Having Number Two: A Clear Yes or No

Up until recently, I’d pretty much convinced myself that I was going to be okay with just one kid. I cringed when I imagined how hard it’d be to take care of a newborn and a toddler at the same time. I cringed when I imagined how I’d go back to having hardly any time to myself, even less so than the first time around, and how I’d have to put all my teaching and writing projects back on hold. My husband was pretty much in the same boat.

With one, we could gain back our freedom to travel sooner—whether on weekend trips with just the two of us, or family trips that involved more distant locales (even China, I fantacized, for several months… we could rent out our house, take up in some quaint town (or tolerable city), immerse the whole family in Chinese).

Then there was also the question of money and space. With just one child, we would not be pressed to add on to our one bedroom cabin as quickly; we would not be forced to take out a loan before we felt like it was a smart financial decision. Hell, if other factors outweighed a desire for more space, we could even put off remodeling indefinitely. It’s been working out just fine the last couple months with our bed in the living room. Plenty of families all over the world wouldn’t blink an eye at raising a family in 850 square feet.

It wasn’t that I’d made up my mind or anything; I knew that there was a distinct possibility that I could feel totally differently in a year. But when I’d see moms with a baby and toddler and feel a wash of relief that I wasn’t them as opposed to envy, I thought that was a pretty good indicator that I was happy with what we have. Cedar is an awesome kid. But he wasn’t an easy baby with all his food sensitivities and sleeping challenges. He’s bright, active, and will keep delighting and challenging us for years to come. He’ll have plenty of playmates; I don’t think he’ll be lonely. And meanwhile, Matthew and I continue to reclaim vestiges of our former adult life back.

One of the major elements that we’ve recently started to reclaim is sleep. Cedar is finally sleeping through the night, pretty much every night, in his own bed. That doesn’t mean he always gets enough sleep, seeing that he wakes up around 5 a.m. But we no longer have to spend half our night listening for his waking whines, then rushing in to put him back down before he fully wakes. He no longer depends on nursing to fall asleep, and he knows he won’t get any milk from me now until 5 a.m. (which I’d like to try and change to even later; that’s the next goal).

In addition to all this, he just recently started going to sleep without anyone staying in the room with him until he drifts off. This feels huge! We do our usual stories, I leave, then him and Matthew say night-night to various animals, objects, and people, and then they turn on the noise machine, say a final night-night, and Matthew walks out and closes the door. Brilliant. This whole shift happened quite effortlessly one night after Matthew had enough of Cedar squirming about, climbing on top of him, and keeping himself up by distraction. Matthew decided to say goodnight and leave that night—and Cedar let him without a cry of protest. So that was it. Matthew then did the same thing the next few nights, staying in the room for an even shorter amount of time, and Cedar hasn’t protested at all. The most he’s done is get up and crack the door open, listening, then shut it and go back to lie down. I wish I could see what he looks like as he lies there going to sleep on his own and know how long it takes him, mostly to bask in the pleasure of my little guy getting to be so independent and taking so many changes in stride. But I don’t need to see him to know how good it feels to have an entire evening now where me and my husband can both relax, off duty for hours, by ourselves.

So needless to say we’re pretty happy about all this, and it’s probably no coincidence that now that we’ve FINALLY gotten over this poor sleeping hump, I’m lo and behold a bit more open to the idea of having another. It’s totally ironic, yes, that the minute I start sleeping better I’d begin considering being thrown back into total sleep deprivation and chaos. And on top of this, I’m thinking about weaning soon—almost looking forward to it as much as I’m dreading it—and I don’t exactly want to go straight from weaning to nursing again. I’m banking on having at least a good few months, if not more like a year, to remember what it feels like to not be producing milk as a primary occupation.

Here’s the thing. If I wasn’t 37 and a half years old, I wouldn’t be in a hurry. I’d say, let’s wait until Cedar is at least four or five, out of the toddler stage, before we even go there. Let’s give ourselves a few years off from this early intensive stage of parenting. Let’s get our finances together and remodel first, and let’s not kid ourselves about how long that process might take in itself. Let me also get my teaching life that much more established, not to mention self-publish that dusty manuscript of memoirs that I’ve been saying I’m going to publish for so long. Let me achieve some major goals that make me feel good and satisfied as a writer, before I dive back into the intense beauty and torture that is mothering a newborn. In other words: let’s take our time and think about it.

But the reality is, I don’t have a ton of time. After you hit 35, it becomes significantly harder to get pregnant each year that passes—the curve sharpens dramatically. I know people over 40 who are trying to get pregnant now, and who are mourning their belated realization of just how much difference a year makes at this stage. I know that if I were to decide that I did indeed want another one, I should just bite the bullet and do it NOW, or in the next year at least, because wouldn’t that suck to finally decide you wanted one and then to not be able to get pregnant?

Other people my age seem to know this too, because there’s been an explosion of births in my world this spring. I know of seven or eight women in my son’s preschool co-op class alone who just gave birth to their second or are due in the coming months. Then there are my friends on Facebook; the three babies born recently on my block; two of my oldest, dearest friends; and, finally, my sister who gave birth just last Friday.

Seeing people get pregnant and hold their new amazing babies doesn’t have anything to do with my new (old, revitalized) line of thought, does it? Nah…. Of course having lots of pregnant women and babies around me is tugging at my tender heart strings that holds this process up as one of the most amazing gifts in life of all; of course it is. But I also want to make sure that I’m not just caving to some kind of socially accepted norm and unspoken peer pressure—the kind that carves into our psyche from the time we are young that families are supposed to consist of two parents and two or three kids; and that it’s the most natural wonderful thing in the world to want more than one.

I told my husband the other day, the same day we went to meet my sister’s new baby, that I wanted to talk to him about the possibility of having another. He immediately got defensive and antagonistic, forcing me to play devil’s advocate and act as if I indeed knew I wanted another one, when what I really wanted to do was just explore and hash out the idea verbally, see how it sounded saying it aloud, return to the part of me that had always imagined I’d like to have two, a pair of playmates, a pair to grow old with, share holidays with, share affections with, preferably a daughter and a son, the so-called “perfect” family.

I also told my husband the story of some friends of ours, a couple who was trying to decide if they wanted to have another. After much soul-searching they finally decided that no, they did not, they were fine, they were done. And then the minute they decided this and made it real, they realized that they did indeed still want another. It’s that element of regret at play. Wanting what you could have had, but didn’t choose.

The thing is, how many parents ever regret having a child, whether that child is number one or number five? It seems like once you have a child, once they are real and breathing and in your life, there are few who would ever, on a deep soul level, regret having that child. The thought would be unspeakable, for that baby was here and thus meant to be. It might have made your life insufferably hard for many years, but in the end, it was worth it right? You wouldn’t have had it any other way? Or is it simply such an unspeakable taboo that we never hear from the parents who do?

That’s how it seems to work. Once they are here, you can’t imagine them never having been here. But what if you wanted a child, but never had one? Or never had the second one? It seems like the possibility to regret is much greater. I am almost 40, but I still have many years ahead of me to nurture students and to write and publish books. I am almost 40, but I don’t have many years ahead to have more children. This, my dear husband, is why I’m now starting to talk to you about this. This, because it does feel like now or never time. This, because even though we are both still on the fence, we love each other deeply, and if we do want this, we can make it happen. This because it will always be scary to contemplate something so huge as to choose to bring another life into the world and your life. But it will not always be possible to do so.

This is what I don’t want: I don’t want to passively choose to not have another one (by letting time slip away) because of money or space issues. Those are the things that we can figure out, make work. And nor do I want to passively choose to have one (how could you, really?) because of a fear that I would regret it if not. If we have another one, I want it to be because we are so fucking excited by the possibility of being able to experience the miraculous process of coming to know a new being so intimately related to the both of us, and yet so ultimately unknown and mystical, and to know all the joy and riches that such a darling spirit could bring into our lives. That leap of faith.

Yes, there’s always the chance that she/he could have a birth defect, or be a terribly difficult bad seed. (I have yet to see, Dear Kevin, but it’s on our queue). But chances are, they wouldn’t. And even if so, then they’d be meant to be ours to love and grow with anyway. I know of no other “path” than parenthood that rocks your world so tremendously, and that if you choose to accept and let it, will transform you in brilliant ways in the making. Despite all the sleep deprivation, time alone deprivation, and undeniable challenge and hardship.

What I want is to take a poll of all the new moms of two out there and to ask you: tell me the truth, how hard is it? How much sleep do you get, how much time do you get to yourself and with your husband? How much harder is it to balance the whole work-family continuum with two than one? Do you ever get pangs of regret?  I want to hear from the new parents, not the seasoned ones who have made it past the hardest years and are now coasting in the land of “kids are in school during the day” and “couldn’t imagine it any other way”. I want to hear from the newbies because if we do choose to go this route, I want to know what I’m in for. I don’t want to fool myself into thinking I might be that much wiser at hiring help or carving out more time for myself this time around that I’d avoid all the depressing, suffocating pitfalls of new-immersion-motherhood.

I’ve already heard sentiments from moms of two young ones about how it now feels like a “break” when you “just” have the baby to watch, and not both kids. My selective memory is remembering the days of long stroller walks where you could have long continuous conversations with other new moms and get exercise at the same time while watching the baby, and thinking, that wasn’t so bad… But then simultaneously wondering if this kind of activity would be the closest thing to a regular “break” that I’d get in a long time. And, of course, my problem is that I don’t just want your typical mom “breaks” to go work out, go to the spa, or to read on the couch—I want those too, yes, on occasion, but mostly I want time to write and do my work (writing and teaching)-- work that doesn’t pay much if any money.

So my conundrum has always been how to afford a babysitter to do my work that doesn’t pay for a sitter, and still have time left over for yoga or walks or necessary mental health breaks. In short, if I decide to have another, am I deluding myself if I think that I’ll somehow manage to have time for all of these? I can handle a sacrificial period without for maybe six months or so. But after that, I want back to it. I want to write, I want to teach, I want to work. This calling is like another child of mine, one I must take seriously. I don’t want to return to that deep motherhood cocoon quite so wholeheartedly as I did the first time. I want that elusive work-life balance.

My husband (and my selective memory) would do well to keep reminding me about how miserable I’ve been at times during the last couple years, and how it is only just in the last six months or so that I’ve had the energy, resolve, and time to teach again, in addition to everything else. Nobody needs to remind me of the joy of motherhood though. That reminder is breathing and singing and screaming with me every day.

Anyway. I know that after hashing it all out, by myself and with my husband, I know that in the end it won’t be a rational decision. It will either be a clear (but slightly fearful) yes or a clear (but slightly wistful) no resonating from within my heart.  

Boob Salutations, Co-sleeping with my Toddler, and Trust

“I finally figured out what my breasts are for,” I said to my husband the other night. For feeding my little suckling pig, of course! Sometimes these days the way my son lunges for them and sucks reminds me of a little animal. And no longer will I ever look upon my breasts as some sensual, yet essentially “useless” fleshy, doughy appendage. When my son nurses it is utterly obvious now why they were created—not for my partner’s pleasure, much less for the ogling eyes of men on the street, and not even for my own enjoyment. Breasts, hands down, are for babies.

When Cedar was first born they grew huge, hard, and sometimes clogged with milk. For six months—or more like nine—I wore nursing bras religiously, accepting their less than flattering support for the convenience of being able to whip out the breast at a moment’s request. Eventually, though, I realized that they’d shrunken back down to my pregnancy size and that I could fit back into a couple of my nicer bras. Cedar also wasn’t nursing as much by then, so I could usually just nurse him at home and there’d be no emergency need to feed in public—which exposes more flesh than I’d prefer, especially when not wearing a nursing bra.

It’s been a relief to not have to nurse quite as much in public, simply because it’s a hassle to have to stop what you are doing and find a comfortable, clean place to sit down yet still be discreet. That said, I don’t plan to stop nursing anytime soon. I still love nursing--and as my baby undeniably makes the transition to toddlerhood, I appreciate this ritual that much more.

Nursing has changed since when Cedar was a baby. Long gone are the days when he’d just lie there inert for over an hour sometimes, and gone are the days when he’ll easily fall asleep at the boob. Now, at times, nursing can feel more like an acrobatic sport. We still mostly nurse lying down on the bed, only now Cedar will stick his butt up in the air and nurse in a “downward dog” position. Or, he’ll want both breasts to be out and accessible so he can switch back and forth as he pleases. He’ll let me know this by signing for milk, tugging at my bra, or simply grunting in his all-encompassing language, “Uh.” (Amazingly, I almost always know what “uh” means.) I indulge his requests, as long as he is actually nursing and not say, patting at my other boob, biting, or pinching my other nipple. That’s where I draw the line. Mostly though, his antics amuse me. He can be a goofy kid, and I am more prone to indulge silliness than stifle it.

Cedar nurses the most in the morning when he wakes around 6:30. I am usually still half-asleep, so I’m not sure how long exactly he nurses for, but it feels like a long time—half an hour, sometimes more? On both boobs. Lying down, draped across me, downward dog, moving through all the positions—call it “Boob Salutations.” Then during the day he usually only nurses for five minutes or so at a time, before or after his two naps. Before bedtime, he nurses for another 10-30 minutes depending on whether he’s in the mood to fall asleep that way or not. And although I’ve tried not to nurse him every time he wakes up at night, I’ve recently gone back to just wanting him to fall back asleep as quickly as possible (in order to gain back more of my evening with Matthew or to go back to sleep myself), so that means that I usually nurse for about 5-10 minutes every 2-3 hours throughout the night.

For those who co-sleep, this may not come as a big surprise—a fourteen month old who still wakes and nurses through the night. For others, it probably sounds like hell and you are probably quietly thanking your own wisdom in choosing not to co-sleep. For me, by now, I’ve pretty much accepted this situation. I went through a few periods of “we’ve got to change this night waking problem!” resolve, but Elizabeth Pantley’s ‘”no-cry sleep solution” nipple removal techniques didn’t seem to reduce his waking, and nor did my husband’s intervention (we’ve been having him go to Cedar when he wakes before we’ve gone to bed ourselves, and although this has helped Cedar learn to go to sleep better without me and the boob, it can also take forever and has not helped him wake any less).

I know I would sleep better (duh) if Cedar wasn’t waking so much still, but that said, I am mostly only half-waking when he half-wakes, and unconsciously putting the boob in his mouth for a quick fix before we’re both snoozing quietly again. I know Cedar isn’t hungry. I know that this is now a firmly entrenched habit (or call it ritual if you want it to sound better). I know that it could potentially be broken with “only” a couple weeks (or more) of night weaning torture (especially since we are not planning to stop co-sleeping any day soon), but frankly I’m not ready to put us through that yet.

I am all for doing what’s easiest, as long as it’s still working for us. There were periods when Cedar was waking even more than he is now when I wasn’t so sure it was “working” anymore. But now, it’s been several months with no real complaints from me, aside from the occasional off night. Cedar no longer wakes from gas at night, unless I happen to have been testing eating or feeding him some new food that doesn’t settle well. Mostly now, I think Cedar’s waking now just comes with the territory of co-sleeping.

When Matthew and I were trying to decide whether or not to co-sleep, I read all kinds of literature that proclaimed how mama and baby both sleep better when co-sleeping-- yet I also read things that said they both sleep lighter and wake more. Contradictory? Perhaps. I don’t want to fully debate the merits versus shortcomings of co-sleeping here, but suffice it to say that since we didn’t and don’t plan to switch to a crib, we’ll never really know if Cedar would have slept better that way. Sometimes I think he would, because sometimes me and Matthew’s movements or sounds (when first coming to bed at night, for instance) wake him. Also, even though we have a king-sized bed, sometimes Cedar rolls over virtually on top of me, and then I have to move him and then he stirs, nearly wakes, and so I nurse him quickly so that he won’t wake for real.

And yet, despite all this, I’m still tempted to believe that co-sleeping was the best choice for us all. Not only was it a practical choice since we have a tiny house, but I also can only imagine what it would have been like to have to get up each time he woke during the many hard months when his intestinal issues would cause him to wake crying in pain in the middle of the night, and how long it might have taken for both of us to fall back asleep. And now, even without his gas problems, I can’t really imagine giving up co-sleeping. Ultimately we chose to go this route because we wanted to. And now, I’m as attached to it as Cedar is.

For those who choose to co-sleep, there is undeniably something we love about it, something we grow close to, something that ingrains itself in us over the many months we do it. When you grow used to being so close to the soft breath of your baby upon drifting to sleep, it feels strange and wrong to have him elsewhere. When you grow used to those morning snuggles and nursing sessions and the “wolf pack” feeling of all being in one bed, it seems like it’d be hard to arbitrarily pick an age when the baby is moved into a separate space. Of course, if you didn’t enjoy anything about co-sleeping in the first place, it’d be a no-brainer to boot the baby, for you’d gain back luxurious space to stretch your limbs and freedom to make love or read or whatever else you do for pleasure at night in your bed.

It’s not a black and white issue for me. There are definite pros and cons. I don’t know if we would do it differently if we were to have another one. A part of me says, yes, definitely, we would move that baby into a crib after that initial, intense newborn stage of constant nursing-- by four months perhaps… or maybe six. But then I wonder if I’d really be able to. Perhaps if turns out to be a really hard transition getting Cedar out of our bed and if he goes on to have trouble sleeping alone, I will rethink this strategy. And yet, I’m not really that worried about this transition; beyond the initial getting used to, I think that most kids who co-slept as babies and toddlers end up doing just fine on their own. Mostly, it’s just hard to imagine doing things differently than whatever you and your partner have chosen. We gravitate to what we know. It’s easier to go with the status quo than to tempt the unpredictable results of executing change.

Some might be surprised to learn that even the most stringent sleep-training experts (think Weisblaum and Ferber) now both have sections in their books that allow for co-sleeping as a viable, healthy option. Weisblaum talks about how if a mom chooses to nurse immediately upon demand at night and the baby consequently doesn’t wake all the way, then the baby’s sleep cycles are not disturbed and so there is no “sleep problem.” Along these lines, I feel Cedar is well-rested (except for the occasional off night). And hands down, he’s got a secure attachment to me, to us. Hands down, he’s got a cozy bed.

But what about you, you say? What about my sleep cycles, I say? Well, most days I feel fine. I have plenty of energy, and only drink a couple cups of tea a day—not coffee, but tea! Of course, I’m not required to use my brain that much or sit in meetings or talk to other adults, so it is entirely likely that if I had a different “day job” I might discover that my mental capacity is sub par—but that’s what coffee’s for, right? I go to sleep at 10:30 or 11 most nights and I get up around seven. I get a decent night’s rest, even if you should probably subtract an hour or so for the nightly interruptions of my sleep cycle (even if I am not technically even awake for an hour).

True, I admit I am also excited for the day when Cedar moves to his own bed and when I am not waking (briefly) every two or three hours. But I also know I’ll miss co-sleeping. Just like I’ll miss nursing when Cedar is eventually weaned. I’ll miss that snuggly feeling of fitting inside each other’s bodies. I’ll miss the way he throws his foot on top of my belly and leg, I’ll miss the way he rests a hand on my breast. I’ll miss the perfect way in which we fit together within this act of nourishment.

My body makes the perfect nutrients for you, my little one. Nutrients that have kept you healthy, with only one cold the entire fourteen months of your life, not to mention providing a major source of your daily diet that is free. I don’t have to worry about you not getting enough to eat, because I know you will make up for it when you nurse. And although it has no doubt been challenging to have to restrict my diet because of your sensitivities (I’m still not eating dairy, soy, garlic, onions, citrus, tomatoes, coffee and chocolate—with an occasional exception), I choose this any day over having you wake in pain or get a red itchy rash on your face.

I’ve never considered not nursing you. First of all, there’s no easy solution since you couldn’t even have dairy- or soy-based formulas to supplement. But mostly, breastfeeding just seems like the most natural, bonding act for me. You came into this world with the instinct to root and nurse, and despite all the ways in which you are growing and changing from a little baby into a little boy (oh my!), nursing is this seamless link that we have, this way of connection and love. You’ll have your whole life to be more “independent” and weaned. What’s another year at the breast?

I know plenty of moms who are still nursing and co-sleeping with their toddlers. In our Seattle culture, it is not so strange; even the World Health Organization recommends nursing until at least two. But I know that the older my son gets, the more strange our choices may seem to others—and I admit, I don’t really want to have my son run up to me on the playground for a quick nip. So the older he gets, the more seldom we will nurse, until eventually one of us will decide that it’s time to stop altogether.

Which will come first—weaning from the breast or weaning from co-sleeping? Hard to say. I wouldn’t be surprised if they happen close together. Maybe not at the exact same time, so as to ease the transition. But they are tied together for us. It would be hard to wean while still co-sleeping, though not impossible. And it would similarly be hard to move Cedar to his own bed and simultaneously deny him this great source of comfort he’s known since birth. So we’ll see, keep taking it day by day. Keep making the choices that feel right for us.

At a certain point, I just stopped caring what the books said—whether they were of the mainstream variety or in the attachment parenting vein. I found that all the reading, questioning and plotting based on someone else’s recommendations just made me feel stressed out or guilty about my own choices that diverged from the norm. I found that once I accepted that I was doing things the way I was because they felt right, and not because I could rationalize them into being right, then the arguments for pros and cons dropped away.

I am learning to accept that in parenting there is no “perfect” way to do things. There is only the one winding, messy, and unique path that you and your family carve out for yourself. And this path is based on way too many variables—both the seen and the unseen—to follow any one singular guide but your own.

On Dog Energy and Taking A Plunge

In a couple of hours, our family of three will become four. In a couple of hours we will pick up our new dog, Fergie, a five-year-old Doberman, who by all accounts is sweet and gentle, and not at all aggressive. Good with kids and good with cats, she has mellow energy though will need her exercise for sure. She was raised by a distant friend of mine who is sad to give her up, but who doesn’t have the time to care for her properly due to a new job and grad school. So she posted a note on Facebook two weeks ago, and something inside me payed attention. Matthew and I have wanted a dog. We haven’t talked about it much since we had a baby; there was no huge rush to introduce another being into our lives who would need our attention and care. And yet, we still wanted one, someday, maybe in a year or two.

Enter the Facebook post. Matthew was putting Cedar down one night when I saw it. “What do you think?” I showed it to him later. “Should I write her? At least find out more?” He smiled a conspiratorial grin. “Sure.” And before we knew it, we came to meet her in Olympia last weekend on Easter Day, and here we are now to pick her up and drive her home on May Day.

In recent years, Matthew has been a bit more eager to take the plunge and get a dog than I have been, but mostly this is because I know that I am the one who will be the primary caregiver for the dog since I am home all the time. We had talked about getting a puppy, because we wanted to make sure our dog was good with kids-- but puppies require a lot of energy. I didn’t think I’d have the energy for a puppy while I was pregnant or raising a newborn, and now, with a one-year-old, I still don’t feel like I do. Yet with rescue dogs, there’s always the wild card factor; you can never be sure of their habits and past. But an older dog who we know is gentle and well-behaved, who doesn’t bark or get on furniture, who has been raised since she was a puppy by a friend who I trust and respect, this sounded too enticing to pass up.

We didn’t see this coming. If I wanted to, I could come up with lots of convincing arguments for why the timing isn’t ideal. But I can also come up with lots of reasons why the timing right now might be perfect. Right now, I am home all day. I go on walks every day. It is springtime, and I would love to go on even more walks than I do. Right now, it’s true that I am tired from lack of proper sleep every day and that I have little time or mental energy to write or pursue many of the intellectual activities that I want to do. But what I do have is a lot of time to be physically and emotionally present. To go to the park, to sit in the yard and play, to sing songs, prepare meals, and run a few errands along the way. I can easily imagine how me and Cedar’s daily rhythm will be enriched by the presence of a gentle, loving dog. She will be a companion and source of added joy and delight for both of us.

But there is no “rational” reason for us to get a dog. We are not looking for a guard dog, a therapy dog, a distraction from loneliness, or a symbol of our status. Why do most people get dogs, after all? Because we know from past experience that we love them-- we love the energy they bring to our lives, we love the warmth of snuggling with them, we love their unconditional love and excitement for living—simply put, we enjoy the energy of dogs, and we want them to be a part of our family.

That does not mean that I am looking at this coming change in our lives without a hefty dose of realism. I know there will be days when it is pouring rain and I really don’t feel like getting me and Cedar bundled up in raingear for a quick walk around the block, not once much less three times a day, and yet, I will because I have to (well, maybe not three times on days like that). I also know that most of the time, my body and psyche will feel better after we do.

I know that there will be times when we want to get away on a trip where we can’t bring Fergie along, and when there will be no smiling relatives or friends available to pet sit (my mother has already made that very clear; let’s just say my parents are amongst the few who absolutely do not think it’s a good idea that we get a dog right now). In these instances, we will have to fork over some big chunks of money for dog care, or simply not go on our trip. But, that said, unlike most periods in my adult life, we are not planning any big trips right now, or in the foreseeable near future. A lack of money and a lack of desire to travel too far with a young child is keeping our wanderlust in check for now, and instead our sights are set on short, local camping trips where a dog would be a welcome addition (even if we’ll have to get more creative with our packing—we are quite accomplished car campers, bringing along no shortage of wood, wine, tarps, fishing gear, baby gear, and books on each trip).

In some ways, this blog post is an attempt to explain to my parents the rationale (and lack of rationale) that is going into this decision. It’s one of those things, much like the decision to have a child, in which there may never be a “perfect,” complication-free time to do it. Yes, dogs (and children) are big responsibilities. And yet, I may very well have more time and energy right now than I do in a year or two to take on this initial challenge of getting Fergie adjusted to her new home and family and integrated into our new routine. For all I know, in a year or two, Cedar may take even more energy to raise (I’m sure he will and he won’t, in differing ways), and I also hope to have more chunks of time to write and teach by then. Hopefully, in a couple years I will be launching into a phase of my life that integrates my identities as writer, mother and teacher more evenly, and this shifting will be my focus, my main “project” if you will.

But right now, I am pretty much just here to raise Cedar. My energy is devoted to him, with whatever chores and bills I can get done on the side. I write a little when I can, and I read (voraciously) during his naps, but I feel like I am capable and, now, with this deliberation about whether to adopt a dog, I am realizing that I am even eager to take on more. True, I would love even more to take on more writing or teaching (in that order) if I could, but since I can’t right now (we can’t afford childcare and I have also mostly accepted this period as being devoted to Cedar since he won’t ever be this young again), then why not get a dog now? She will be my new “project” if you will—and I hope that doesn’t come across the wrong way.

Of course, Matthew will share in the responsibility. We’ve talked about him taking her out for her first short walk first thing in the morning and last short walk at night, whereas me and Cedar will take her out for her long walk or run during the day. And we look forward to weekends where all four of us can journey to the dog park or the woods and make these kinds of outings the norm, whereas right now long family walks often get squeezed out in favor of house projects or individual errands or goals while the other parent watches Cedar. Soon, a good chunk of exercise each day will be the priority and not just one goal of many-- and this can only be good for us.

I know this sounds like a whole lot of rationalizing for what, when it came down to it, was a spur of the moment, gut-level decision. We didn’t have a long period of deliberation over what breed to get, or multiple trips to the pound. Instead, we saw an opportunity present itself, and decided (with a decent dose of nervousness and butterflies for sure), to say yes.

Home Birth

From the beginning, I was open to both the idea of giving birth at a hospital or at home. I didn’t know much then about the opinions, risks, and controversies that surround both birthing environments, but I wanted to do my research and make the decision that felt right for me.

I knew of plenty of people who’d had home births, even if only about one percent of people in the U.S. have them, so it didn’t seem like some aberrant extremity like it may to some. If anything, I felt like many in my extended community were biased toward home births, and after reading Ina May’s Guide to Childbirth and watching the documentary The Business of Being Born, I started to feel that way myself.

Yet as far as hospitals go, I’d heard that Group Health (which I belonged to) was one of the best places to be in Seattle if you were hoping for a birth with limited interventions. Their c-section rate was lower, they had birthing rooms with tubs and options to dim the lights and play your own music, they let you move around during labor and labor in different positions, and in general, they did not seem like the “scary hospital environment” that many of the worst-case scenarios suggested. They also had a team of six midwives that you could work with, as well as O.B.s. I gravitated toward midwives because I trusted they would be more knowledgeable about facilitating a natural birth, and might not rush as quickly to the decision to intervene if labor was taking a long time; I trusted they’d understand the importance of a woman being able to control her environment and be an active agent in her birth.

I was born at Group Health, and have gone there my whole life. It was an easy decision to go there for my first prenatal exam. I really liked the midwife I met with; she was warm, compassionate, and pregnant herself. But there was no way of knowing which of the six midwives would be on call when I went into labor. And after the first hour-long appointment, the monthly prenatal exams were only supposed to last 15 minutes. That meant that if I tried to spread out the rest of my visits evenly with all of the midwives, I might only spend half an hour with each of them total. I would barely know the woman who would attend perhaps the most intimate and painful experience of my life. And on top of that, she might have several women in labor at the same time, and only be able to be with me consistently when the baby started to come out. Her twenty-four hour shift might also end mid-labor, and then I’d be with someone else.

At least there would be a nurse who would be assigned to me and me alone, but I would never have met this woman before. And what if she was the type of nurse who would keep offering me an epidural, even if my birth plan stated I wanted to go without medication? Would I accept the pain meds in a moment of weakness and fear (“I give up, I can’t do this!”)? After all, they’d already had me sign a waver okaying an epidural on my very first nurse’s visit. It isn’t that I am absolutely opposed to an epidural. I knew that there is a possibility that I might want one, and that that would be okay if it is what I decided. But somehow the way I was handed the form with no discussion or information felt jarring.

Nevertheless, I was reassured by the presence of the first midwife I met with. She even shared names of a few recommended midwives who did homebirths when I revealed to her that I was still considering that option. She herself was planning to give birth with one of them. (Who do the midwives choose to deliver with? Hmm, let’s take note of this, I thought).

I knew I needed to do more research. I read up on local midwives and home birth options, and I finally scheduled a free consultation visit with a midwife who worked out of the oldest birthing center in Seattle. I suspected that after meeting with her I would know what I wanted. She spent an hour with me and my husband, answering all our questions about home births and their practice. I expressed to her how confused I’d felt when given the information about genetic testing, and the general rushed and indecisive feeling I’d had about giving birth at the hospital. I felt a deep sense of relief as she listened to my concerns. She even offered an ultrasound so we could hear the baby’s heartbeat—I’d seen it on my last visit, but had yet to hear it. I liked this midwife, she felt knowledgeable and steady.

But surprisingly, I left that appointment actually leaning towards going with Group Health. It was one statistic that stuck with me: she told us that about 15-20 percent of first-time moms who plan a home birth end up transferring to a hospital. Only a very small portion of these transfers happen because of an emergency; most of them happen because the labor is taking a long time and the mother is exhausted, and the mother decides that she wants relief in the form of medication.

One in five. I didn’t want to tell my parents this statistic. My mother had freaked out when I told her I was considering a home birth. My mother, like many people in this country, had uninformed ideas of what a modern-day midwife was. She could only picture some woman in a backwards country with limited training who’d learned the trade by default. All kinds of what ifs? were hurled at me. Instead of being open to hearing the information I’d garnered through research (i.e., that home births have been proven to be as safe as hospital births if they are planned and if you are a ‘low-risk’ pregnancy), she just turned the T.V. on and closed down the conversation.

After a couple interactions like this with my mother, I decided to just not talk to her about it anymore, at least not until I’d actually made a decision. What was the point about arguing the merits of a home birth if I hadn’t even decided it was what I wanted? In fact, I didn’t really want to talk to anyone who had a strong opinion either way. I knew I’d be okay at Group Health; I didn’t feel an aversion to it when my husband and I visited the birthing units on a tour, even if the room seemed rather small and still had a hospital-like ambience. Group Health would be cheaper, but our insurance would cover at least 70% of a home birth, which means we’d owe about $1000 plus the deductible. We could afford that, so I didn’t want money to be a deciding factor. But if I chose the hospital, then my mom wouldn’t worry. And her worrying was something I didn’t want to have on my conscience. I wanted to be fully supported in this birth. I didn’t want to feel like I was fighting anyone for my decision, especially not my mother. I decided to go with the path of least resistance and stay with Group Health. After all, if it were my only choice, I would be fine with it. Maybe for my first birth it was a safer choice. Maybe I could have a home birth next time, if there was a next time.

It was a relief to have “made” a decision. I was almost three months along and I longed to settle into the security of knowing who would care for me. I went to my next prenatal exam at Group Health. First a nurse took my weight and blood pressure and asked me if I had any questions, entering them into a computer. Then, finally, the midwife came in half an hour late. I told her I had brought a list of questions. (Last time, the midwife had said to come prepared since the visit would be short.) She glanced at the clock. “Well, just try and prioritize them.” I rattled them off, conscious now of how “important” were they. I told her about how dehydrated I’d been lately and also asked her about appropriate weight gain, and she made a few quick inquiries into my water intake and diet, but otherwise told me I could consult with a nutritionist. I managed to squeeze in all my questions, including asking her about Group Health’s c-section rates. I’d already heard one unofficial answer, but I wanted to see if the information I got was consistent. “About 20%,” she said, “but it’s rising.” Then, a quick assurance, “We’ll only do what’s best for you.”

Perhaps if I hadn’t done all the reading I had already, I could feel relieved by quick reassurances like this, but now her answer felt hurried and dismissive. It was as if I could hear her sighing, “I don’t have time for this.” She gave me a ultrasound so we could hear the heart beat (I didn’t tell her I’d heard it last week with an out-of-hospital midwife; somehow, I didn’t feel like she’d want to hear this), and that was it. We were out of there in about 20 minutes, only making her 5 minutes later for her next appointment. I hoped she wouldn’t be the one on call at my birth.

Over the next couple weeks, I told people I’d decided on Group Health, but I felt myself relaying this choice with a sense of resignation as opposed to relief. And I still hadn’t told my mother. It was as if I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of that decision, didn’t want her to feel like she was right and I’d “thankfully” seen the light. And I didn’t want to admit to myself how much of my decision was influenced by my fear that if I chose a home birth and ended up transferring to the hospital, that my parents would say, “We told you so.”

How much were my parent’s opinions influencing my decision? Here I was, 34 years old, about to make one of the most important personal choices of my life, and I was still so swayed by what they thought.

I tried to imagine if my parents were completely supportive of a home birth, if it would still be such a hard decision. The answer was no. If they were supportive either way, I realized that I’d probably have chosen a home birth by now. I couldn’t let their fear weigh so heavily on me. But I also had to separate for myself—how much of this was their fear, and how much was my fear? Was there a part of me that secretly welcomed their fear because it gave a voice to my own? Would I feel safer in a hospital, even given everything I’d read about the other set of risks that being in a hospital could bring?

Meanwhile, I kept reading about home births and checking out the websites of midwives, even though I sensed by now that I would not reach my decision by weighing more pros and cons. I’d done my research, satisfied the logical, information-driven part of myself that needs to know the facts. Now it was up to me to reach inside for the right answer. I knew I still felt a wistfulness when I read about home births or heard of others who’d chosen this path. I lay in my bed and tried to imagine going into labor there, as opposed to laboring in the hospital room on the narrow raised bed surrounded by computers and IVs and an unfamiliar staff. I imagined what it would be like to instead have a midwife that I’d spent monthly hour-long prenatal visits with come to my house; to be able to climb into a tub in my living room beneath our A-frame cedar ceiling; to be able to make sure that the refrigerator was stocked with replenishing food for me and my husband, that the music was cued if I should desire it; to ensure that an atmosphere of calm and peace could be created well in advance and that I could go outside and walk circles in my sheltered yard if the labor was taking a long time; that I could lie back in my own bed after the baby was born, and that the midwife and her helpers would stay with us for hours to help us get comfortable caring for our new baby. And that the midwife would then come to my house several times in the coming weeks to offer us support in breastfeeding and answer our concerns. It was about more than just the birth—it was about the whole incredible period leading up to the birth in which I wanted to feel listened to and assured. And it was about the post-partum period too, a period that I knew many of my friends had struggled with, and that was every bit as important to the health of the baby and mother.

But back to the birth itself: more than some idyllic vision of a comfortable, spiritual environment to bring new life into the world through, was the practical knowledge I’d learned that resonated intuitively-- that by being in an environment with familiar trusted people, there was an increased likelihood that I would be able to surrender more easily to the pain and process, that my mind and body would be relaxed enough for my cervix to dilate and open, that I would feel the most trust and safety here in my own home, doing what women have done naturally for centuries. Think about where you feel the most comfortable taking a shit (excuse my crassness)—alone in your own bathroom, or in a public place with strangers watching you? This comparison may seem unwarranted, but I’d read about how the same “sphincter principle” was at play while you gave birth. The mind, your own comfort level, and inhibitions can influence and “hold up” so much. There was plenty of research that corroborated this—the importance of feeling uninhibited and safe in your environment and trusting all the people around you.

More than my fear of the small chance that something could happen that would be better handled in a hospital, weighed my fear that the situation at the hospital would feel outside of my control—the environment, the pressure of decisions made, the increased likelihood of interventions, and the lingering questions I might have of what could have been done differently? Either way, you are taking risks. Which risks weighed heavier for me? Where would I feel most safe? That was the most important question.

I called my husband that night and kept expressing my questions and doubts. He’d been so supportive this whole time of either decision, and hadn’t pressured me one way or the other. “I just don’t know…” I said. Perhaps because of something different he heard in my voice, he said, “I think you do know.” Tears welled in my eyes. I couldn’t say anything.

After we hung up, I cried some more, and whispered aloud for the first time, “I think I want a home birth.” More tears rose in my chest and streamed down my face. The next morning, I wrote the same thing in my journal, and again, more tears. That’s how I knew. I hadn’t had this reaction when I’d “decided” on the hospital birth. Instead, that had felt like I was passively giving in to the path most commonly accepted by others. But now, when I finally uttered the words, “I want a home birth,” a joy and relief resonated through my body, the resounding yes that I’d been hoping for, a clear sign that, for me, this was right.