My last post was to let you all know that I had completed my training to become a Hypnobabies Doula. Well, in today's post, I wanted to give you a sneak peak into what a Hypnobabies birth actually looks like! (My first Hypnobabies client has graciously given permission for a few photographs to be shared here on my blog.) So, what does it look like? It looks like this. Relaxed. Peaceful. Restful. Calm. Serene. This is what active labor looks like with Hypnobabies.
It is so beautiful, isn't it??
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I recently started a new job working for a friend part time and I love it. I get paid in clothes (or money) and I absolutely love being able to look at all of the pretty things, play with a mannequin while taking pictures, and visit with my friend. These things are all what I was hoping for when I got the job. What I wasn't expecting, though, was the pay. I mean, I knew how much it paid per hour, etc. But, when I got my first paycheck, then the second, I realized that I make more money there than I do doing birth work.
Which, guys. This is not okay. Like, not even a little okay. We hear a lot about self-care. Especially in the birth world. Even MORE so with birth workers. I've read time and time again how it is important for birth workers to take time for self care after each and every birth. While I do take time for self-care, my soul has still been tired with my business. Its the stress of being on-call every day for months at a time. Worrying about missing my kids' birthdays or halloween or performances. The stress of worrying about my clients needing me when I'm in Nashville for appointments for my daughter. The stress of scheduling a client then my family member getting pregnant and me missing their birth. The stress of clients having to fight for the birth they desire/deserve. The stress of watching mothers suffer and not cope (which is rare, but it does happen. And when it does, it is so hard.) The stress of catching up on sleep or house work or even doula work when I get back from an all-day/night birth. I hope I don't have to tell you how much I love my work. God changed my life through birth, and I am reminded every birth how He is in control. I am reminded how He uses me as His hands and feet to love on my dear clients. But, I think he's been showing me that every choice has a cost. Even good decisions. I have to constantly reassess what the cost is to miss my baby's Thanksgiving feast at school. Is it worth it? But, God has asked this of me. He never said following Him would be comfortable or easy. In fact, one could argue that it will likely NOT be comfortable or easy. Right now, it has to be worth the cost. God has placed me here and I will continue to try to do what he has asked of me with the best of my ability until I feel like He is leading me somewhere else. I have been working, somewhat furiously, on a new addition to my doula services! I just received word this week that I am now a Hypnobabies doula! I am so excited to be able to offer support to those clients who are choosing to use Hypnobabies during their births. If you'd like to see my listing on Hypnobabies, you can find it here. If you have any questions about the Hypnobabies program and the services I offer, please contact me: [email protected] In an effort to keep my children alive while swimming this summer, but also simituniously putting my sanity on the line, my little two kids have swim lessons this week. Back to back. My kids take private lessons, so we pack a lunch, head to the house where lessons are, and while the first kid is swimming, we eat lunch under a beautiful, large oak tree. Then, the kids swap out, and whoever went first eats and the second kid swims and we hang out under the tree. it's June in Alabama. So, sometimes, most of the time, it's almost always hot. Yesterday, we sat under the tree, sweating our tushies off. We didn't really feel bad about it. We had a great lunch. My oldest and I even got up to walk a little because it was hot and thick and, plus, Fitbit steps. But, again, it wasn't too bad, no one even complained about the heat. We made some memories. Today, however, it's breezy, comfortable, even enjoyable. We marveled at the wind, sprawled out in the sun, even, and we laughed and had a great lunch. Neither experience was bad, just different. We had a lovely lunch both times, even if we were a little sweatier the first day. It's still the same tree, the same routine, the same lunch, the same kids, the same ants and bugs and it's even still June. But, it is different today. We notice, more, how uncomfortable it was yesterday only when we compared it to today. It reminds me of something a mentor doula of mine said to me once. Not exact words (it's been a while and a few kids) but to tune of "just because you make different choices for another birth doesn't negate your good feelings about a previous birth". I love this truth. Love it. Because, y'all, I can't even tell you how many times I hear or read stories from women who start to feel bad about a previously good experience due to outside forces (or people) or new knowledge. Heck, I was one of them! My first vbac was one of the.most.amazing. events in my life. But, yet, there's no way I'd chose the same things now that I did then. But, that doesn't take away how amazing it was! It just makes it different, and me more knowledgeable. So, second, third, fourth time mommas, I'm talking to you. It's ok to have good feelings and memories from your previous birth while wanting something different for this baby! Your first birth doesn't have to be traumatic for you to want something better next time, use a doula, or make different choices either! If your previous birth was a great moment for you, embrace it! Be thankful for it! Tell it to others! In in the meantime, we have swim lessons again tomorrow, too. I have to admit, though, as much fun as we had on Monday, I'm kind of hoping for another windy day. And that's ok. I was featured in my friend's, and amazing photographer's, postpartum project (see here. If you haven't checked out the other stories, do that, too!) I was asked to submit my birth story, and had a rough draft typed up. But, in true month-of-may-hem-fashion didn't get the right copy to her in time. So, while the original post has my story, it doesn't have the details. It is truly a rough draft. Here's the full story I typed up.
There’s a home video we have of me, probably around 5 years old, sitting on a bucket, stirring mud in another bucket, pretending to make food for my family. The person recording asks, “who are you making the food for” and I replied “my four kids”. My husband and were (and are) high school sweethearts. We started dating when I was 15. We got married young, and knew that we wanted a large family. A doctor I saw shortly after we got married informed me that, because of some issues I had, it may take us a while to get pregnant. After we graduated college, we moved to Alabama and started trying to have a baby immediately. We were able to conceive our oldest, Olivia, the first month. Easy peasy. Unfortunately, her delivery was not so easy peasy. After months of contractions and dilation (yes, months!) I decided to get induced. My induction ended in a cesarean birth. It was a very hard birth for me, emotionally, and I felt so alone. Alone during the surgery, after her birth. Alone when I was in recovery, shaking uncontrollably, while my husband was with the baby, the nurse doing her own thing, and her not in a mood to answer my crying or questions. Alone. Scared. Broken. But, her delivery was the start of something special. I figured that there must be some sort of support group for someone who had gone through what I had, so I went to the library to get on the internet (this was the dinosaur age, in 2005, when we didn’t have home internet- or cell phones capable of using the internet.) I found a local ICAN group and went to a meeting. It was that group that not only helped me find my desire for a VBAC, but that started nurturing my desire to help women not alone and scared. I walked into my third pregnancy’s first prenatal (we lost a baby between from a missed miscarriage), told my doctor I was going to VBAC, and that was that. My VBAC baby, Austin, was born 16 months later, in the summer of 2006. While it is rarely that easy for other woman, (something I’ve witnessed countless times as a doula) it was fairly uncomplicated for me. About a year later, we were pregnant again. My husband and I both were in complete shock. We were dazed for a few days, uncertain if we could handle a very spirited 2.5 year old, a busy and verbose 1.5 year old, and a new baby. The uncertainty leveled itself out and we started to get excited. We always planned to have a large family, and wanted our children fairly close in age. We lost the baby. While my husband was out of town on travel, I miscarried our baby. The guilt was overwhelming. Crushing. I felt, subconsciously, I had some how caused the miscarriage, or deserved the miscarriage, because I wasn’t immediately excited when we first found out. The ache from that baby’s loss was intense. It also created this strong desire to plan to have another. To actively try to have another baby, because we were now READY. We had made a space in our hearts for our third living child, and felt empty with out him/her. We went on to lose 4 more babies over the course of the next two years. We transferred to an RE, tried various protocols, took supplements, injections, and ever pregnancy held my breath the pink lines showed up and didn’t let the air out until we lost the baby and my breath turned to sobs. If I could sum up those years in one moment, it would be this one: It was nap time for Olivia and Austin. I was laying in my bed, facing to the right, towards my curtains. My stomach was in knots, then revolting all together in nausea, then knots again. I had blood drawn that morning to see if my HCG levels were rising or falling. The previous two draws were showing slow growth, which was not hopeful for our baby’s life. I was in this in-between place of dread and grief and hopefulness. I prayed. And prayed. And prayed. I remember begging God to save my baby’s life. I bargained. I pleaded. Then I got the call. My baby was dying. I felt alone. Scared. Broken. I curled up, in my bed, held onto myself, tried to disappear into my grief. I couldn’t breath. Couldn’t remember how. My sobs shook my entire body until I had no tears left, but then I somehow cried more. Throughout those years, I felt so broken. More broken than I had ever felt in my entire life. But, it was also in the middle of all of that yuck, muck, and suck that God spoke into my life more intensely about becoming a doula. (Which, if I’m honest, is so absurd that it could ONLY be a God thing.) It was hard. I was constantly faced with my grief over what I “didn’t have”. But, God is good and showed me that it was what He was asking for me to do, regardless if we had another live child or not. I took my doula training in April of 2009. Coincidently, or not, the same month we got pregnant with our keeper baby, Isaac. I slowly started taking clients. I can’t pretend that I got pregnant with him and everything was unicorns and butterflies. It wasn’t. It was a hard pregnancy for me. I was riddled with anxiety, all the way up until his birth, and beyond about his safety. If you’ve ever wondered how our emotional state affects labor, I would use Isaac’s labor as an example. My longest by far, longer than my first VBAC, and I was scared the entire time. I was so excited to have him here, after he was born, but so scared something was going to happen to him. I had nightmares about him dying. I had a ton of guilt of feeling so nervous when I had prayed so hard for a baby and God had given him to us. I started running as a way to deal with my anxiety. I had never been a runner before, but I loved how “measurable” fitness was for me when I first started. I could see my progress. It felt good to know that I could do hard things, even if it was a little bit at a time. I ran my first 5k, then quickly signed up for a 10k. Then I got pregnant with Eliza when Isaac was a year old. Unassisted. Zero complications. I actually ran through most of her pregnancy. (That girl came on her own time, quickly, furiously, wild and that’s pretty much how she’s been since birth.) I went on to run a 1/2 marathon, with an injured knee, and I am currently training to run a tough mudder this year. Somehow, somewhere, in the middle of my daily life, a husband, 4 kids, a new business, a new love of fitness, God was healing me. Healing my broken heart. Continuously mending my broken heart. I use my c/s scar as an example of how my grief has changed. If my grief was my scar- when it was first healing, every second, every breath hurt. It was a struggle to move without pain. To lean over, to climb stairs. As time went on, it got easier to move without intense pain, easier to do daily activities, but if I did a sit-up or a push up, it hurt, if I poked and prodded it, it hurt. Years passed, and the scar itself is still there. 11 years later, if I lean up against a counter too hard or something presses against it, there’s still pain. It will be with me as long as I live. (In fact, my bird tattoo is a memorial for our lost babies.) My business really took off after Eliza’s birth, as I was able to take more clients. I don’t know how to explain any of it, except to say it wasn’t me, and isn’t me. I pray that God uses me as His hands and feet to help women not feel alone, scared, or broken. Genesis 50:20: “You intended to harm me but God intended it for good.” My husband and I went on vacation to, literally, the other side of the world. We went to Thailand and Cambodia. It was an amazing, breath-taking, beautiful, glorious, memorable trip.
I don't know if you've ever traveled 13 time zones away, but let me assure you that Jet Lag can be a real stinker when you get home. I'm hungry at weird times, not hungry for lunch, feel like I'm running through the ocean when I work out during the day, super tired at 2pm, go to bed around 9, wide awake at 3am. For me, anyway. My husband, for whatever reason, is having trouble falling asleep all together. His jet lag looks more like: exhausted until bedtime, wide awake until 3 or 4 am. (Which is really closer to the time we would be awake over there.) He's been struggling with it for almost a week, and some anxiety has crept in now (as I am sure anyone who has experienced insomnia can understand. That anxiety element is just horrid.) As we laid in bed last night, and talked about it, he said to me "you know what the worst part about it is? It is really lonely." When I thought about it, I totally got it. I mean, I am so lonely when he travels, especially the 2 hours after the kids go to bed until I go to sleep. (I usually mask it with some Netflix binging, but it is still there.) That longing for his companionship. His friendship. His knowledge of us doing the same things through out the day and sharing about it at night. As I thought about it more, I remembered one of the worst things about repeated miscarriages for me. It was the loneliness. The feeling of isolation. Because this tiny little being had left my body. From the time I was pregnant, until the time I miscarried, there was the knowledge of someone with me. The knowledge that the person was no longer within me was lonely. There's also some kind of weird taboo that comes with miscarriage. Like, we need to tell people about our sorrow in whispered tones, because speaking it too loud makes people uncomfortable. Often, we are convinced it may be better not to talk about it at all, and we are left to face our grief alone. There was also a loneliness in the birth trauma I experienced after my first birth. People didn't understand, would often diminish my feelings, and I didn't have people to talk to about it. I felt confused. I had a lot of guilt over feeling anything but happy about the birth. If I am being completely open and vulnerable, it is also lonely to have a child who is more "difficult" than most. It often feels like isolation for fear of talking about said difficulties may result in judgment or loss of friends. There's that feeling of loneliness because most people don't quite understand what it is like to have a truly defiant child. It feels like you are alone in your daily struggles. I've tried very hard in my life to be open and vulnerable when it comes to my life's struggles. Not because it feels good.( Y'all, it really, really, really does not feel good.) But, to maybe let someone know that THEY are not alone. Someone else is there, has been there, or may be there too! I've joined groups that talk about the things that I have struggled with that made me feel lonely. I have read blogs and written them. I have cried for lost babies, rejoiced in new births, prayed silently and corporately with friends and strangers who are struggling with things I have struggled with. Maybe loneliness is one of those things that helps shape us. Maybe it helps change us, pushing us into action. Shapes our empathy. Makes us more sensitive to others. Maybe there's beauty to be found in the loneliness. So, in case you don't know yet, parenting can be hard. It can be wonderful, fulfilling, a joy, too. We see a lot of examples of that on Facebook. You know what I mean. That picture of little Julie helping bake with mom? Carefully stirring the cookie mix, not having ANY of the flour come out of the bowl all over the counter. Not showing the 9 eggs she "axidentawlly" dropped on the ground. Just Julie, looking like an angel, sweetly obeying. I am not hating on these sweet pictures depicting precious moments. Not at all. Usually the experience is still positive and the picture is a reminder of that. Sometimes, as moms, you desperately need to hold on to that reminder. I had a situation last night when posting a picture to Instagram. It is a picture of my oldest son, playing the recorder at his recorder concert. My first thought at a caption was "Had fun at my oldest's concert". But, then I thought, why not be real? Why not be vulnerable and honest? Why not write a reminder to myself (via my time hop next year, right?) of what this picture had behind it and how it ended. So, what really happened? We almost didn't make it to the concert at all. I was about 3 minutes away from calling my husband and in-laws to tell them to not come. Eric had class, so he was going to be late to the concert. Isaac, my 5 year old, was absolutely besides himself, throwing a minor tantrum (ok, not minor. There was stomping of feet, and banging of hands on the ground, a face down, some one, who was not me, screaming into the carpet.) Eliza, well, she is wild in general and was acting exceptionally wild. Running around the house in her Elsa dress, around in circles around our kitchen island. Olivia, my oldest, had ballet, and had to get ready to be picked up, which means I had to comb her hair and put it into a tight bun (which is not really my spiritual gift or love language) . There's the scene. When it was finally time to get ready to go, Austin started crying and sobbing that he didn't want to go. He was upset that he didn't know the songs (nerves) and that his favorite shoes were on the roof, (which, oiy. The boys thought it would be a GREAT idea to throw his shoes at the football that got stuck on the roof. Both of them. But, that's a different tale to tell for a different day.) I don't even remember how it all worked out, other than me saying a quick prayer asking for help. How it got from this point to the final point. But, it did. I got Olivia's hair in a great bun, my in-laws picked up the boys and took them to the concert early, Olivia was on her way to ballet, Eliza and I headed to the concert. Eric met us there. And, then, there we were, watching Austin play his recorder. He looked proud and happy and joyful. I took a picture of him playing his recorder. It is a sweet snapshot in time, which may only communicate that to those who see it. But, for me, it is a reminder that even in our worst moments as parents, things are never to bad for us to ask for help to turn them around. Austin said he had fun, and I really hope that is what he remembers from last night. If he doesn't, though, I hope he remembers that mommy not only tried her best, but asked for help. I wish I could say that this scene was an anomaly. Unfortunately, it isn't. But, at the end of the day, I am ok with it. I am ok with real life. I am ok with getting to the end result with feeling like we did our best, and when it wasn't good enough, God met us there. That's what I want my kids to remember. Dear Abney,
This breastfeeding thing is hard! There's so much out there about what to eat and not to eat, about what might be upsetting your little one's tummy, or what I'm eating that might be making her fussy. I've cut out dairy and peanut butter, sugar and wheat, eggs and soy...I know it's important for a breastfeeding mom to get enough calories and I feel like I'm running out of options! But I want to do whatever I can so that my 12 week old daughter gets what she needs. One thing I'm having difficulty figuring out with any sort of elimination diet is why her poop is green. Her pediatrician says not to worry--as long as it isn't black or red, the color of poop doesn't matter. But it wasn't always green; for a short time after we brought her home, it was seedy yellow. I recently went one day without eating chicken, and her poop went back to yellow. Now it's green only rarely and usually then, only at night. Can you tell me what's up? Do I really have to stop eating chicken, too? L L, If you haven't already, I suggest first doing some research on Foremilk-hindmilk imbalance. That can be one cause of green poop that often masks itself as food sensitivities. If you think it still may be something you're eating, you can try an elimination diet (various ones found online.) But, it is important to keep at it for several weeks as it takes a while for the proteins to be completely eliminated out of babies system. I actually guest blogged a few years ago about my daughter's bought with MSPI (Milk and Soy Protein Intolerance.) If you'd like to read about how we got to the bottom of the green poo, check it out here. Hope this helps! Tracy Abney, Birth Doula "Surprise, Surprise! Uh, uh, uh, Happy Birthday!" Thoughts on accepting gifts and help from friends.8/28/2015 Eliza, my youngest, has been super into Cinderella. Again. And still. (We were on a Sleeping Beauty kick for several months, along with Frozen for a while.) I've been reading at least two versions of the story a day (How, and why, exactly, do we have 5 slightly different versions of the story in book form??) She watches her favorite parts on the kindle when I take her with me to the work out room at the clubhouse. One of her favorite scenes is where the mice are lamenting about how much cinderella has to do, and she won't be able to go to the ball. Then, they come up with the idea to finish the dress themselves. They come together, work hard, and make this beautiful, amazing dress to gift Cinderella. Cinderella is worn down, beaten, downhearted, she comes into her room to find this amazing gift. What does she do? She thanks them. Imagine if instead of Cinderella accepting a dress, it was a new mother and her friends all came together and offered to help her with meals, or even watching an older sibling. What would her response be? Would she even accept it? Would she pretend to have her act together and assume she needs to be self-sufficient? I was a new mother once. (albeit, a while ago, it seems now) I remember the ridiculous amount of guilt I had in accepting meals from our Sunday School group. Feeling inadequate as a mother because I was too sore and tired from recovering from a cesarean birth and breastfeeding difficulties to cook meals for my husband. I felt overwhelmed with motherhood in general, and the inadequacies of not being able to have a vaginal birth or having breastfeeding come naturally just pushed me over the edge. It didn't take much for the insecurities to take root and for me to refuse offers of help much past two weeks postpartum. Here's the thing though, (or one of the things) I really needed help past those first two weeks. I was just too proud, too insecure, too polite, and too immature to accept the gifts of help graciously. I secretly felt that the people who were bringing me meals were doing it out of a sense of obligation, and I was supposed to "politely" put up a fuss about their offers to help. I was "supposed" to be able to do it on my own. On the other side of my journey to motherhood, I now realize what those people were really offering. It wasn't to make me feel more inadequate. It wasn't to "judge" me or my inability to feed anyone. It was to help lighten the load. Most of those women had given birth before, many of them were multiple time moms. They knew because they had been there. So my advice from my experience is to suck up your pride and accept help. Welcome the people who are trying to lighten the load. Don't wave them away, say "we've got this" even if you do. Just take a cue from Cinderella. Twirl around with that dress and say "oh, thank you so much." |
Tracy AbneyTracy Abney is a certified and insured birth and bereavement doula serving Huntsville, Madison and other parts of north Alabama. Archives
April 2019
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