Who Invited You?

It's a joke my Polish great-grandmother used to say whenever you did something silly or stupid: Who invited you? And now it's been one year ten months two weeks and four days since the Critter was born, and still I look at him trotting down the sidewalk ahead of me, practicing his jumping, playing with his cars, drawing with his crayons, writing with my pens ... and I wonder: Where did you come from? Who invited you?

I ask Beckett if he ever stops to marvel at the fact that he is actually a father! Of the Critter! How did that happen? How bizarre! He says that no, he does not think such thoughts. But I cannot be alone in my feeling that it is strange to be a mother to a creature I know so intimately and who yet surprises me every day—or in my wonder that the strangeness of being a mother seems to have no end.

We Survived Week 1 of the CSA!

In fact, I'm finding that the CSA makes my life easier, not harder, because the contents of the half share make my decisions for me. No more drawing a blank when it's time to write up our weekly menu.

Last week we got lettuce, kale (my choice from a selection of greens), an onion, tomatoes, string beans, zucchini, cucumbers, basil, and beets. I made a salad and sandwiches (Thursday), string beans as a side with tofu and rice (Friday), kale with scrambled eggs and muffins (Sunday), baked beets and homemade hummus (Monday), and zucchini with pasta (Tuesday). Beckett had the tomatoes in his sandwiches for lunch, the basil turned black before I could make pesto (I'll be making it tonight or tomorrow with this week's bunch), and the onion and cucumber were left over. My biggest challenge: I baked the beets in foil, per Mark Bittman, who writes, "If you want to serve them right away, peel, then serve hot with butter, any vinaigrette, or freshly squeezed lemon juice." O the mysteries of that one word, "peel"! Please tell me, Mr. How-to-Cook-Everything, how do I peel hot-from-the oven beets?

But alas, I'm not sure if the Critter ate a single bite of any of the glorious veggies that I served up for dinner last week—not even the beets, which he usually likes (when we get them at Top Café Tibet, anyway). I have received many suggestions about how to get greens into him, some via a comment from my good friend at MyGreenMouth, and some via Facebook. I plan to try out just about every suggestion, depending on my energy level and the contents of our half share. However, if I'm going to follow through on this project, I need a checklist—my mind is not what it used to be. Here goes:

• Frozen peas, left frozen: Intriguing. Gotta follow up on this one, though, because I'm not sure exactly to serve it up.
• Crispy kale: Hm. Will definitely try this recipe, although it does involve the mysterious term "chiffonade strips."
• Spinach pasta: I wonder how much of the spinachy nutrition is still there after the spinach has been added to the pasta? Is there whole wheat spinach pasta?
• A blend of spinach, peas, and pears: Okay, but I'll have to come up with a recipe for this one. I remember reading a while ago (don't remember where) about a mom making something she called "Monster Sauce" (or something like that), which was applesauce mixed with spinach. She served it for dessert. Can spinach be pureed? I suppose it should be cooked first.... (See how boldly I display my ignorance!)
• Avocados: We tried avocado last year, and to my surprise the Critter rejected it. Since I received this suggestion, I've bought a few avocados each week ... and I've been eating them all myself.
• Green rice: Cilantro? Garlic? Sounds good to me!
• Less bitter greens, such as snow peas, green beans, zucchini, edamame, okra: We already regularly eat zucchini with pasta, and the Critter loves edamame. The green beans: rejected (see above). Will try the others.
• Celery: Probably still too difficult to chew.
• Bean sprouts: Not sure how to serve them up to the Critter. 
• Mix the greens with sweeter veggies; for example, some finely chopped spinach with sweet potato: The Critter eats sweet potato happily; let's see if I can sneak something extra into him through it.

Finally, to my amusement, after my complaints (on Facebook) about the possibility of getting radishes in our half share, we have not received a single one! And I now have at least two recipes I'd like to try, here (shared by a friend) and here. But I'll have to wait; instead, I'll be making enough coleslaw to last us a month with the cabbage we got this week.

Green Smoothies: No Way!

Still ISO ways to get greens into the Critter. As I wrote last week, I thought we'd try some green smoothies (fruit smoothies with some spinach or kale or chard or another leafy green thrown in). After all, the Critter did enjoy quite a few yogurt smoothies with me last summer.

Last summer, post–smoothie enjoyment

But alas, while the Critter watched me make the first of two smoothies this weekend, he shook his head, saying, "No way! No way!" And though we called it "juice" (he loves his morning o.j.), he refused to taste even a drop. I suppose it doesn't help that I didn't much care for them myself; they tasted (and smelled) grassy. I love the smell of a freshly cut lawn, but I've never wanted to drink one. Perhaps we need a better blender?

Other recent failures: split pea soup and mushy peas with goat cheese. Peas from a jar were just about the only food we could more or less reliably get the Critter to eat last year! And cheese is his favorite! But pea soup? No way! Mushy peas with cheese? No way!

We are soliciting some help. To be continued ...

Happy Birthday, Critter!

Wasn't it just April, the leaves just beginning to appear, and the Critter not yet crawling? And now it is September, the days growing cooler, the nights falling earlier ... and the Critter one year old today!

At the beginning of August, I took on a bunch of work, which I managed poorly, and I found myself wishing away the miserable, too-hot month. I kept reminding myself, it will be over soon enough, and then the summer will be gone, and how has it gone so quickly, anyway? And before I know it, it will be Hallowe'en, and then Thanksgiving, and then Christmas and yet another year about to begin ...

I have a theory about why time seems to pass so quickly: it is because of my calendar, filled up with deadlines and plans. It was not always so. Every year my family received a Travelers Currier & Ives calendar from my Aunt Mary, who worked for Travelers. When I was very young, I would study the calendar and contemplate the mysterious words at the top of each column of numbers. Sun made sense to me, as did Mon, which I understood as moon. I decided that Tue meant two, but what did the number two have to do with the sun and the moon? And what was a Thurs? No wonder time and the seasons felt vast and spacious to me then — I had not yet learned to chop it up into hours, days, weeks, years....

Lucky Critter, unaware of any plans, or even that it is his birthday today!

Correction, maybe?

The picture caption in my most recent post may not have been accurate, in that the Critter may not really have a BATNA relative to his relationship with Beckett and me, because that relationship, unlike marriage, is probably not a negotiation. Probably not, maybe not ... or maybe so??? Again, Mahony's definition of a negotiation is “any situation in which two or more people are interdependent, have some perceived conflict, can use strategic behavior, and have room for agreement.” Let's see. Interdependent? Yep: the Critter sure needs us, and I've written before about how much I (we both!) need him. Perceived conflict? Oh, many: for example, I want the Critter to nap in his crib; he, not so much. Strategic behaviour? Yep: I wield the power of the boobs, for example; the Critter has his overwhelming cuteness on his side. Does he use it strategically? I'm sure. Room for agreement? But of course ...

The Sounds of Bedtime

More things we like

At the end of the day, I nurse and rock the Critter to sleep. Meanwhile, Beckett washes the dishes that have piled up through the course of the day. In my own childhood, I fell asleep to the hum of the dishwasher, and now I hope that the Critter finds the splashing of water, clinking of dishes and silverware, and clatter of pots and pans that comes through the nursery door from the kitchen as comforting as I do.

Of Snips and Snails, and Puppy-Dogs' Tails

I'm often taken aback by other people's ideas about what little boys and girls should be or have, just based on whether they are little boys or little girls.

The most startling example occurred several months ago, during story time at the local branch of the public library. At one point, the performer leading that day's activities asked for a male volunteer to be sheriff and a female volunteer to be deputy sheriff. Yes, indeed: she specified a gender for each role. So, evidently we are up to teaching preschoolers that it's okay for females to take leadership positions—just so long as a boy still gets the top job. The Critter and I don't go to story time anymore. (Okay, not because of this occurrence—the performer that day was actually a substitute—but because story time usually involves singing the Barney song, and I just can't do it. Never, never again.)

Other examples are less offensive, but just plain baffling. I've been shopping for outfits for the Critter to wear to his uncles' upcoming weddings. At Daffy's, another shopper moved a pale, greenish-blue, lacy, sweater-ish thing from the girls' section to the boys', stating that it clearly was meant for a boy. Why? Because it was blue. (Barely, but whatever.) Then, at home, looking online for shoes for the Critter, I found that Target considers these Jack and Lily "trainers" to be for both boys and girls, whereas these nearly identical ones are for boys. Because, you know, they're blue. Seriously?

Getting into Things ...

I joined the Brooklyn Botanic Garden at the end of March, and since then the Critter and I have seen it come alive. Just a few weeks ago, the trees that are now heavy with lush green were still silvery gray, and in those few weeks, so many blossoms have grown, faded, fallen, and blown away.

Two Fridays ago we went to see the bluebells growing in the shade of the tall oak and beech trees; when I told my mother-in-law about our trip to see them, she said, "Don't you wish they would last longer than just a week or so?" Indeed. I remember my disappointment upon realizing that there is no long stretch of week upon week of long summer days. In truth, the longest day of the summer lasts just one day, and after it passes, the sunlight begins to diminish.

Meanwhile, my little Critter is crawling now and getting into things—this morning, for example, he tore off the cover of my Zen training manual and crumpled it up with much babbling joy. He really wants to walk and will use just about anything to pull him up to standing. Yes, spring will come again, next year, but it will no longer be the Critter's first. Who knows what he will be doing then? Pay attention!

The Loneliness of the Work-From-Home Mom

I sit in the darkened nursery, the curtains drawn, the Boards of Canada on the CD player, the Critter asleep on my lap: this is when I get my work done. There are days when the only other adults I see besides my husband are the strangers on the street and at the grocery store. Otherwise, I connect with other people mostly through the screen: e-mail, Facebook, this blog. I have the telephone numbers of a couple other local mothers, and I'm hoping to get over my natural shyness, call them, and make some "dates," however awkward they may be. In the meantime, this isolation cannot be good for the Critter. It's certainly not good for me. When did it happen that the workplace became the main nexus of community and companionship? In my first several months as a freelancer, I often got lonely, but nothing compares with the loneliness of a work-from-home mom with a Critter depending on her and deadlines to meet.

Like many other breast-feeding moms, I've thought a lot about this confused article against (or sort of against) breast-feeding that appeared not-so-recently-anymore in The Atlantic Monthly. Among the many things I have wondered in response to the article is where the judgmental attitude that the writer accurately perceives toward and among mothers—about all kinds of behaviors, not just breast-feeding or bottle-feeding—comes from. My sense is the villagers are anxious now that the village is gone and we're all out here on our own, creating whatever communities we can at the tot lot, through the Web, and over the phone.

The American Question

In The New York Times Magazine this weekend, more reasons to wonder (and worry!) about the kind of education we should expect for the Critter. In response to "the American question," I have a few questions of my own: Why the rush? Whom or what are we racing? Why the obsession with standardization, measurement, and rigor? Does anyone who lauds their rigorous academic standards actually know what rigor means?

Whereas I tend to value most what cannot be measured. What do I want for the Critter? Paints, crayons, xylophones, and drums. Unstructured time outdoors. Good friends....

Mother's Milk

In November or December I noticed my sadness at images of bottle-fed babies. A photo that used to appear on the home page for Skype (and which has since disappeared, thank goodness) particularly disturbed me. It showed a family gathered in a living room: two young parents, their baby girl, and (presumably) her grandparents. The smiling mother leaned against the sofa as the grandfather bottle fed her daughter. The image was doubtless intended to be heartwarming; I found it creepy to see the gray-haired old man sitting in the mother's place.

And then came Christmas, when among my gifts was a photograph of me as a baby, lying on my mother's lap and wearing my christening bonnet and gown. At once, I realized the source of my sadness: I was a bottle-fed baby. Since then, many questions have welled up in me. Why was I bottle-fed? Did some dumb doctor (whom I imagine looking like the creepy Skype grandfather) tell my mother that formula was at least just as good, or better, than breast milk? Did my mother even consider breast-feeding? How did my mother feel when her milk came in and she did not give it to me?

My questions will never be answered, because my mother died about thirteen years ago. I know only one thing: my mother told me, "When you have children, breast-feed them." She died of breast cancer, and even then it was known that breast-feeding decreases the risk of breast cancer, including the aggressive, hormone-negative kind that my mother had.

For a few weeks, I was angry that my mother gave me formula and a plastic nipple instead of her own milk. My father thinks that my grandmother (not some dumb doctor) might have advised her daughter to bottle-feed, and not for the first time I wished that my mother had done her own thing instead of listening to her parents. Then my local La Leche League leader loaned me her copy of Milk, Money, and Madness: The Culture and Politics of Breastfeeding, a fascinating book from which I have learned, among other things, that in the 1980s the American Society of Plastic and Reconstructive Surgeons sent a memo to the FDA claiming that those "deformities," small breasts, "are really a disease," and that in China and Japan women sometimes nursed their aged parents or parents-in-law. The book, of course, does not answer any of my unanswerable questions. And so I see the sadness beneath the sadness that I was bottle-fed, my sadness simply that my mother is gone. Now a mother myself, I am mourning again.

At Home, But Unhappy

Suddenly I've got more work than I know how to get done (and no babysitter). One current project is to write a handful of passages, items, and lessons for a test preparation book for first graders. Yes, indeed: for first graders. Debates about No Child Left Behind and high-stakes testing aside, I can tell you this much: spending time on the lessons in such a book might help a child improve his or her test scores, but it is unlikely to stir any excitement about reading. Certainly not the wide-eyed, bobble-headed excitement that I see in our four-month-old Critter's face when I turn the pages of The Very Hungry Caterpillar for him.

Ah, school. What else is it for but to crush your spirit? I do my work, the Critter on my lap, and consider these sentences:

Education on Freud's view is precisely the attempt to make children (and adults) forget about what most interests them. Our unique attachments to the world are what education is designed to erase, and it is those unique attachments that make knowledge real for us, as opposed to mere rote exercise.

I quote from an essay in Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Philosophy, "'My God, It's Like a Greek Tragedy': Willow Rosenberg and Human Irrationality," about Willow's sixth season–concluding attempt to bring about the end of the world. It was while attending the International Reading Association's 2006 Annual Convention (about which I remember little other than the ugly carpeting extending toward all horizons of the massive McCormick Place, Chicago's convention center) that I read this essay, and, gazing at all that carpeting, asked myself, What have I been doing with my life?

Like Willow, I was good at school. Success at school involved a paradox, however: I was at home in the classroom—particularly the English classroom, where poetry, novels, and stories were the subject—but unhappy. There was always too much to do, and I felt I was smothering something else in myself in order to measure up to what seemed to be expected of me. And so I mastered the invisible curriculum, learning to put aside my own desires in order to accomplish what others expected of me.

Who were those demanding others? Parents? Grandparents? Teachers? Though I possessed an abundance of wild energy, like many children, I wished to please. So now that I have my own wild little Critter, I see just how important it is for us—parents, grandparents, teachers—to carefully consider what it is that we expect of our little ones—and whom (or what) those expectations really serve. And what worries me most as I write and edit the various lessons, teacher editions, and tests from which I make my living (what, indeed, am I doing with my life?) is that I consider very little of it good enough for my boy.

The Year of the Critter

About eleven months have passed since my last run. I had planned to run as long as possible through my pregnancy, but because of the (slight) threat of miscarriage early in the pregnancy, I had to give up strenuous exercise. By the time I was told it was okay to run again, my body had changed enough that running just didn’t feel right anymore. Now I wait for the Critter to get big and strong enough for me to take him out running in our jogging stroller. Meanwhile, I miss my long Saturday runs under the cold, darkening sky of a winter afternoon and my early morning runs toward the sunrise, seeing the last shadows of night lift from the trees in Prospect Park.

Because I could not run, I spent the year of the Critter going on long walks through the park, taking different paths just to see where they go. In that time, I discovered waterways, bridges, and grassy knolls that in about six years of going to the park several times a week I never knew existed. If it weren't for the Critter, I might have kept on running on the same paths as before. I might never have followed the Lullwater Trail or climbed to one of the highest points of the park to see the silver ribbon of the sea at the horizon.

Below: the Critter on his first walk in Prospect Park. I did all of the walking; he slept.

It's difficult to believe that a year ago today, the Critter was hardly more than a wish—either just conceived or about to be. Among the scraps of poems, stories, and songs that my mind has returned to again and again since the Critter's birth is a passage in To Kill a Mockingbird. Dill has run away from his folks because, he says, they weren't interested in him and didn't want him around. Scout cannot comprehend this situation.

As Dill explained, I found myself wondering what life would be like if Jem were different, even from what he was now; what I would do if Atticus did not feel the necessity of my presence, help and advice. Why, he couldn't get along a day without me. Even Calpurnia couldn't get along unless I was there. They needed me.

Now that he's here—and has changed everything—how I need my little Critter.

Many blessings to all in 2009.

Long Time Sun

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This time last year, the Critter existed only as a wish. In January, at the conclusion of my first prenatal yoga class, when I first heard—and sang—the sixth and last song on our lullaby mix, "Long Time Sun" by Snatam Kaur, the Critter was little more than a cluster of quickly dividing cells. Through the spring and summer, as the Critter grew, I sang this song to him nearly every day, at the conclusion of my morning zazen and liturgy. Now the Critter is a baby in my arms, and I sing to him still. The text is an old Irish blessing, and I've also seen the last sentence given as, "May the pure light within you / Guide your way home." I prefer this rendering of the blessing. I believe in the pure light within the Critter, and may he find a home in this crazy world of ours!

God Gives Them the Stars to Use as Ladders

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Beckett has pointed out that although the fifth song on our lullaby mix is about babies, it's not really a song for babies. Fine; though I think the true reason for his criticism is that he just doesn't care for Sinéad O'Connor's music. "All Babies" is from Universal Mother, her third album of original songs. Despite the gentle, lullaby-like tone of most of the songs on the album, O'Connor's rage is evident throughout, including in this song.

"All babies are born saying God's name / Over and over, / All born singing God's name," it begins; "All babies are born out of great pain / Over and over, / All born into great pain / All babies are crying, / For no-one remembers God's name," it continues. I interpret these lines non-theistically. To me, the song is about Buddha nature, the original perfection of all human beings. How easily I can see that the Critter is perfect and complete, lacking nothing, whereas I can hardly see such perfection in myself. However, like me, those who do not remember their original perfection, who create and live in great pain—all of us—were once babies "born saying God's name."

O'Connor rages against this fallen world, in which children cannot be protected and will, like the rest of us, grow up forgetting their true nature. I think of her song "Black Boys on Mopeds," from I Do Not Want What I Haven't Got, with the refrain,

England's not the mythical land of Madam George and roses,
It's the home of police who kill black boys on mopeds,
And I love my boy, and that's why I'm leaving,
I don't want him to be aware
That there's any such thing as grieving.

But there is nowhere she can take her boy to keep him from this awareness.

Like Never Before

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In the book my husband and I used to help us plan our wedding, I found "I Will Always Love You" listed among the most popular songs for the bride and groom's first dance. Bad choice, folks: it's a breakup song.

Meanwhile, I sorta wonder about the fourth song on our lullaby mix, "Songbird." It's in the mix because of the tender, cascading "I love you, I love you, I love you" in the refrain. However, it's also from Rumours, Fleetwood Mac's classic album of songs about breakup and betrayal. Am I mistaken about the meaning of this song? What, exactly, does it mean that the songbirds "keep singing / Like they know the score"?

The Joy of My World

More things we like

I hadn't planned to write about all six songs in our lullaby mix, but I realized that I have something to say about all of them. One purpose of writing about the things I like is, of course, to share them; another is to exercise my critical skills. Can I actually articulate why I like something?

The third song in our mix is "To Zion," by Lauryn Hill. My greatest pleasure in this song—and in all of the songs on The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill—is the pleasure of the singing. The best singing transforms emotional experience into a thrilling physical experience. In this song, Lauryn's joy in her baby fills the whole body.

If only I could sing as she does ...

I Have No Thought of Leaving

More things we like

Ah, well, routines. In the middle of putting the Critter to bed last night, he wound himself back up into a colicky fit. Bless Dr. Karp, though; it took all five S's, but I did calm the Critter down, and we slept well last night.

While I soothed the Critter and listened to our lullaby mix, a couple lines in "Beautiful Boy" stood out: "I can hardly wait / To see you come of age." These lines stood out not because John Lennon sadly never did see Sean grow up, but because I feel so different about the Critter. No matter how difficult any given day or night might be, I do not ever wish for him to be a moment older than he is just now. If time must pass, why can't it pass more slowly? And so the second song on our mix is Nina Simone's version of "Who Knows Where the Time Goes?" This song became a favorite from the moment I first heard it, because it so beautifully evokes the sadness I feel about the swiftness of change and the insubstantiality of the present. Already the Critter is so big, and who knows where my little tiny baby has gone?

The Crankiest Baby on the Block

Another in an ongoing series on things we like

For a month or so there, we were sleeping. Alas, no more. We've got one cranky mommy here and, I'm guessing from his staccato, high-pitched shrieking, one cranky baby, too. Among our strategies for getting more sleep is establishing a bedtime routine. Our routine includes music. Sometimes we listen to lullabies from around the world. Sometimes we listen to a mix that I put together, which opens with John Lennon's "Beautiful Boy," my favorite among the songs in the playlist.

I don't know much about boys. I am a sister only of sisters, and as a little girl, I didn't play much with little boys. They seemed all sticks-and-stonesy to me, and interested in rough things like football, which I neither liked nor understood. Now I am mommy to a little boy and am grateful for this song for showing me the loving gentleness that boys, too, require.

The Critter Is Born

I started going to Kate's prenatal yoga classes at the Y when I was only about six weeks pregnant. During the rest period at the end of each class, she often read birth stories from Ina May Gaskin's book. These stories helped me prepare for the natural birth that I was hoping to have. Kate also encourages the mothers in her class to write their own birth stories. Here's ours....

*   *   *

Looking back, I now can see the signs that I was soon to go into labor. On the morning of Tuesday, September 16 I woke up at 4:00 ridden with worries about how my life was going to change when the baby arrived. Unable to fall back to sleep, I got out of bed an hour later. With men coming that morning to finish work on our bathroom and a furniture delivery scheduled for the afternoon, I didn’t know when I would be able to get more rest. Perhaps a nap would be possible in the late afternoon … but with men tracking dust up and down the hallway and the cat catching a mouse from just under my feet, the day turned out even more chaotic than expected. I could hardly concentrate on my work, what with my fears that our apartment was no place for a baby to be. I was relieved when the furniture was delivered and the bathroom finished, and I even felt the baby drop, but nevertheless by the time my husband—we're going to call him "Beckett," and he knows why—returned home to clean the bathroom and hallway, I was in tears. Later that night, I suddenly felt a profound sorrow that Beckett and I would be a couple alone for only a short time longer. I kissed him and kissed him and kissed him before going to sleep. I planned to stay in bed late the next morning.

Then, when I woke at 2:18 the next morning to go to the bathroom, I felt a leak that when I stood up became a loud gush slapping down onto the hardwood floor. In distress, I let out a long “Oh!” My first thought that there was no way I could get all that water back into my belly. My second thought was that I would never sleep again. Whether or not I was ready for it, my labor was about to begin.

My worry that labor would not begin immediately lasted only a few minutes. The contractions soon came on quickly and strong. At first I was able to help Beckett pull our things together for the trip to the birthing center, but within about an hour my contractions were powerful and coming close enough that they required all my concentration. Only afterward did I realize just how marvelous Beckett was through those first few hours of my labor. Somehow he managed to pack, keep in touch with the birthing center and my dad and stepmom (who, as high school teachers, wake up before 5:00), time my contractions, and comfort me through them as they progressed from coming four minutes apart to coming less than three minutes apart.

Meanwhile, in an effort to find some comfort, I moved from kneeling on the floor on my hands and knees to sitting on the toilet to lying on my side on the bed. As a long-distance runner and Zen practitioner, I am no stranger to discomfort and pain, but I have always been a wimp about strong menstrual cramps, which, as promised, were just what my contractions felt like. I tried vocalizing but couldn’t manage the low moans we learned to do in my childbirth class, and I felt bad for any of our neighbors whom my wailing might have wakened. At the start of each contraction, I felt my cervix opening, however, so I knew, at least, that my body was doing its job.

Because I live nearby and they were in the midst of helping another woman deliver her baby, the midwives at the birthing center wanted me to hold on at home—if I could—until my contractions were coming two minutes apart. I could not. As it was, I did not know how I would keep myself together for the short cab ride from our home. Beckett and I arrived at the birthing center at 7:00, just after the birth of a baby boy. By this time, I had been in labor long enough to run a marathon and then some, but to my surprise I hardly felt spent. However, I was not managing my discomfort very well. Though I protested that I wanted to remain just where I was, curled up and moaning on the bed, the attending midwife persuaded me to get into the tub, where the warmth and buoyancy of the water was a great relief. The labor assistant then helped me to focus on my breath and to change the pitch of my vocalizations from high yelping to low moaning. At last, I settled in to my labor.

At my first measurement, I was six centimeters dilated and ninety percent effaced. Shortly afterward, when I was only seven centimeters dilated, I began to feel the urge to push. The three or so hours that followed were the most difficult part of my labor. Holding back my wild body felt not like riding ocean waves but like clinging to the back of a galloping horse. Through this time, my labor support could not have been any better. There were periods when three people breathed with me through my contractions—the attending midwife, the labor assistant, and Beckett, who gave me water sweetened with cranberry juice to sip in between my contractions.

The last centimeter was the most difficult, and the encouragement that I was “almost there” did not help. Whereas I know how far a mile is in a race, I did not know how much time or effort this last centimeter would require of me. But finally, at about 11:00, I was fully dilated and no longer required to restrain my urge to push.

My lack of sleep now caught up with me, and this stage of my labor proved to be the most frustrating, though not the most difficult. I tried many positions—squatting in the tub, kneeling with a birthing ball on the bed, squatting next to the bed—and two hours passed without much happening. Then another midwife joined us and suggested that we try "tug-of-war," which gave me the power to get my baby out into the world. I sat on the bed, leaning back on Beckett's chest, the labor assistant and one of the midwives each supported one of my legs, and the other midwife stood at the foot of the bed. She and I each held one end of a blanket that had been knotted to form a rope. At the peak of each contraction I lifted my legs back, pulled on the rope, and pushed.

Eventually, the baby's head began to crown. The burning pain was just about unbearable. I whimpered, but with the encouragement of those around me, I held on for longer than I thought possible. Finally, after some dozen or so more contractions, at 2:06 in the afternoon, the little Critter was placed on my chest. I had thought that I would weep upon meeting him, but instead I was bewildered. I couldn't believe that this wiggly bundle of arms, legs, and wide-open eyes was the baby who had been with me the past nine months.

There were times during my labor that I thought I was nuts to go without drugs, but now I know I wouldn't have wanted to bring the Critter into the world any other way. In another environment, others might not have had the necessary patience and may have resorted to vacuum extraction or an episiotomy. But at the birthing center, no-one ever suggested that I needed anything other than to focus on my breath and trust my body. Every day now I marvel at the secret knowledge of my body, which was able to create and grow this small human being and bring him into the world, and which now continues to nourish him. As the Critter grows and his limbs uncurl, I sometimes grieve that he is forgetting the womb, where he was with me all the time. Sometimes, when I sing the little song that I composed and sang to him before he was born, I even imagine that he misses the womb, where he was always warm and never hungry. But in truth, the Critter never belonged to me alone, but to the entire universe, and I am learning that the task of a mother is not just to nurture, but at each stage, as necessary, to let go.