child for the woman's midlife crisis clinic.

My body was saying "help me". And the intuition I had was that my liver was full. It was probably all of the lemon meringue pie, bean and cheese tacos, and heavy chocolate load I gobbled down the last five pregnancies. Or maybe it was hormone overload, whatever -I felt like a sick person. Boo. Hiss.

At first I looked at cleanses, and even ordered a super duper special liver "detox" powder that was black, gray, and had chunks. You were supposed to stir this in a glass of water??? I don't know what kind of water the person writing the instructions was talking about, maybe they meant whiskey and did not divulge the real plan, but at my house, the black tar clump didn't blend into a glass of water. So I ended up gagging it down in applesauce for five days straight. Each day of gagging motivated me towards something else-even the thought of sticking a tube up my butt was becoming more attractive than this.

At precisely the moment of applesauce gagging, I was reading; Dr. Max Gerson, Healing the Hopeless, by Howard Strauss (Max's grandson who graduated from MIT and then honored his grandfather with this amazing Biography).  I had heard of the Gerson Therapy, but I always like to know the  person behind the therapy.  The book is long-377 pages, but I treasured each and every word. Howard frames his grandfathers legacy and it takes my breath away. Dr. Gerson and his family escaped the ovens of Germany, only to come to America and endure the ovens of the American Medical Association, and yet he never quit fighting against cancer with truth, honor, loyalty, and was a pioneer of his time.

When I came to the part of his medical plan that includes using coffee enemas to help "clear the liver", I could not contain my excitement-it was fate. I ran to the freezer and got the Neiman Marcus blend of Christmas coffee which had resided in the freezer for upwards of two years. It was not organic (a must)-but it was the only coffee in the house and I was a desperate soupy nose blowing woman who needed de-fogging. I brewed it up, and sent it to a place where no coffee had been before.

Within twenty seconds, my runny close cleared, then my foggy brain cleared, and within a couple of days, my skin cleared.  It was an innocent yet desperate inauguration of our relationship, and that was three years ago.  I did a coffee enema every few days for a couple of months, then I felt so good, I forgot about it for a few months, then took it up again. There were so many questions that I had. The instructions were to let it "boil in a saucepan" at least 15 minutes, then strain it, then put it in the enema bag-a somewhat cumbersome method to get every bit of the goodness out of the beans.

Ugh. Dr. Gerson's recipe is taking too much time. Forget about it. One day I have a eureka moment-"Just brew the coffee in a coffee pot-it's better than not doing it at all".  All of the hard work of making the coffee a special way goes away and I am left with an easy plan.

I can multi-task. I can make the coffee at night, stick it in my rear while I shower the next morning. I then lay on my side for the appointed 10-12 minutes while I am reading a memoir, and then let it out.  Its' actually a very meditative time for me. I am forced to lie down for 12 minutes while awake-

Just this past week I added something to the coffee. It is a mix of epsom salt, baking soda, and lavender oil-like a bath salt. Just a teaspoon added to the coffee makes a huge difference. My liver seems to clear out more than normal, it's easier to retain, and is more comfortable than straight coffee, or coffee with cold water added to make the temp. around 98 degrees.

I have naysayer friends. Friends that point out the "unnaturalness" of it. Seeming so true, I could not rebut this for two years, and I was putting the groceries in the car a few weeks ago when the answer fluttered around my head, then landed.  In 1952, the government began to genetically modify wheat. 1952 was just the beginning, and then we modified it more and more, and still more.

Any product that we consume which contains flour (and most of us eat something with flour for breakfast, lunch, AND dinner) is made of this stuff. It's not a real food anymore. It is a scientific experiment we call flour. We don't always eat what's natural, and therefore, something that does not "seem" natural", but will cleanse both the liver and gallbladder, may in fact be an important key to health.

And so, all of the uncertainties and insecurities surrounding me and my bag fall away, and I am a girl in love...again. My brain clears every time I do this, and its' the cheapest high I can get. I have a friend who called saying she would have to "have her gallbladder out." I promptly sent her an article on the cleansing effects of the coffee enema on the gallbladder...."She'd rather have surgery" was the reply.

I don't blame my friend. Its' the "exit only" sign we cling to our bottoms-we'd rather have surgery than do this...unless we look like death warmed over and are yelling at our kids like some strange maniac demon possessed being that is supposed to be called "mom", hating ourselves for what we've become and realizing that we have two choices-take drugs, or order the silicone bag for $40 off of Amazon.

I'm way too cheap to buy drugs, so I opt for the bag and some organic grounds from Costco.