the birth of wilder ezekiel, part one

The roads that led to the birth center were nestled in golden hills and pockets of farmland. It was stunning. I looked forward to it every time.

Eight months later on a sultry, overcast June morning, I sat on my porch sipping cinnamon coffee and reading stories of birth and midwifery from the book Midwife in Amish Country when tears sprang to my eyes, as for the first time I was truly considering the journey of Wilder's birth. I was surprised by these tears; I hadn't once really sat with any feelings of disappointment over our experience. When my midwife Rebecca asked me at our two-week checkup how I felt about the birth now that I'd had time to settle into my role as mama to this precious newborn and had come out of the fresh-born haze that follows, I didn't know how to answer. "I feel... fine?" It was practically a question. "I feel... good about it. Yeah, it's good. Everything worked out really well." There was no emotion attached to my response.

After all, my labor with him was strikingly... normal. Average, in the realm of homebirth and subsequent labors. Different than what I'd experienced in a lot of ways, and at the same time, not that different. What was it about this memoir that was stirring up emotions that I had somehow buried deep into my chest, seemingly without even realizing it?

The year 2020 was hard for everyone, but my hard came from a different place. Yes, the pandemic was stressful to navigate and the entire year felt like an emotional roller coaster - it was certainly the theme of my fourth pregnancy. But pregnancy in general wracks my body with illness, leaving me bedridden and unable to talk, hug my kids, or stand upright in the shower for three to four months, so it wasn't the pandemic that was the hardest. We had already been through isolation & misery during my third pregnancy - it was our normal. It was expected. Of course, this time we had the added stress of the pandemic and constant worry for our high-risk loved ones. 

Here's what was different: for the entirety of my pregnancy, I felt a loneliness I hadn't experienced before. John was unable to come to most of my appointments as he always had with our other babies, and the birth center where we felt safest had half a dozen midwives that cycled through, leaving a gap where before, I had had a close and trusting relationship with my care providers. During my first three pregnancies, visits with my midwives were personable and joy-filled, always lasting an hour or more and taking place in a cozy room of my midwife's home, or a beautiful, sun-filled Victorian-era house converted into a birth center. This time, the visits were short and felt clinical, and took place in a stark, bright room of an office with squeaky floors and silent, focused nurses in scrubs. 

I became fast friends with my midwife who cared for me and River, and of course, she was with me when I gave birth to Austen. And even though I was in a new city across the country when I was pregnant with Chase, I was lucky enough to already know my midwives from the birth center in Texas (they happened to move to Washington around the same time we did). Pregnancy and birth was always a warm, sacred, special experience. During my hardest months, I had the emotional support of my beautiful midwives to guide me and care for me. I sat in plush couches and discussed life with them, I cried with them, I laughed with them. They asked me questions like, "How are you? Not Whitney, the mama - but Whitney, the woman?" They held my hand, both physically and spiritually. Here in Pennsylvania, the midwives were all endearing in their own ways, but I wasn't able to develop any kind of friendship or camaraderie with any of them.

That's why this experience was so entirely different. It felt cold, distant, and clinical. My children couldn't attend appointments because of COVID restrictions. My husband couldn't attend appointments because of his demanding job. My sisters couldn't attend the birth, and even though my dad came to see the baby after he was born, he couldn't even enter the birthing room because of the restrictions in place. A pain tugs at my heart now as I write this, a pain I didn't know existed. And so I will acknowledge it and allow space for it in my experience. 

breathe in. breathe out.

And now, let's begin: eight months ago. The birth. Separate from all that. The beautiful birth of my sweet, quiet, calm, silly, precious Wilder boy.

I will publish part two when I gather the energy in my heart to finish it!

16 months later

What I'm listening to: Big Yellow Taxi by Joni Mitchell 

Sixteen months - a pandemic. A pregnancy. A newborn. And toward the end, a single car for a family of six.

There wasn't a desperate need to get John's car fixed since I knew we wouldn't want to be going many places in the dead of winter with a brand-new baby in the midst of a pandemic, but last month we finally did, and since then we have been out of the house nearly every day. I am starving for activity, much like I was starving for delicious food after I was deprived for nine months during my pregnancy with Wilder.

I've been finding such joy is the simplest meals lately. My body craves - endlessly it seems - strawberries, chocolate,

avocado, salmon, toast, eggs, and chai tea. So I eat them. At least one of them, every day. 

There were so many unknowns at the beginning of last spring; it was most disconcerting having no clue how long businesses would be shut down or how long we'd have to go without seeing loved ones. I missed doing simple things, like getting a coffee at Starbucks or walking from shop to tiny shop downtown. Joni said it best - you don't know what you got till it's gone.

And on top of those unknowns, what was most certainly known - that my early pregnancy would all but shackle me to my bed. I missed spring. As in I totally did not see spring last year. I went to my bed one chilly evening at the very beginning of the season before it had yet had a chance to show off, and when I returned to society, it was hot, muggy summer.

I missed the trees' transformation from skeletal and brittle to bursting with leaves like long locks on the heads of old women who know secrets. I missed the cool, blue-bright mornings damp with dew and watery sunlight. And the colorful parade of tulips and daffodils, adding charm to even the most dismal corners of the city. 

I so very missed spring, that this year, with the realization that I hadn't seen spring in two years, it was utterly enchanting. I planted my first garden this year and every sprout and leaf that has burst forth has been met with almost worshipful enthusiasm. How incredible that an entire plant can come from a mere, tiny seed! And I did it! I put that seed in the ground and watered it and talked to it (surely that must have helped) and witnessed its growth! Life is a miracle! 

 

There is just something magical about watching a tiny seed that you planted - you! who always claimed to have a black thumb! - sprout into a baby of a plant to a towering eight-foot flower-tree. (And then something else entirely to see that flower-tree knocked down after a night of wind and hard rain, ripped from its roots before the rest of those baby buds had a chance to open. But that's a sad story, and I'm here to tell a happy one.)

My carrot tops are bushy and untamed, but I'm not sure how many carrots I'll be able to harvest because I forgot to thin them out after planting. (Actually, I forgot to thin out all of my plants, except my cucumbers and squash.) My tomatoes have doubled in the past week - they are out of control! I'm not sure where to even begin in pruning them, but right now their wildness makes me smile. My beans are the infants of the group, reaching spindly arms to whoever or whatever will be strong and sturdy, then growing up and up, kissing the air with delicate white flowers, grateful and smiling.

I know they say not to personify nature, but I find the personification of my garden as my children a delight, pure delight. I find my actual children to be a delight, as well. Motherhood has been sweet.

We have already spent countless days swimming in my parents' pool. I realized a few years ago that I don't actually enjoy swimming, but even I have swam this summer. 

Mixing textures and patterns is one of my favorite aspects of home decor. Metallics, leather, fibers, curling leafy plants. It's something that happens effortlessly and beautifully in nature: the rough bark of trees, crumbly, dark earth, velvety petals of flowers. I think this is why the mixing of different textures works in home decor. We crave what occurs in nature. We are of the earth, after all.

I like how my big girl's long legs match the long limbs of the tree she is hanging out with.

I have plans to visit many parks this summer, although it feels that it is slipping away already, though it is only July. Do we really only have two more months left?