Hi Readers! I’m featured on xoJane.com’s It Happened to Me today!
When my husband and I found out we were pregnant, we embarked, without a heap of conviction, on a journey to have our daughter in our Jacuzzi tub.
My admittedly shallow reason: I was not trying to pay on a hospital bill. Yeah, deep.
Once the midwife problem was solved, I began to settle into my decision to give birth at home. Prenatal visits with my midwife were amazing. We sat on her couch, which smelled faintly of incense, surrounded by ambient music and two soft-spoken doulas, and sipped agave-sweetened hot tea.
She lent us books and videos on birthing, labor, parenthood, breastfeeding, and prenatal yoga, and expected us to grow just as our Little Bean was.
But if anyone had told me that a birth plan is a dream like “I want to be a firefighter” or “I want to save the whales,” a haloed, hallowed dream with fuzzy edges that you practice telling your unborn children when they are old enough to ask; a dream that you grow over nine months and cradle inside your heart; a dream that you wrap yourself with gingerly at 4:27am during itch fits, or when sharing your lunch with office toilet bowls; a dream that is the bridge from pregnancy to motherhood, which women must build, plank by plank, to stay sane — if anyone had told me that a birth plan is that type of dream, I wouldn’t have believed them — until I cried at the loss of mine.