Mama Says

I’m a Yeller.  When it comes to motherhood, I have about as much patience as a bull with a banderilla stuck in its neck.  There isn’t a chapter titled “Rage” in What to Expect When You’re Expecting.  As someone who always prided herself on her patience and loving nature, anger is the part of motherhood I could never have imagined.  
 
I am an introvert; a lover of silence, harmony and order.  My children are not quiet, never leave me alone, and they turn my house into a battlefield on a daily basis. Sometimes I don’t feel very loving towards these two small creatures who are stomping like angry elephants over the calm life I continue to—optimistically—envision.
 
In my early twenties, the vision of my future life included only the patter of fingers on the keyboard, not that of tiny feet.  My imaginary writer’s turret didn’t come equipped with a safety gate. But when I got married it just seemed that a child was the next natural step.  I don’t believe I ever questioned whether I was truly made for this new role.
 
When our beautiful little doll-baby came along I didn’t chatter away at her as I have witnessed with other mothers.  My default mode was mute.  And nursing was difficult.  I felt as open as a 24-hour diner and as over-worked and under-appreciated as the waitress inside.  I wanted my body, personal space, and time back.  My writing—even my journal—was neglected due to exhaustion and lack of creative inspiration.  Along with my milk, I felt the Real Me being devoured by this tiny child.
 
As she grew up, the toys and the tantrums began multiplying.  My quiet, orderly world had become a place of constant noise and chaos.  And although I had my breasts back to myself (albeit far below their former position), I now found myself gasping for free time while digging out from under plastic trucks and fuzzy giraffes.  Especially when the second child came along, I longed for peace, for things to stay put, for a beautiful home, for my writing, and on some days, for anything other than motherhood. I felt oppressed.  Resentful.  Rage-ful.
 
And I started yelling.  The Silent One was vanquished in a storm of frustration.
I can feel calm and then…bam! I’m screaming like a junkie in a police car. The anger which erupts when a grumpy, overtired 1st grader lets half-smashed food fall from her mouth both shocks and scares me.  Or, when we have arranged a day of “kid fun” (i.e. adult hell) and they refuse to get dressed but then cry in frustration when we miss the parade.  Or, when the tiny, but powerful fist smashes into my leg because my Mama-powers do not extend to making the hot sun go away.
 
The anger is a pressure in my chest which, at the worst moments of defiance, illogicality, and sibling rivalry increases to a physical pain.  Sometimes when I have yelled myself to tears, I imagine running off to a cottage by the sea, just my pen and I.  I never would, of course, but at times I long for nothing more than peaceful irresponsibility.
 
I hate The Rage. It does nothing more than give me a momentary release while polluting our home with bad energy for far longer. But I fear if I was capable of restraining the monster, it would only retreat to a deeper place, ultimately causing me greater pain.  The answer is to not allow The Rage to enter at all. In an effort to be pro-active, each morning I write in my journal, “It will be a calm and loving day…”
 
One day I hope I can truly say it was.
 
Would it have been better if I’d kept all that to myself and internalized the self-belief that I am an inferior mother? Are you judging me as a bad mom?
 
Or are you sighing in relief that you’re not the only one?
 
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A few years ago, in my life b.c. (before children) I traveled through Indonesia. As I traveled, I had many opportunities to observe the people there. What struck me most deeply was how women lived together in support of each other. They raised the children together, they did the laundry together, they cooked, ate, laughed and celebrated together.
 
Years later, I became a mother. I live alone in a house. I do my laundry alone, I cook, clean and go through my day alone. Yes, I have the children, but a child is not the greatest conversationalist. I am alone. A lot.
 
I believe we are doing this all wrong. I believe that there is a reason why so many people feel depressed, isolated and lonely. Because we are alone. Because we are not surrounded by our mothers, aunts, cousins, and friends as we go about the tedious tasks that make up almost every minute of our days as a mother.

Somehow, our culture came to this place where most of our social life is about our children. We go to playgroups, storytime, or music class to help our children’s “development”. Not that this isn’t a worthwhile goal. I’m all for it. But when is it about Mama and her needs?

When it comes time to have a playdate, we take a shower, stress about the house being picked up and make snacks. We hang out with our guests trying to feel relaxed while in the back of our mind we are thinking about all of the things that need to get done. Then after our guests leave, we madly rush about trying to make up for lost time. No wonder we rarely make the effort.  We just stay lonely.

So what do we do about this? I believe that we change the way it’s done. How about instead of playdates, we make workdates? I would like to feel OK about asking my friends over and folding my laundry, cooking together, working in the garden together while our kids play; without us watching over them the whole time to make sure they are “getting along”. They’ll work it out. We have work to do and talking to be done without interruption, please!

We keep the world running, and I would like it to be more enjoyable. I would like to do it together; not alone. The kids will love being left to their own devices a little bit more. Now that’s a playdate!

I believe that how we are doing things now is not the way it is supposed to be. I don’t want to depend on my email and Facebook to feel a vague sense of cyber-connection to other people. It just doesn’t feel right. I don’t know how we got here. I do know that I want it to change. I believe we can change it if we want to. We just have to figure out how to make it happen—then do it!

Chauntelle is the mama of two young girls, a yoga instructor, scientist, thinker, planner,  radical homemaker, and a Mama Says Board Member. 

I recently ran into a dear friend who is pregnant and struggling to make a decision regarding her prenatal care and place of birth.  She may have to forego plans for a homebirth because of financial limitations because insurance does not cover prenatal care with a homebirth midwife or the option of birthing at home. Her homebirth would cost around $4,000, which she would have to pay out of pocket, while her insurance would pick up every cent of a $10,000+ hospital birth. 

I firmly believe, without a shred of doubt or waiver, that every single woman who desires true midwifery care, including a birth at home, has the right to this option, regardless of financial capacity.  I believe that the midwifery model of care should be readily available and should be the norm.  Insurance companies should cover midwifery care without a second thought.  Not only would they save thousands of dollars per birth, but there are countless other health benefits to using midwives, including increased rates of breastfeeding which lower healthcare costs dramatically over time.  Countries who embrace this model of care more vigorously than in the U.S. have dramatically lower rates of infant and maternal mortality. The application of this woman-centered model of care has been proven to reduce the incidence of birth injury, trauma, and cesarean section. The Midwives Model of Care is based on the fact that pregnancy and birth are normal life processes. 

Thankfully, there are some insurance plans, including the state insurance plan for low to medium income families, that do cover a portion of the cost of midwifery care and homebirth in our area.  This needs to continue and we need to advocate for all insurance companies to cover midwives providing home birth care so everyone may have the  option of midwifery care.

I believe true midwifery care is far superior to the standard obstetrics or hospital nurse-midwifery care available today.  This opinion is based on my experience as a doula and childbirth advocate, and my personal birth experiences have shaped my beliefs in profound ways.   

I will never forget the hour-long prenatal exams with my midwife Bonne Dunham that covered my baby's physical health and my well being, while also going over my fears, hopes, and concerns.  When she arrived for our birth, I felt her strong and reassuring presence.  Under her care, I pushed my baby out and immediately pulled her up on my chest, and was the first one to touch and hold her.  Bonne gently checked on my baby’s vital signs while she was cuddled in my arms, and we let the cord stop pulsing before cutting it so she got every last drop of what was rightfully hers. Then there were the postpartum visits that occurred one day after the birth, then on the third day, one week, three weeks and six weeks.  I felt fully cared for.  I cried, laughed, and was supported wholeheartedly through the enormous transition both physically, emotionally, and spiritually.  There were certainly hard parts about my births, but there was peace, light, and love that lingered and surrounded us even in the darkest times thanks to the reassurance, confidence, and skill of my midwife.
 
Every woman and every birth is so different.  For some women, homebirth might not be the best option, but every woman deserves the education and information to make an informed decision.  I believe that money should never stand in the way of a woman seeking true midwifery care for her pregnancy and birth.  This is my unwavering belief.

Sarah is the home birthing, cloth diapering, breastfeeding mama of Aliyah and Noah.  She is a doula, community organizer, and a  Mama Says Board Member.

I looked fantastic.  Downright HOT.  I was wearing a slinky red dress that clung in all the right places and I had noted with satisfaction whilst walking into a very expensive restaurant that my waist finally looked tiny and my tummy as flat as those fallen soufflés that always came out of my oven.  George opened the door for me (always the gentleman) and we strode into the bar where the maitre de recognized us immediately.  It wasn’t until Mr. Clooney grabbed and twisted my nipple as we were walking to our table that I began to suspect something was amiss.  

Then it all hit home.  The warm bed.  The rising sun.  The hungry 5-month-old next to me wanting his 6AM feeding (which comes shortly after his 4AM feeding, and about 4 hours after his 2AM feeding, and not too far from his 11PM feeding…..)  I groaned.  No.  Back to the restaurant.  Just for a few more minutes.  Please. Oh please.  My husband continued to snore.

Motherhood arrived, while not unexpectedly, abruptly.  There is only so much you can do to prepare for that about which you know nothing.  You can’t plan for just how you are going to feel when you make the transition from woman to mama lion.  Nor can you plan for the sleepless nights as you nurture and love what has suddenly become to you the single most precious thing in the entire universe.  You can’t understand how the cries of another being can rip out your heart, and you can’t appreciate how much you would give for a home-cooked meal when you haven’t had the energy to make one since before you went and got yourself knocked-up in the first place.  You can’t know what it is like to leave your infant because you have to go to work until you do it for the first time.  Forget the valiant salmon swimming upstream:  all you can do as a new mother is try and go with the flow.  This I believe.

That said, for better or worse, I am still a fighter.  I tried to ignore the residual pain in my right breast after having removed the small, 5-fingered grabber from it, and did my very best to move past the tiny legs happily kicking with morning joy and the micro-paws merrily pummeling me in the chest and face with slimy, drool-covered fingers.  Come back to me George.

But alas, George was gone.  My boy hungry.  The snackbar had to open.  So I rolled over and pulled up my shirt just in time to tuck into my breast my small, squirming, child.  He suckled vigorously and I stared down at him as the light from morning sky brightened the room.  After a few minutes, my baby paused mid-breakfast and his eyes met mine.  Then the suction around my nipple broke as his lips widened into a slow, triumphant, gummy smile when, hunger abated, he noticed my face. 

by Alison Cornwall