I remember the words "You're pregnant!" like it was yesterday. I also remember that the nurse practitioner's exclamation sounded more like a question in case I didn't think this was happy news. After all, it was the 1970s, an era of feminism and women's rights, and the right to choose hung heavy in the air; all of that was the furthest thing from my mind. I was thrilled at the news and said so with a grin from ear to ear.
I was 26. My husband and I hadn't planned to start a family, but the prospect of motherhood filled me with a sense of "shock and awe" that we were indeed at the stage in life that we could and would do so. Before I got the medical confirmation, I suspected that I was pregnant because of the subtle changes in my body. Though I had nothing to compare it to, as I never had morning sickness, somehow I just knew. Something felt different. With the obstetrician's confirmation, I excitedly told my husband we were having a baby! He loved the idea. Full of optimism for a healthy pregnancy, we announced the news immediately to family and friends.
I was a new teacher in a small school working with other young teachers, all in their twenties. There were five of us pregnant at the same time, which was crazy, but it just added to the camaraderie we had already established. We were a close-knit group. We hung out together, and a group of us became close friends. The prospect of raising families together was very cool.
By the late 1970s, women I knew were deeply vested in "women's lib." As it related to childbirth, if the woman had to be present at the delivery of her child, so did the husband. The term "we're pregnant" entered the lexicon. There was a mix of new birthing techniques and a return to "the old ways." Ultrasound was not yet commonplace, so the sex of the baby would still be a surprise. Breast milk was preferred to formula. Women pumped their milk so the fathers could participate in the feedings. We nursed publicly, albeit discretely. "Co-parenting" was the new buzzword. Liberated women of my time refused an epidural in favor of natural childbirth. Lamaze and La Leche were popular supports for birthing and nursing. Birthing rooms were becoming more common, but were not widely available. Midwives and home births were back in vogue. Some women chose to deliver in water, others birthed in an upright position using gravity to their advantage.
I knew I had the constitution for natural childbirth, and, after all, my husband would be present throughout. What I didn't know was whether my style would be that of a screaming banshee that would send my horror-stricken husband sprinting from the room or a calm and confident mother-to-be panting through her pain. We chose a hospital setting, and I delivered my firstborn naturally with my husband by my side.
My beautiful, healthy angel was born at 5:00 p.m. on September 16, 1978, weighing in at 6 lbs. even. We named our red-headed baby of Irish heritage Shannon. She was such an unimaginably small and perfect bundle of joy. While I felt that motherhood began the moment I found out I was pregnant, my newborn made me feel motherhood to the depths of my soul. My world was forever altered with her presence in my life. The future glowed with hope and promise for my budding family.
My young, naïve self thought that I had created the perfect sidekick for my life's adventures. I was and have always been a hopeless romantic and ridiculously optimistic, with an intelligent mind that was often overruled by my heart. As it turned out, my dream of motherhood did not always measure up to the reality. Intermingled with moments of pure joy were sleepless nights, incessant crying, projectile vomiting, asthma, chicken pox, temper tantrums...all things typical of childhood, but things I hadn't given much thought to.
Still loving motherhood, I had a second child, a son, whom Shannon named Erik. Not long after, the dream completely shattered. There was a divorce and abandonment. Fear of going it alone undermined the joys of motherhood. As a single parent, I became an anxious mother: insecure, angry, scared, exhausted, worried about everything. I eventually got my footing, but my daughter no longer wanted to be my sidekick. As a teen, she would have pulled away anyway, but she ran from me full speed in any direction but the one I wanted her to go.
It's 2015. I'm a mother of two adult children now. My daughter has given me two beautiful grandchildren. She had an epidural and knew both times the sex of her children in utero. Birthing rooms are the norm. Breastfeeding is still preferred to formula. She never discussed alternative delivery options but certified nurse midwives have mostly moved to a hospital rather than a home setting. And motherhood...still the same awesome responsibility it always was, buoyed by Googling the latest parenting advice on the Internet. Some families have a strong foundation and some mothers still go it alone. There is still disparity in women's wages, with many more single parents living in poverty. At this point in my life, motherhood's sharp edges have dulled and smoothed. I worry less. I have raised my children to adulthood. And...my daughter has indeed become my sidekick.
I was 26. My husband and I hadn't planned to start a family, but the prospect of motherhood filled me with a sense of "shock and awe" that we were indeed at the stage in life that we could and would do so. Before I got the medical confirmation, I suspected that I was pregnant because of the subtle changes in my body. Though I had nothing to compare it to, as I never had morning sickness, somehow I just knew. Something felt different. With the obstetrician's confirmation, I excitedly told my husband we were having a baby! He loved the idea. Full of optimism for a healthy pregnancy, we announced the news immediately to family and friends.
I was a new teacher in a small school working with other young teachers, all in their twenties. There were five of us pregnant at the same time, which was crazy, but it just added to the camaraderie we had already established. We were a close-knit group. We hung out together, and a group of us became close friends. The prospect of raising families together was very cool.
By the late 1970s, women I knew were deeply vested in "women's lib." As it related to childbirth, if the woman had to be present at the delivery of her child, so did the husband. The term "we're pregnant" entered the lexicon. There was a mix of new birthing techniques and a return to "the old ways." Ultrasound was not yet commonplace, so the sex of the baby would still be a surprise. Breast milk was preferred to formula. Women pumped their milk so the fathers could participate in the feedings. We nursed publicly, albeit discretely. "Co-parenting" was the new buzzword. Liberated women of my time refused an epidural in favor of natural childbirth. Lamaze and La Leche were popular supports for birthing and nursing. Birthing rooms were becoming more common, but were not widely available. Midwives and home births were back in vogue. Some women chose to deliver in water, others birthed in an upright position using gravity to their advantage.
I knew I had the constitution for natural childbirth, and, after all, my husband would be present throughout. What I didn't know was whether my style would be that of a screaming banshee that would send my horror-stricken husband sprinting from the room or a calm and confident mother-to-be panting through her pain. We chose a hospital setting, and I delivered my firstborn naturally with my husband by my side.
My beautiful, healthy angel was born at 5:00 p.m. on September 16, 1978, weighing in at 6 lbs. even. We named our red-headed baby of Irish heritage Shannon. She was such an unimaginably small and perfect bundle of joy. While I felt that motherhood began the moment I found out I was pregnant, my newborn made me feel motherhood to the depths of my soul. My world was forever altered with her presence in my life. The future glowed with hope and promise for my budding family.
My young, naïve self thought that I had created the perfect sidekick for my life's adventures. I was and have always been a hopeless romantic and ridiculously optimistic, with an intelligent mind that was often overruled by my heart. As it turned out, my dream of motherhood did not always measure up to the reality. Intermingled with moments of pure joy were sleepless nights, incessant crying, projectile vomiting, asthma, chicken pox, temper tantrums...all things typical of childhood, but things I hadn't given much thought to.
Still loving motherhood, I had a second child, a son, whom Shannon named Erik. Not long after, the dream completely shattered. There was a divorce and abandonment. Fear of going it alone undermined the joys of motherhood. As a single parent, I became an anxious mother: insecure, angry, scared, exhausted, worried about everything. I eventually got my footing, but my daughter no longer wanted to be my sidekick. As a teen, she would have pulled away anyway, but she ran from me full speed in any direction but the one I wanted her to go.
It's 2015. I'm a mother of two adult children now. My daughter has given me two beautiful grandchildren. She had an epidural and knew both times the sex of her children in utero. Birthing rooms are the norm. Breastfeeding is still preferred to formula. She never discussed alternative delivery options but certified nurse midwives have mostly moved to a hospital rather than a home setting. And motherhood...still the same awesome responsibility it always was, buoyed by Googling the latest parenting advice on the Internet. Some families have a strong foundation and some mothers still go it alone. There is still disparity in women's wages, with many more single parents living in poverty. At this point in my life, motherhood's sharp edges have dulled and smoothed. I worry less. I have raised my children to adulthood. And...my daughter has indeed become my sidekick.
No comments:
Post a Comment