Karen's
birth stories
As an aging home birther, I am in the position
to reflect. Both of my children were born
at home in Christchurch. My eldest was born
in 1990 and in those days a doctor was required
to be present. My only memory of the doctor's
input was his admiration of a painting I
had in the hall. For that birth my labour
started before I knew it. Being a novice
I thought I was experiencing slight incontinency
until my waters broke with a gush in the
evening. I had a six hour labour and will
never forget the birth of that slightly
blue girl with a head shaped to match our
exertions. She is now eleven years old.
My second home birth started much more
spectacularly. I was at the Arts Centre,
sitting outside having a cup of coffee.
I had just met a girl I had not seen for
a couple of years. We were reminiscing when
my waters broke leaving an impressive puddle
under my chair. Fortunately I was there
with friends who had a baby they adorned
with cloth nappies. With one wound around
my nether regions I hobbled to the car and
my son arrived three hours later. He is
now eight years old.
So in hindsight, having my children at
home has left me with some of my life's
most poignant memories. That first breastfeed
of my babies in the comfort of my own bed,
my own smells, my own aspirations, my triumph.
It doesn't end there. Though both my children
are not immunised my son had glue ear which
required two sets of grommets. They have
both had chicken pox and the odd worrying
high temperature. But other than that, I
have healthy vibrant children.
Each year submits new challenges. My babies
now have their own lives, attitudes and
problems. And I am not the perfect parent.
But I look at my children with pride at
the way they entered this world, and with
pride in how they have adapted to it. And
when they tell me they love me, it hits
my soul because I know they mean it.
Karen
|
