Sumo Jenn

I know in a deep way that it's not politically correct to compare one's nearly-to-term pregnant wife to the famed (and only non-Japanese) Grand Sumo Champion, Akebono (Chad to his friends), but I couldn't help myself. Jenn had twisted the sides of her tee shirt into two tails and tied them together so the knot rested atop her belly Dukes of Hazzard-style. Additionally, due to her pregnant state, her, um, undergarments weren't fitting as snuggly as they once did. Thus, in the dim bedroom light, her garb created the effect of a loose, loincloth. I studied her profile.

"You look like a sumo wrestler," I said helpfully.

"I'm telling Susan!"Jenn said, referring to a good friend of ours who is particularly outspoken, all the more so since she has sobered up. (Here's a link to Susan's courageous blog: http://writingmywaysober.blogspot.com/ )

 "Wait, wait. Here, try this." I braced both hands on my upper thighs, lifted one of my legs and  stomped down on the carpet.

Jenn refused to even give it a shot despite how much pleasure it would have brought me. Women can be so selfish sometimes.**  Why, I even offered to get her some rice to sacrifice to the Shinto gods, but again, my wife would have none of it. (Upon further research, I discovered that the white substance the sumos casually toss to the mat is actually salt).

Jenn is a little over eight months along now. Her naval has become a tight slit, and her stomach gives notice that, in almost no time at all, the rest of her will be rounding the corner. In the evenings when she works on her jewelry, Jenn rests bracelets, lanyards, and necklaces across her belly as if it were a work bench.***  If she sits completely still, she can even support a steaming mug of coffee without much spillage. When we hug now, Jenn tucks her pelvis and then leans in with the top half of her body so we can make actual contact.

The idea that we will be parents in a month (or less) is still nearly beyond my comprehension. Is this how it is for all first time parents? I am at once already in love with this little person in my wife's belly even while feeling a sense of dread at the arrival of this being who is about to obliterate everything I've ever known. Had Jenn's gestation period been an elephantine two years, I'm still not sure it would have been enough time to prepare.

Years ago, I was speaking to a friend who already had two kids. After watching him interact with his  sons most of the night, I told him that I didn't feel I was ready for the rigors of parenthood. "You're never ready for it," he said. "You just have to do it and learn as you go along."

Jenn and I were visiting a friend recently, a lovely and gentle gay man who has done much childcare and nanny-ing in his life. Commenting on Jenn's pregnant state and parenting on general, he decided to share his philosophy. I expected him gush all romantic on the topic. Here's what he said:

Kids are awesome. At first they're these wrinkled tiny animals that make ear-piercing, inhuman sounds at all hours, and then they become adorable little parasites (adorable because they're *your* little parasites). When you're crazy and exhausted and wanting to take a breather, they sense your need to pull away and glom on even harder just when you most need to get away from them. Haha, an exciting adventure awaits you!   

We were both laughing by the end of his description. It was refreshing to hear someone peel the sugarcoat off impending parenthood and say something besides how in love we are going to be when our daughter arrives (yes, we know); how we are about to undertake the hardest and most beautiful thing we are ever going to experience (yes, we know); how our lives will never be the same (like this is a good thing, with the implication being that there was something wrong with how our lives were before we got pregnant ... and yes, we know); and how we are in for the greatest adventure of our lives and how utterly sleep deprived we will soon be (yes, we know.)

Jenn's cousin--a new mother herself--nailed it in an email when she said she hadn't needed a baby to make her life complete,  but that they were "really happy there little Amelia is here."

Me myself, I had wanted kids for years, then let go of the idea of parenthood six or so years ago and was content ... or at least accepting. And now? I have lived long enough to know that fatherhood will be an earthshaking event, but one that won't make or define me as a person. What kid needs that "without-you-I-was-nothing" kind of pressure?

The past four weeks Jenn and I have been attending Ecstatic Baby workshops. Birthing classes, in other words. Since our arrival in Albuquerque, my entry into the culture of the Baby has included being in contact with two different midwives plus the instructor for this class. Honestly, I have felt very little connection with any of them. Of course, it didn't help that at the second meeting with our midwife, she greeted Jenn and I in the front lobby, extended her hand, smiled warmly, and said, "Hi, I'm Cassie."

"We know," we informed her. "We met you two weeks ago at our first appointment."

The midwife gave a sheepish look, but seemed to take her forgetfulness in stride and brought us back to the examination room. The exchange was pleasant enough, but it would also be the last time we'd see her for the next six weeks. Cassie explained that she was taking a month-and-a-half off to renew her energy and travel around. She would be leaving us in the hands of her midwife-in-training--Sky.

To date, we have met with Sky three times. She smiles a lot and says all the right things, but I get the feeling she is more focused on her personal life and passing her (no doubt challenging) mid-wife boards than forming a bond with us, the people whose birth she may or may not be attending. This is consistent with the rest of my experience of the wacky world of midwifery. Save for Saint Margy (the midwife we left behind in Oregon), as a rule, midwives are slow to return calls or emails--if they return them at all--and many seem a a bit, well, ungrounded. Ironically, in a field that is, by necessity, top heavy with feminine energy, it seems that what they need most is a strong dose of solid, grounding, masculine energy.

Before we left Oregon, we attempted to set up appointments with midwives here in New Mexico, and were often stymied in our efforts to procure even a current or active phone number. For one midwife, I left messages on several listed message machines. A week later, I got a call back from someone who said the midwife in question hadn't been at that number for five years. The woman on the phone didn't actually use the words "disappeared under suspicious circumstances," but I could read between the lines. Worst of all (and I know this will be a great surprise to the reader), almost across the board, midwives don't laugh at my jokes, a sin that, under ordinary circumstances might be forgiven, if only they showed evidence of humor themselves.

However (and this is a sincere "however"), I do not doubt the professionalism or credentials of our chosen midwife (or midwives in general). Cassie has been in the field for over 30 years and has delivered countless babies. Jenn was told at her baby/mother's group that if we wanted a hands-on,  active midwife presence during our labor, Cassie was not our gal. Indeed, she is know for standing back and letting the mother have their own specific experience and will step in, we were told, only as needed. This is as it should be.

In one of our birthing classes, we watched a video that showed a woman grunting, panting, straining, and lowing from the confines of a small, water birth pool. In the background, a gray-haired, hippie--the midwife--stood in the doorway beaming. My first reaction was to wonder what the hell she was doing? Shouldn't she be in the pool as well, arms elbow deep in the mother's vagina while shouting commands with MASH-like urgency like, "Push, dammit, push!"

It is said that for any professional sports event--basketball, baseball, football--one should be able to leave without any knowledge of the name of the referee. If a spectator/fan knows who an official is at a particular game, it is generally because the ref (and pardon my French) fucked-up. The same rule applies to home births. What Jenn and I have learned is that if the midwife has done her job well, barring an emergent situation, the mother, father, and anyone else invited to the sacred event will have little memory that the midwife was even there.

What a wonderful goal: to do one's job so well and put one's ego aside so thoroughly that no one even knows you were on the scene.

"Good," Jenn said upon hearing this philosophy. "That's exactly what I want."

I find Jenn unspeakably brave.


**Author's note: Things have pretty much gone to pot since they expunged "obey" from most wedding vows. I'm just saying.

***Speaking of Jenn's jewelry, here's a link to her Etsy website: http://www.etsy.com/people/blessingbeads