Why I Love Maps

Why do I love maps? 

Why would I never use GPS?

It’s all about the story.

For me, the journey tells a story – as important as the destination. GPS is just about the destination – its clinical precision can be both boring and utterly wrong. When you can read a map well, you are able to tease out the stories in the landscape. You can see how the new road follows an old riverbed, skirts an iron-age fort, or marches ramrod straight along a Roman road. You can see how a town lies on a raised beach, even though it is now 10 miles inland.

In my work as a doula, I see each woman as a having unique body map for each pregnancy. My job is to read the map of the woman and help her navigate the journey. How does her past inform her present body and its response in labour? I read the tightness here, the release there. I follow the path of the acceptance or the fight. The emotional wounds rise up like a raised beach. It is all visible and easily read unless a piece of the map is missing. I can search for months for that missing piece.  I read the journey of the body and the baby, the traveller.

Where did this love of maps, of the landscape and of the body, come from? It all started (as it always does) in childhood.

I was trained in map-reading by my dad. He was a cartographer and artist (with a love of geology), and I remember sitting beside him at his drafting board adding trees to the UBC map he was working on. He taught me how maps were created, how he would layer transparencies over the base. He taught me how to read the layers like a story, and how to make the two dimensional world turn into 3D in my mind. Whenever we went on road trips, he would put my brother and me in charge of the map and the AAA book, and we would act as navigators from the backseat. We could read contour lines, read the glacial effects on the landscape, call out igneous! and sedimentary!, then point out all the 3-star motels with swimming pools. In the winter, we would read Country Life magazines, and write longhand letters to faraway places to request information. We would write to consulates and visit the BCAA to collect maps, and study study study. I can still smell those new maps. I could visualize (and connect with) what a bird must see and feel flying over the British countryside. My dad’s descriptions and the map contours turned into real images in my head. Then, when we landed in the UK  in 1966 (after an emergency landing in sulfuric Iceland), I remember seeing the patchwork green fields and being amazed that it was exactly as my dad had described. “Look at the tiny cars!” he would say, as we were circling the airport. “They look like ants!” I was hooked on maps, hooked on changes in perception, hooked on travel.

My dad told stories of escaping grimy Manchester and cycling through Derbyshire with friends in the late 1930s, following metal signposts to places like Pott Shrigley (all signs point to Pott Shrigley – I know!), camping in farmer’s fields, then riding up to the Cat and Fiddle Pub on top of a peak and watching the smokey towns below. He would show me the map and tell me stories that brought the Peak District to life, from the plague village of Eyam, to the moveable landscape of Chatsworth House. My mother would add stories of the midwives (who taught prenatal yoga in the 1950s) riding their bikes from house to house in the village, and I would trace my finger over the lines on the map and imagine myself riding my bike along those lines. (Did my wish to attend births start then?)

Fast forward to 1982, when Bob and I took our first overseas trip together. By that time, we both felt like veteran European travelers  (8 trips between us, and he had lived there with his intrepid family in the 1960s). So we combined our passions and skills and headed off. We went to the places that we had loved as children – to “Squirrel’s Wood” in Elstead, where he had lived, to the Yorkshire Dales where his dad had been stationed during the Second World War, and to the Peak District, where my dad would ride, where my heart still lives. Bob mowed my gran’s lawn in Manchester, and ate chocolate eclairs on her path in the sunshine. We stayed on a farm in Somerset at lambing season (I’m never far from birthing mammals), and had a stand-off with a large cow on a bridge in Dorset. We took a ferry to France, stayed in high-ceilinged creaky hotels for 20 Francs and ate tureens of Potage de Legumes in Laon and the Loire (epic)! Our Renault (which we filled with diesel once – seriously) had been bought just for us by a small garage in Crawley, and after an epic repair, that little car took us thousands of miles across the roads of France and Switzerland. We ended the trip with Bob dreaming of owning a sheep farm in Scotland, and me dreaming of helping the sheep birth in the middle of the night.

When I do my client visits, I draw from their stories of their travels to India, Italy, or Guatemala. Each physical journey that they have taken teaches them something about their own bodies, their responses, their patience, their strength. They climb mountains one step at a time. They cry, “I don’t think I can do this!”on the West Coast Trail, but they do it!  I add each of their stories to my own map of their body for later reference. My own daughter says she was kelp in her birth pool in labour. I add the new word “kelp” onto my map of her  - connecting her labour to the water of Boundary Bay, the beach at Point Roberts, her cousin Graham dragging giant strands of kelp up to the cabin, then her sons Jack, then Finn, diving into the world head first and feet first.

So when I stand with Bob on a path in the Luberon, listening to the sound of the cicadas, I look down at the map in my hands and see all the possible routes before us.  I see the traced path, and below that, I see a layer of the red soil, and, below that, the geological history of the land. But, I also see the layered stories and histories of all those who have stood on the path, see their labours and births, see children running ahead to that cave over there, see our son and daughter-in-law climbing to Fort Buoux, see my parents driving the road to Apt, see my brother and his wife cycling towards Bedoin in the distance, and see all the lines that each person has traced on this particular spot.

There’s no need for GPS.

It is the journey that tells the story, in life and in birth. Maps are drawn on our bodies layer upon layer… and are held within us.

- Jacquie Munro  www.slowbirth.com

A note from Teddy's mama

Lyndsay's birth was an emotional triumph. It had been a challenging pregnancy, but she faced it one day at a time.  She gathered together her team - family, friends, doula, doctor. On the sunny birthing day, my memory is of so many women (including her sister, as well as her dear friend who had also been my client) - our hands, our quiet voices, and our hearts, helping Lyndsay through the waves. I say waves because most of her time at the hospital was spent in the bath. Low toning, the splash of the water...our words...you are safe...you are safe... Those are my memories of the day.  I don't think her eyes ever opened until her son was born into her arms, and then...what joy! Her birth was open, raw, supported, undisturbed. It was a day that I will never forget!

Here are Lyndsay's words describing how I helped her on that day...and how we are still connected now:

Jacquie is an incredible woman. Her strength, knowledge, compassion, empathy, understanding, calm, wisdom and experience carried me through my nine months of pregnancy. I had a particularly rough one, emotionally, as at the time I was on my own. Jacquie was never judgemental, always empathetic to the diversity and complexity of humans. She always, always had words that were so wise and thoughtful, words which would would allow me to feel supported and just a little bit stronger. I called her many times in tears, unsure if I could do it, overwhelmed by the uncertainty of my situation and the unknown world of pregnancy and childbirth. 

The day of my son's birth arrived and Jacquie led me through every contraction, movement, sound, emotion, sensation. It was her words that calmed me and allowed me to realize that my body was just doing its thing. "Feels crazy but it's safe." She would tell me I was safe, that my body was doing what it was meant to be doing, that even though it felt like I was trying to pass a bowling ball out of my vagina that this feeling, this immense and unbelievable physical pressure, was normal. I felt no fear - I closed my eyes, gave in to these unknown sensations and knew I was in a safe place. Just had to move through. I must have crushed Jacquie's hand about 50 times through the labour. 

After it was all over Jacquie told me she knew from the moment she met me that my birth would be as it was: powerful, strong, no complications. I apparently birthed like a champ. I needed to feel that - I needed that insane strength, to feel that power of being a woman warrior, to overcome my emotional and personal sadness and to embrace labour and birth. I thank Jacquie for this. Jacquie will forever remain a huge part of my memory of my pregnancy and birth experience! She was also so helpful in postpartum -nursing issues and ongoing personal issues - and I truly felt cared for by her. I can't recommend Jacquie enough!

Go to DoulaMatch to read a few more "testimonials" from my many amazing clients!

- Jacquie Munro, Vancouver Doula, Slow Birth

Photo Credit: Jonetsu Photography

Conversations with babies

I was at a home birth many years ago. The new mother had nursed the baby, and was just drying off after showering (and chatting to her husband about what had just happened!), while I was quietly tidying the bedroom. As the parents came out of the bathroom, shining and clean, the midwife approached the baby, who was lying in a moses basket. With the parents' permission, the midwife was going to do the newborn exam. She leaned close to the baby, and said something like..."Hello - I'm Patti. I'd like to pick you up and weigh you and measure you." She waited a moment, then gently picked up the baby. Each movement during the newborn exam was preceded by an explanation of what she was doing. She moved slowly. She held the baby respectfully. "Babies are not fragile, but they are vulnerable," she explained to the new dad, as she moved her finger along the baby's spine. The baby was engaged, focused on Patti's words. The baby was content to be weighed and measured by these calm hands, washed by calm words.

I had always spoken to my own babies and clients' babies as people, as equals, but what Patti was doing took it to another level. "I'm going to put a diaper on you now (pause)..." She provided ample time for the baby to take in her request and respond. She was asking the baby to be a partner in a conversation, right from birth. She was also modeling a wonderful slow parenting method which the parents then continued with their baby as he grew.

When Jack and Finn were newborns, I didn't want to interrupt their time with their mum and dad by holding them too much (unless a parent had been "touched out" and needed a quiet moment in the bathroom!). Before picking one up, I would tell him what I was going to do and pause for a (then silent) response. I still go through a day with the boys, telling them what will happen next, what we've just done, and how our day will flow. The rhythm helps them to make sense of their world, and shows that we respect their need to understand the world. They are active, and now very vocal, participants in the conversation. "We'll go to grandmama's house, and then she will give us scones!" How we parent our babies at birth flows through the toddler, then preschool, then school years. Everything is connected.

Montessori teachers have practiced this for a long time. Michael Olaf says, "Gentle handling from birth on also builds trust in the world. Talk to the child gently, explaining what you are doing as you dress and change him. Provide soft clothing, peace, and soft lights, in the first days as the child is getting used to the world outside the womb. We can learn to listen to the sounds a baby makes, to watch quietly, observe, see what the child is trying to tell us, and to get to know this unique human, giving the message that the child is cherished and the world is a safe place." 

Rudolf Steiner stated that a newborn is a "sense-organ" (she is a sponge for touch and sound and movement and taste). Parents should pay close attention to the sensual input surrounding their newborn, limiting their time outside in loud traffic or having noisy toys in the first years. Babies take some time to "come into their body", so our words and movements and their environment should be respectful and calm. I especially love Rahima Baldwin's book, "You are Your Child's First Teacher", which points to practical ways to bring this gentle Waldorf approach into your home.  It was only after about two years that Jack and Finn were able to process the overwhelming sensory input of a crowded space. Slow and quiet outdoor green spaces were more their style, and we respected and honoured their needs by keeping the pace slow for a few years. 

Magda Gerber, one of the founders of RIE, the new "hot" (and slow parenting) approach, said “We not only respect babies, we demonstrate our respect every time we interact with them. Respecting a child means treating even the youngest infant as a unique human being, not as an object.”   Talking to our babies about what will happen next helps them to feel safe in the world, and helps parents develop a sense of rhythm.  Describing what you will do next, calmly and slowly, will also ensure that you remain connected with your baby, and reminds you to slow down. You don't need swings or bouncers or extra props. With the RIE approach, a lot of pressure is taken off the parent.  You can let the baby lie on the floor watching a sunbeam or the geometric line of a table leg. You can slow down and see the world from your baby's perspective. This is the start of child-led learning. For more info on the basics of RIE, take a look at Janet Lansbury's blog and see if her posts resonate with you. 

Explore the ideas in the Waldorf, Attachment Parenting, Montessori, RIE and Slow parenting approaches and see what makes sense to you and your family.  Each will offer you some great parenting tools...and, to quote one client, "There are some ideas that I just want to throw a book at!"  Take what you like and throw a book at the rest.

Through these conversations with your baby, you will start to develop your own family philosophy, "the big picture", that will lead you through all the years of parenting. Our own slow family philosophy includes a lot of "Cs". I see us as caring for our children, with conversation, connection, consideration and consistency. Our children do not belong to us, they belong to themselves, but we're in this together.  What's your family's philosophy? Or are you still pregnant and waiting to hear what your baby says?

Respect for our child's autonomy starts with our first conversation. "Here's my breast. This side is the appetizer. The next side is the entree. I think you're going to like it!" Wait...listen with your heart...and your baby will answer.

The Lumineers playing...

A woman spiraling
a partner drawing
a woman in the shower
a cat watching
a doula holding
a fan blowing
a strong woman
a boy crying
a midwife whispering
a bird singing
a grandma helping
a boy in the rain
a lost cat
a push
a pant
a baby at home!

(Photo courtesy of dad Chad Smith. Extra love always to mum Carie. Love to midwives Gillian and Carolyn and Patti. Hugs to grandma Smith and big brother Bruce, the boy in the rain...and the cats. And kisses to bonny Alice.)

The Garden and the Family

When I joined my husband's family, I found that I had to learn a new language...latin! All his sisters seemed to be avid gardeners and would chatter about moving the pieris japonica, or the joys of alchemilla mollis (I love showing children how the rain drops glisten on this plant, also known as Lady's Mantle). Three of us were pregnant at the same time, and we would dig and plant flowers and vegetables at the family cabin as our bellies grew, after our babies were born, and as our extended family expanded. Pregnancy strengthened our need to nurture the gardens.

As my love of birth grew, so did my bookshelves fill with gardening books that linked women's bodies and plants, from Herbal Healing for Women to Susun Weed's Wise Woman's Herbal, The Complete Book of Herbs, Plants of Coastal British Columbia (great on car trips!) and Michael Pollan's books, the first of which was my favourite, Second Nature.  I discovered that the Lady's Mantle that I loved has been used since medieval times as a medicinal herb, and rainwater collected in the leaves was used for its alleged magical powers. I never tested its use as a tea to reduce excessive period bleeding, but I like knowing that women in the past had used this plant for that purpose.

Crawling on hands and knees, digging and dividing in the perennial garden, helped me to turn my son from posterior to anterior.  Squatting and weeding between the vegetable rows helped prepare me for my daughter's birth. There's no sitting still when you have a growing garden! Sheila Kitzinger's daughter laboured in her garden and held trees as she pushed. My own clients have laboured on hillsides in the dark, in Queen Elizabeth Park by the flowers, leaning on trees, and squatting on the grass. Many birthing centres in warm climates encourage women to labour in gardens specifically landscaped for labour and birth. This "Birth in Nature" video shows a woman whose labour is entirely outdoors.

One Master Gardener, Donna Guillemin, opened my eyes to the "art" of gardening, and the world of Plant Spirit Medicine. While I would work in my garden, raising my children and attending births, she would (seemingly magically) help clients of mine to conceive, or cure their PUPPS, or relieve their anxiety. She would send them (or me) to Finlandia Pharmacy or Gaia Garden for tinctures and teas, if her own tinctures and teas weren't quite what was needed.

Fast forward to today - and we have two more helpers, Jack and Finn, in the garden. They have changed the soundscape of my mother's garden - windchimes, stellar's jays and shrieks of laughter are now heard over the sound of the sprinkler. They are also learning to ask if they're pulling out a weed or a plant, or if the berry they hold in their hands is a "bird berry" or a "people berry". We pull and squat and crawl in the dirt and work hard and play hard together. From age 3 to 89, our family work together in the garden, connecting to the earth and each other.

Do we garden safely? Pregnant or not, we try to remember to wear our gloves (or at least have a good soap and water wash at the end of a gardening session), and take precautions to avoid toxoplasmosis or chemicals, and avoid strains or sprains. But any potential risks of gardening during pregnancy (or postpartum or otherwise) are far outweighed by the positive emotional, physical and spiritual benefits (check out the Canadian Horticultural Therapy Association for more). 

Our gardens in Point Roberts, Tsawwassen, and Vancouver have nurtured four generations of our family. They have helped our babies turn into the perfect position, strengthened our legs for labour, watched us nurse our babies on the grass, calmed our minds when we've been anxious, and cleared our heads when the 21st century has been going too fast. Sure, we buy our vegetables most years (yes, we must connect more with the Urban Farmer)...but we try to buy local and ride our bikes or walk to the local farmers markets. This year's markets open this weekend!

So, if you're starting to grow a baby, try adding a garden to your family.  There you will find joy for a lifetime (and you might just be able to avoid a posterior labour, too!)

The Possible Effect of Yaletown Condo Living on Labour Length

Pssst. I think I have discovered a secret formula for birth. I know, I know, every labour is unique and distinct, and you just can't apply a formula to birth. But, this has worked so many times recently that it's blogworthy. Here's the secret:

1. Take one new condo with a view of the water (False Creek, especially).
2. Add one spacious and powerful shower.
3. Add one first-time labouring woman whose contractions have just dipped under the 5 minute mark.
4. Take one doula who says, "I will sit silently on the floor outside this door so you can labour undisturbed. I hope you will be able to stay in the shower for at least 45 minutes. I won't disturb you, but I will respond to you if you express a feeling or a need or ask me a question. But remember these words. Trust your body. Trust your baby. You are strong. You are spiraling your baby down, down and through. You are open, wide open."
5. Take one partner who says, "I will make sure everything is ready for you when you need to come out of the shower. I will put towels in the dryer for you, and place the clothes you will need on our bed. I will not disturb you. I will be here when you need me. I trust you, I trust our baby, and I trust your body."
6. Add filtered sunlight through a crack in the door.
7. Add liquids and food within easy reach.
8. Add the sounds of an iTunes playlist created by the woman, her partner, or loved ones.
9. Gradually, add the apparent dissolution of time and space.
10. Add one fast elevator and a short drive to the hospital (or the arrival of two midwives at home)...and the addition of a baby soon after with very little (okay...maybe a little) drama.

Okay...there's more to Step 10, but you get the idea.

I've just had such luck lately with condo labours, with unlimited showers, beautiful views of the water, no disturbance, a fast elevator ride, and a short drive to the hospital (if planned) with few stop lights. And, recently, one woman never made it out of the quiet dark space, and gave birth on her bathroom floor (yes, her midwife was there).

Am I just in the middle of a statistical blip that balances the challenging births, or am I onto something here?

I pulled the info from my database, and was truly surprised to discover the high percentage of women living in the tall condos around False Creek (think Yaletown, Crosstown, Fairview, Olympic Village, etc.) who have had relatively short labours requiring limited technology or assistance. Okay, I'm not just imagining things. But why are these labours going so well???

Perhaps, it's the women who live in condos in Vancouver? Okay...I'll give you that one.

Perhaps, it's the unlimited hot water.  I have had similar experiences with women who have laboured at home in tiny basement suites with flash hot water heaters. But, it's rare to have a flash heater in a single family dwelling in Vancouver.

Perhaps, it's the speedy elevators. One study linked a fast elevator ride with a reduction in cesareans (strangely, the working theory was the elevator ride to the OR somehow repositioned the baby, resulting in the cancellation of the surgery).

Perhaps, it's the ability of these women to remain undisturbed high up in a concrete condo. No one knocks unannounced if you live on the 23rd floor. There are no mail carriers tromping up your stairs. No garbage trucks barreling down the lane. No neighbours to worry about. We know that disturbance can slow down a labour (we've seen the effects of jackhammers in the hospital during renovations and a labour speeding up after the roofers go home for the day).

Perhaps, the answer is as simple as one word. Many women have said the word "spiraling" had a huge impact on their labour. "I saw myself as being calm, zen, quiet, in the middle of a storm, and the baby was spinning, spiraling down to earth. I released everything, and the baby starting pushing his way out!"  Aha! Ina May Gaskin's sphincter law in action.

Or it could be that one special song that her partner added to the playlist.

Or it could be his, "I trust you," that made all the difference.

So...I guess I have to retract my announcement of a secret formula. There are so many combinations of things that can add up to a smooth and short labour. Each labour takes as long as it needs. Each baby takes as long as it needs. Each woman takes as long as she needs. You aren't at a disadvantage if you don't live in a condo with unlimited hot water. There is a big world out there.  You can have lovely smooth labours in Dunbar and on The Drive, inside or outside, in birth pools or on dry land with slow dances and kisses and just one word. You can also have a challenging birth. That's just how it is sometimes.

I'm sorry that I took you on lighthearted ride to look at our universal need to make sense of birth.  I doubt there's a secret formula involving Vancouver condos. But, if you remove all the noise and chatter from the labour equation, you might just find one word, one concept, interwoven throughout...

That one secret word might just be...

undisturbed

(Although, in an alternate universe, I would dearly love to know the results of a randomized controlled trial on "The Effect of Living in Yaletown Condos on the Length of Labour in Primiparous Women".)

Slow Birth Preparation

There's so much expectation surrounding the preparation for birth in our culture. Strangers will ask, "Have you signed up for your prenatal classes? Have you prepared your baby's room?" Friends and family can press all the wrong buttons, too. "You shouldn't even think of labouring without taking the Inner Barracuda Course"...or whatever the prenatal class of the day is called.

I've had three phone calls in the past 36 hours from women whose hearts tell them that they shouldn't take any classes for this pregnancy. "I didn't need to read books before I made love for the first time, did I?" These clients are well-informed women who have chosen great teams for their birth. They are insightful, intuitive, and deeply trust their own bodies. They understand that birth is a triumph of the reptile brain over the analytical brain. And because of that, they are concerned that prenatal classes might hinder their reptile brain from being in charge on birth day. They've thought long and hard, and, for them, prenatal classes aren't the best option.

And I completely support them in their decisions.

A recent client laboured without any preparation for vaginal birth. She had chosen a cesarean for her first baby - a glorious breech baby girl. She had been anticipating a repeat cesarean for her second baby...until she decided that she would cancel her surgery, and just see what happened. After a slight panic over her lack of "vaginal birth training" ("Shouldn't I read some books?!" "Shouldn't I study up on birth?") she went into labour all on her own the next day. It was beautiful watching her labour without expectations, without the clutter of book knowledge. I talked her through each contraction, reminding her that this was something that she already knew on a deep level. She drew on her inner wisdom and breathed through each contraction. It was like watching a preschooler dive into a challenge without fear. She was strong, intuitive, capable.

When her baby was born into her arms (yes, it was a vaginal birth!) she looked awestruck by what she'd achieved. I don't think she'll ever question her own abilities ever again. And she'd done it all without studying.

We're given 9 months to prepare for our baby's birth. In that time, we have to process so much. We have to consider our changing selves, our changing relationships with our partners and families and friends. We have to draw on our past life experiences, both physically and emotionally, to gain the strength and will-power required for the transition to motherhood. We have to examine our family boundaries, understanding that the birth of a child will turn us from being a daughter...into a mother. We will weather the changing emotions of pregnancy, and watch our single girlfriends draw away from us. We will worry about our ability to maintain our core self, to maintain a loving intimate relationship with our partner... We may become overwhelmed by how we are now connected to all living things...to the entire world.

Too much.

And add to that working a five-day week, organizing finances, perhaps moving, perhaps buying a new car, attending exercise classes, yoga classes, buying baby supplies, strollers, carseats, painting, and weekly prenatal classes...

Too much!

I call on you, each of my clients, to slow down, take time to do nothing, take time to empty your brain. Walk on the beach. Sit on a log and meditate. Breathe in the wind. Connect with your baby. Connect with your partner.

If you need to do yoga, go when it pleases you. Or do it at home. Turn on music, sit still, and let it enter you and calm you.

Consider delegating jobs to your family and friends. Give them lists of things to do for you. Ask for help. Many families buy nothing until the baby is born, then have family members make all the purchases and organize the house. Think about how that could give you the joy of release - could you do that?

Read books that speak to you. Poetry, novels, essays. And, yes, it's wonderful if you read inspiring writing by Ina May (and those on my recommended list). Call me for talks on subjects close to your heart. But, don't forget to look at the big picture... watch a TED talk each day (best start with Sir Ken Robinson...then Jamie Oliver) and enjoy discussing it with your partner as you walk on the beach after dinner.

Throw away all lists. Follow your heart. Leave work as early in your pregnancy as you can. Allow your pregnancy to draw you into the reptile world, as it must do.

Rather than following the crowd and doing what everyone else tells you what you should do, think about what really matters to you, to you and your partner, then decide what you need and what you want. What is essential for your new family? Remember, "do nothing" is an option.

Be slow,

Be conscious and conscientious,

Meditatively knit a baby blanket,

Breathe,

Then see if you still need prenatal classes.

Jacquie Munro - Vancouver Doula, Slow Birth

My dysfunctional love of statistics

I loved statistics so much in university. Honestly! I'm still such a geek, that I love to look at my client's stats...not at regular times of the year (like December 31st), mind you. I like to do it when the spirit moves me (the happy convergence of left and right brain.) Or might it be tax-procrastination time?

So, here's this past 12 month's basic statistics...

Of 62 clients, 43 (69%) had spontaneous vaginal births without any major pain medications (epidural or narcotics), 10 (16%) had spontaneous vaginal births WITH an epidural, 2 (3%) clients had assisted births (1 vacuum, 1 forceps), and 7 (11%) clients had cesareans (2 breech, 1 face presentation, 3 dystocia, 1 fetal distress). Take some time to think about that. Only 5 clients (8%) had unplanned cesareans. What's the average in BC?

The majority of hospital births were at BC Women's (46, 74%), followed by St. Pauls (9, 14.5%), Lion's Gate (2, 3%) and Royal Columbian (1, 2%). Five clients planned for a home birth. Of those, 4 were successful (one had to transfer to hospital for meconium at 10cm, but happily birthed then went back home). There was also 1 unplanned home birth (luckily, she had fast-moving midwives!) So, only 6.5% of births were at home. Okay...I need more home births!

As for who was caring for my clients, family doctors top the list with 37 (61%), followed by midwives at 16 (25%), and OBs (9, 14%). The BC Women's FPMS birth docs cared for a whopping 37% of my clients. Thanks to all who did such a great job of making slow births happen!

A lot of people think my clients stats must be so good because they are having second or third babies. Well, almost three-quarters (46, 74%) of my clients were having their first baby. Only 16 (26%) clients were having their second or third baby, and 12 (19%) of those were returning clients. Of the four new clients who were "multips," one had a home VBAC, one had a home water birth, another had a home birth after a traumatic first birth experience in another country, and one was over age 50!

You might also say that my clients have great births because they must all be very young and highly motivated. But, most are over age 35, many are over age 40, and most would have been fine with an epidural or cesarean if it was medically necessary.

But, after many months of working together, these women were all motivated to have a slow birth...to listen to and trust their bodies...to allow for the natural rhythm of birth. And, with good support, and a great team (who can sometimes collaborate silently, with only eyes and hands to communicate)...it just worked!

- Jacquie Munro, Vancouver Doula, Slow Birth, Slow Planet

In which a push mower acts as sweet music...

On Saturday afternoon, I was dropped off at a client's Co-op on the Downtown East Side. As I walked to their door, a nurse from the local InSite walked by and smiled at me, a man with a grocery cart full of his belongings rattled down the lane, and a siren began to wail.

Once I was inside the door, though, another series of sounds took over...the cry of a woman in labour with her first baby, the shouting and shrieking of children as they played in the Co-op playground out back, the unexpected rhythmic whirr of a push mower acting as sweet green music. I had entered a hidden oasis only a block from Hastings and Main. It was cool, calm and wonderful.

She laughed and asked if I could hear her from outside...

We added the sound of the fan to the mix, and helped her to move, rock, sway, stomp, go on tip-toes, shower. She became calm when I talked her through contractions. She was kind and gracious in labour, only snapping once as her husband came into the bedroom to ask if I'd like some lunch, while holding said food in his hand... "Out!" Yes, labour increases a woman's sense of smell!

With the sounds of children and the lawnmower and the woman and the fan blending together, all sense of time disappeared. We were outside of time. As the contractions became stronger, she became more and more calm, toning low and soft. She melted open.

One last time into the shower with the fan blowing steam out of the bathroom and cooling the air. Water spilled onto the floor. We heard her growling. We smiled. Her husband put his head down for one last moment of quiet.

Then we headed through the streets in my car, as she dozed in the back seat, head leaning on a homemade quilt which covered the birth ball. One contraction, two contractions. That's all she had in twenty minutes. She was in that quiet slow space before pushing...

Then, a hint of a sound like she wanted to push as we arrived at the hospital. 9+ centimetres!

And she rode upstairs and pushed and pushed and moved and worked, and never gave up, and then...more than 3 hours later...beautiful pink Josephine (named after her grandfather) arrived, head askew, looking up at her mum...born completely posterior!!! She called out in her sweet voice and cried to let everyone know that she had arrived.

What a day of sweet music!

- Jacquie Munro, Vancouver Doula, Slow Birth, Slow Planet

Slow Birth call to action

My goodness!

Dr. Lauren A. Plante, a US obstetrician, has written a wonderful article (a MUST read!) in response to the increasing industrialization of childbirth (wasn't Canada's own Dr. Andrew Kotaska one of the first to argue against "industrial birth"?) Dr. Plante asserts that on-demand cesareans do not represent the height of women's autonomy, but are, in fact, the opposite. She calls for true autonomy for women - the right to choose from a spectrum of choices.

At the end of the article, she links the Slow Movement to childbirth, and almost challenges women to start a grassroots birth revolution. This is the first academic article that I've found that mentions Slow Childbirth. Wahoo!

The Slow Birth movement is organically growing! Read the excerpt below, then click the link for the full article...think about how you can be part of the transformation...

Come on - bring forth the change!

- Jacquie Munro, Vancouver Doula, Slow Birth, Slow Planet


Plante, L.A. Mommy, What Did You Do in the Industrial Revolution? Meditations on the Rising Cesarean Rate. The International Journal of Feminist Approaches to Bioethics. Spring 2009;2(1):140-147.

Excerpt:
"As a reaction to industrial agriculture and food marketing, the Slow Food and locavore movements have recently been born. If de-escalation of our food production practices is healthier or more humane, why is intensification of our child production practices better than sustainable childbirth? I’m waiting for the birth of the revolution, or at least, the revolution of birth. Will women who are interested in Slow Food or cage-free eggs find their way to a Slow Childbirth movement? Imagine: educated upper-middle-class women who buy songbird-certified organic coffee and worry about their carbon footprint, just saying no to the quick-fix cesarean culture. If they’re not part of the problem, maybe they can be part of the solution. But the impetus must come from women themselves. Do we really believe that industrial obstetrics is the best model for ourselves and our children? We must clearly understand that real autonomy does not mean cesarean on request, but instead a spectrum of birth options that honor women’s authentic choices. Real autonomy also means, to borrow a sentiment from Gandhi, that women should bring forth the change they wish to see in the world."

Slow Stories

I started to take notes during each birth after November 1, 1993. I know that because Kieran was born on that day. Kieran was a warrior baby. In fact, he was born face first. He never gave up with that chin-up attitude (and probably still hasn't to this day!)

The midwife did one final vaginal exam just before he was born. "Is that a bum?" she asked, just a little confused for a moment. "No, it couldn't be...you're hearing the heartbeat in the right place. It must be a mouth," I said. "It's the baby's lips!" she called out. So, Kieran was born, after a crazy challenging labour, with his mum on her high bed, holding up her silk dress (dad had grabbed a dress for her to wear, and I think it was one that she'd recently worn to a wedding).

Days later, when we tried to have "tea and debrief", Keiran's mum, my doula partner and friend, cried, as she tried to piece together our collective memories of what happened at the birth. Her first labour had been so smooth that we had expected a quick second labour. This days-long hard labour had been so relentless, with intense back pain, that we had all lost track of time.

She told me that she had keenly felt the loss when I had left her head and gone to help the midwife during those critical moments when we didn't know whether the baby was head down or breech. A woman needs another woman at her ear, whispering, "You are safe." I wasn't there for her as a doula in the end. I had become the second attendant.

We had no birth notes from those days of long hard labour - no framework from which to hang the memory. She was lost.

She asked me if I could write notes for all the women who would come in the future, so that no woman would ever have to wonder "What happened?"

So, now, I write as honest and true a story as I can write. I can only write what I observe, being on the outside of each woman's experience. I try to make sure that my handwriting is slow and calm. I watch my writing become larger and messier as the baby's birth moment approaches. Water drops on the page. A drop of blood smears. This is the external story of a birth.

I ask that each woman and her partner take some time to record their own experience, before I give them my birth notes as a gift. Each written account is part of the memory of the birth day. But, it's the woman's internal story which is paramount. Who cares that my notes say that she was in the bath for 5 hours. She believes that she laboured in the water through the night. She believes she was surrounded by candles (when candles are not allowed in the hospital) and peacock fans (when it was really a cardboard tray). She believes that she was rowing for a gold medal, not panting for hours. Her reality is the truth of the birth.

But my notes do provide something that she may never remember - her first words as her baby emerges. And now, most women don't cry because of a lost story, they cry with joy, when they read the words that they said to their newborn:

"I'm so glad to meet you!"

"That might have been the best thing I've done in my life!"

"You are so beautiful!"

"She sounds like a sheep!"

"Holy cow! It's a baby! Look! It's a baby!"

"You're sure a lot louder than I thought you'd be!"

Kieran's mum is moving back to the west coast very soon, so we'll have another "tea and debrief" very soon. And she'll probably tell me that my memory is faulty after all these years, that she actually wore her silk dress when her baby Zoe was born. And I'll tell her that, at the very least, my memory is clear about her strength in labour. The sound memories are clear, too. The garbage truck, the children outside. And I'll say I'm sorry that I left her head during Kieran's birth, and that I think of her every time I whisper, "You are safe," to each woman as she gives birth...

And then, we'll tell more slow stories of our lives...

- Jacquie Munro, Vancouver Doula, Slow Birth, Slow Planet

Slow Bike "Rounds"

I fulfilled a childhood dream yesterday. As a child, I always wanted to be one of those women who rides her bike to visit mums and babies.

I must have heard about it from my mum and her friends, talking about their pregnancies in the north of England in the 1950's and early 1960's. The image of the local village midwife, riding to visits on her bike, just stuck with me. It seemed slow, perfect, just the way someone should visit you when you have a new baby.

That (and reducing our carbon footprint) was why we moved back into town. But, it's only since I've had my shiny new yellow road racer that I've felt brave enough to do my client visits by bike.

So, when I realized that my son had my car, and I had to do a few visits in Yaletown, I bit the bullet, and headed out over the windy bridge. There's nothing more satisfying than going to visits in the busy downtown core and not having to worry about traffic, red lights, or parking. I even managed a whirl on the False Creek bikeway. Between visits, I stopped at a little French bistro, sat in the sun at a cafe table, and ate my lunch while answering the inevitable (but fun!) phone calls from two postpartum mums.

Thanks to my clients who didn't mind seeing me dressed just a little less professionally...what? my blue dragonfly jersey isn't totally business-like? Thanks also to my clients who didn't laugh at my helmet-head.

I rode home from my lovely visits with a parting gift of chocolates dangling from my handlebars, 30km/h (over the speed limit!) on the last bit of the bridge, past the Planetarium, under the bridge, past the Granville Island tourists, and up the hill to my home. Fabulous! Then the phone rang again. I put the kettle on and chatted some more. A pretty amazing realization of a childhood dream.

So, be forewarned...I'll probably be coming to see you on my bike very soon - glowing, shiny and smiling!

- Jacquie Munro, Vancouver Doula, Slow Birth, Slow Planet

Warrior Birth

"Next time I'm just booking a cesarean."
"My first birth was so traumatic - I want drugs the moment I start labour."
"I can't walk through the door of a hospital again."
"I think we'd better adopt our second child."

To all the women who say these words...
Please know that it wasn't your fault.
It wasn't your faulty body.
It wasn't your faulty mind.
It wasn't that you lacked will power.
It just wasn't a normal labour.
No guilt or blame.
It just wasn't a normal labour.

If you were surrounded by loving, caring people.
If you did the best you could, but the birth still shook you to your core.
If it was long and hard and unfathomable and didn't feel right...
there is usually a simple explanation.
Something just wasn't quite right.
It didn't have to be something big.
It could have been a sweet pair of hands by the baby's face,
or a head tilted to one side,
or facing out a hip,
or looking upwards.
Just bad luck on a big day.

This is the baby who didn't get the memo
about optimal positioning for birth.

Picture the baby who will come out simply and easily.
She's tucking her head down on her chest,
facing mum's bum,
has her hands in her pockets,
and is going to win the Olympic gold medal for the skeleton competition in 2030.
She's aerodynamic, flexible, adaptable,
and able to negotiate all turns with the grace of a pro.

She's lucky
born in the bathtub,
with her mum laughing.

Don't be hard on those babies who didn't get the memo,
those babies whose mums made those scary comments after the first birth.
These babies will never follow the crowd.
They'll be fiery and challenging, but totally brilliant (that's my girl!)
They're the ones who create great architecture, great music.
They are born with these passions tucked deep inside.
(Or maybe that's just me trying to put a positive spin on a difficult labour.)

The posterior/transverse/deflexed/asynclitic/compound presentation baby
tries to negotiate the birth canal
like a pine tree on the edge of a wind-swept cliff edge.
Bent, twisted.
He faces the hip, or faces forward, chin up, whatever the consequence.
This is not a birth for the faint of heart.
This is a warrior's birth.

So, when a woman calls to tell me about her first birth,
that long, epic first birth,
the one that she never thought would end,
and says that she can't ever do it again...

I ask her to thank her first baby for all the work that he or she has done.
We must not worry him or blame her.
First births are unrelenting in their demands,
because that is what is needed for us to be the best mothers to our children.
I remind her of her strength, her courage, her power as a mother.

She must have been a warrior to make it through
and out the other side.
She needs to know that it can be different,
oh, so different the next time.
I, too, have made it through that kind of a birth
then danced in the shower with my second.

She is not alone.

And, like Katie, she may choose to have her next baby at home, with the fan on, in the summer.

And, like Jasmine, she may not actually believe she's in labour until it's almost too late for a car ride, and then pant and blow through the tunnel to the hospital, and have the baby quickly on the other side.

And, like Lisa, she may find herself doing the "buzzard lope" around the house, and only get on a bed for the last few minutes of a beautiful labour.

And, like Trish, she may choose to have a vaginal birth after cesarean on her living room floor, while the trees blow outside.

And, like Shelley, she may not believe that her second birth could actually be easy until the last minute, and give birth standing up in the hospital bath-tub, then order baby back ribs for dinner.

She is not alone.
She can do this,
no matter what happens

This is her story.

- Jacquie Munro, Vancouver Doula, Slow Birth, Slow Planet

An adagio hits a day of speed at full force

I've noticed that I can manage most things as long as I move slowly through the day.

Within a few weeks, my children and parents will all be living within an easy bike ride.

I can walk or ride my bike to visit most of my clients. (Yes, you can expect helmet head when the weather is good!)

I can walk home from both BC Women's and St Paul's after births (there's nothing like breathing in the crisp early morning air as I walk over the Burrard Street bridge at 6am.)

The huge physical and emotional effort required to be intensely focused on a labouring woman and her family for hours and hours (sometimes days) is only possible when I live slowly, with intention, and gain strength by moving through the world using only the power of my legs.

Last week, I was reminded of how I used to live with the continual drain of moving at high speed. (How did I spend 17 years doing the 60km daily return commute from Tsawwassen?) So, there I was, driving along the highway to visit my best friend in Crescent Beach (I can only manage this 90km drive about once a month, now that we live a Slow Life). My iPhone alerted me to three email messages, two clients called to talk about miscarriage (on speaker), another called to let me know that she was in early labour, my mum called to say that my dad's blood test showed that his leukemia was gaining an upper hand and a blood transfusion would be needed soon, and a postpartum mum called to talk about her baby's latch.

And behind all of that, like a sound of a cellist playing Albinoni's Adagio in the background - pulsing, throbbing - was the vision of a client's beautiful 8-month-old daughter who had just lost her battle with an unknown lung disease. She is the first child ever lost to a client in 21 years.

The sad music of her mother's face.

I could have handled it all, if I'd been riding my bike, drawing on the strength of my body, the pumping of my heart, feeling connected with the world. But, somehow, it just all seemed too much, driving at 110km/h. 120 km/h. The adagio had hit this day of speed at full force.

I needed to be slow. I needed physical and emotional nourishment. I needed to be home. I needed to sleep long and deep. I needed to help a new mum and her baby that afternoon. I needed to visit a joyful pregnant woman. I needed to cry. I needed to hug. I needed to dig in the garden with my dad. I needed to help a baby come into the world. I needed to ride down a hill and breathe.

And, once I was back home, I was able to do all that, and more. I regained my footing, and I was able to be there, focused and strong, for everyone, and for myself. Slowly.

- Jacquie Munro, Vancouver Doula, Slow Birth, Slow Planet

Dare to be different

Okay...this is starting to become a real pattern...

After each birth, the lovely nurse sighs and says to my client, "I haven't seen a birth like that in ages. Thank you!" Well, actually, yesterday's quote (by a British nurse) was, "I haven't seen a birth like that since I came here!"

Then, I ran into a nurse who had helped us at a birth last week, and she still was in shock that my client gave birth standing. "I tried to get her back onto the bed, I ASKED her to get on the bed, but she just didn't! I had to think, how am I going to do this, where's my stuff? I hadn't done anything like that before!"

"Oh, come on," I said. "You're creative! Wasn't it good to think outside the box at work for once?"

"No!" She was laughing while she said that, but she really had been outside her comfort zone at the birth. Why didn't she embrace something new and dare to be different? (Understand that she is otherwise a fabulous nurse, and really never let on that it was outside her comfort zone to my client...great diplomacy!)

I checked my client stats since October 2008 (26 births). There have been only three cesareans (11% - one breech, one face presentation, one true fetal distress). The rest have been water births, standing births, hypnobirths, squatting births, hands and knees, side-lying, etc. Some just had one vaginal assessment, some none at all. A few (18%, which includes the cesarean births) had epidurals (that had been their plan all along). The rest (82%) used water, movement, singing, TENS, dancing, and, for some, just a little bit of nitrous oxide gas, to help them through labour. Their ages ranged from 30 to 50 (yes, 50!)

Isn't the hospital epidural average well over 80%? (Must check recent stats...) Anyway, it's not 18%!

How do we do it? Well, I do have clients who are able to eat well, go for long walks, stay fit. But they're not really much physically different from most women. And...they all have their own anxiety, fears, and baggage. Some have battled emotional demons, and some have overcome physical and sexual abuse.

What I offer is the long, slow approach. I try to work with my clients over many months (slowly building trust), talking to my clients about the most recent research on mothering, birthing, parenting. I find out about their lives, what drives them, what challenges them. I ask them to call me whenever they are worried or scared, or whenever they just want to have a good chat. A phone call that starts with us talking about diapers, might end in her telling me that she was abused as a child, or has battled depression, or that she hasn't yet told her midwives that she's seeing a psychiatrist and is on medication. I help my clients to feel and know that they are safe. We trust each other.

One recent client went from "I really want an epidural" at our initial interview, to using hypno-birthing...and laughing and chatting as she entered the hospital at 8cm.

Another client went from having post-traumatic stress symptoms and battling depression and anxiety, to a home birth with joy.

And yesterday? Well, this woman had a lovely slow birth. She was another who dared to be different. After about 14 hours of deny-it cramping, she asked me to come just after 2am. We spent the next 9 hours with her on the ball, in the bath, in the shower, back on the ball, doing walkabouts, climbing the stairs, lunging, swaying, swirling. That's 9 hours. No, we didn't bolt to the hospital. She was confident in her and her baby's safety. She had a loving partner who stuck by her through it all (and who I could reassure throughout). I talked her through most contractions (except in the bath). "Soft...you are safe...your shoulders are loose...your muscles are melting...your bottom is loose...baby is wiggling down...your hands are soft...your face is soft...your legs are heavy and warm...soft..."

We waited until we had counted off at least 5 hours of good regular contractions under 5 minutes. We waited until she'd had significant bloody show (not mucous plug!) We waited until she'd had over 2 hours of self-described "8/10 power" contractions (up until then, her 3-minute apart contractions had been at 5-7/10). We waited until she was moving, almost dancing on her tip-toes during each contraction. We waited until she was deep in a trance of endorphins. We waited until she was just beginning to feel a hint of pressure in her bum from the bulging bag of waters (we didn't wait until it broke, but we could have waited, if she wanted.) We waited until she said she was ready to go to the hospital.

Then...she said the word, and we were ready to go. But then, we had to wait until all the shrieking children in the school-yard across the street had gone back into their classrooms after recess!

Okay...to the hospital. 7cm. That number scores us the good rooms upstairs. Into the bath, then walkabout, the birthing ball...and back into the routine that we had at home. "Soft, you are safe, your baby is safe." And infinite patience. And a partner by her side. Throw in a lovely British nurse who moves silently and gently. Add a young family doctor who intuitively respects a patient's need for autonomy. And then we stay by the woman in labour, and trust her, and trust her baby, and trust her body...and wait. One hour. Slow. One hour. Slow. One hour. Gentle. Slow. And, right on cue, she starts to feel the baby coming. An hour and seven minutes later, out emerges a beautiful pouty face...then oh! a little hand...then a smooth vernix-covered body. Hands reach down and baby Maggie is on her mum's chest!

And then it comes, the nurse shining and smiling, finally happy..."Thank you. I haven't see a birth like that since I came here!"

That was a first baby who dared to deny the hospital statistics. She had laughed at the almost 30% cesarean rate, the 90% epidural rate. She was undisturbed, unmedicated, and was given a slow and gentle birth.

We owe it to our children to dare to be different. This changes lives, and it IS worth the effort.

- Jacquie Munro, Vancouver Doula, Slow Birth, Slow Planet

Slow Escape

One thing that I love about working in the 'birth business' is that I don't have a structured schedule. Mine is more like a feast or famine schedule - no babies for two weeks, then BAM! four babies in three days. It certainly makes for an entertaining life.

Babies come whenever they like, and they always seem to come in a clump. Yes, a clump. "Group" would be the wrong word. A group feels orderly, predictable. But a clump - well, that sounds like just the right word for how babies arrive in the world. They seem to get a signal that NOW! is the time, and they all come in a clump, all jumbled together, jostling for position.

I attended five births the other week - five glorious, slow births. These babies didn't watch the clock (neither did their mums and dads and caregivers), and certainly didn't concern themselves about my lack of sleep. These babies came in their own time - one gently in the water, one with her mum's feet firmly planted on the ground, and a few with grand flourishes. But, they all came at their own pace - slowly, deliberately, safely. These babies taught us patience, and more than a few hard lessons.

So, when this recent clump had all arrived, I jumped at a chance to go with my husband on an impromptu visit to a small island close to our home. I didn't have any babies due for a week or two, so I could breathe easy, and run away.

We walked onto the ferry as the sun set, and, fifty minutes later, walked off the ramp into the darkness, carrying our backpacks. We didn't know exactly where the local Inn was, but the clerk had said, "You'll find it." We followed a woman who was pulling a suitcase on wheels, jittering over the rough road, hoping that she was going to the Inn. We might have been following her to her cabin, but we didn't mind. We were living slowly.

Sure enough, she drew us through wrought-iron gates to the Galiano Inn, complete with cedar shakes, tall tree posts, and, through the door to a vaulted space with a stone fireplace. We had arrived.

The next morning, we woke up to see the sun rise over Mount Baker, watched the large ferries plough through Active Pass, and laced up our boots for the day's walk. We had left our car, and our bikes, at home, opting for an even slower pace around the island. After breakfast, we walked to the Bluffs, explored the cedar forests, waved at llamas, watched the eagles soar, checked out the local organic food store, and, 15 miles later, returned to the Inn for a good soak and a read (about the Camino de Santiago de Compostela.)

The next day dawned with sunlight streaming across the harbour. Most of the other people staying at the Inn would be spending their day in the spa having hot stone massages and facials. But, that's not our style. So, we told the clerk that we'd be hiking to Montague Harbour. She had a quick intake of breath, "Oh, there's some wicked hills! You're walking? Really?" Being a mapmaker's daughter, and daring enough to interpret those lines on the map, I took a guess and said, "Let's head clockwise. I bet there'll be less hills that way." (Boy, was I gambling!)

Am I glad we didn't go the other way!!!

As it was, the hills were still a challenge. But, we just kept in mind that we were on foot, and not grinding our way up those hills on our bikes (or on the Santiago de Compostela pilgrimage!) We had time to stop, think, listen to the wind in the trees, watch the misty rain fall, feel it on our faces, wrap our scarves more tightly, gaze at the sandstone cliffs and the erratics at their feet. It took two hours to hike to the harbour, where we ate caraway cheese and stone fennel crackers on the shell beach. We didn't meet any other pilgrims on our trail, just a lone cyclist on a 40 degree hill, pretending to be Lance Armstrong on Mont Ventoux.

After four hours on the hike, we could feel each muscle working to keep us going. No pain, just good hard work. Our legs seemed to work independently, keeping pace with each other. We held hands at times. We tucked out hands in our pockets when we needed. Then we saw the rain heading our way. It came as a mist bank, white and blanketing the hills. We knew there was a pot of tea close by, at the Market Cafe, and reached the cafe just as the downpour started. A roaring fire, four throbbing legs, two cups of tea, and chocolate. Slow hike rewards!

An hour passed, and the rain softened. We ran across the street to the locals' trail to Sturdies Bay, only two kilometres away. This was our third passage of this trail, so we felt like we knew its secrets already, knew where the fern grove was, where the boggy sections were, where the people were gathering firewood, where we needed to take small steps to easily climb the steep sections. We felt like we belonged.

At the end of the trail, and around the corner, we treated ourselves to a visit to the local bookstore. It's one of those places that has reviews glued to the shelves - "John's pick", "Jennie's favourite". I bought "French Toast: eating and laughing your way around France." My husband bought "The Wisdom of Donkeys: finding tranquility in a chaotic world." Two slow life books.

Later that night, after we'd left the island by ferry, and arrived home, fully refreshed, the stragglers of the baby clump decided to arrive. Two babies came over the next three days, one after the other. We'd only been home for five minutes when the first phone call came. "Jacquie, I think the baby's coming!"

I smiled, changed out of my hiking boots, put on my birth gear, and headed out into the night. I loved our Slow Escape, but I also love Slow Birth (and those unpredictable clumps of babies!)

- Jacquie Munro, Vancouver Doula, Slow Birth, Slow Planet

Slow Denial

I promise my clients that I will always tell them the truth about what's happening during pregnancy and labour...but I must admit that I do downplay things during prelabour. Now, this is only to help the clients to make it through the crazy unexpected early stuff that really, REALLY, isn't labour.

This is the denial phase of labour.

Too often, people have the TV image of labour - your water breaks, off you go to hospital, get the drugs, and the baby is born on the bed (surrounded by gowned and gloved anonymous people). This may be what 90% of births are like...but they're not the kind of births that my clients have. They dare to be different. They live in denial. This is Slow Birth at its best.

Grandmas-to-be call and inadvertently pressure their children, "Why aren't you at the hospital yet?" Friends call and say, "I had my baby last month, and it was hell. Just go in now and get the drugs!" Labour will never progress with all those phone calls coming in. So, please, unplug the phone. Or, at the very least, record a new voicemail message that says, "No, we haven't had the baby yet, and we'll record the great news as soon as we meet our baby!" Then, turn off the ringer...and live in denial. (Oh, and you can strap on your TENS machine at this time, if you like!)

Denial works! One woman had her mum over for lunch when she was in early labour, and didn't even tell her. Then she headed out to rent a DVD, and planned to watch it that evening...and didn't even believe it when I showed up and said, "Now - you're really in labour. You'll have your baby in the car if we don't hurry!" (She had her baby a couple of hours later.) Denial worked so well for her (too well!) that we didn't have to play that game when she had her second baby.

A wonderful client had her baby last night (Tuesday night). Her "denial phase" started on Monday night. She called to say she was having mild cramps at 8:15pm. Now, I had a feeling that this might morph into labour, but I wanted her to be able to have a good night's sleep. So, I said that this could become labour, but it also could just be part of the normal changes that occur in the last few weeks of pregnancy. "Deny it, have a lovely bath, then climb into bed," I said. "This might stop, and the baby might not come for another week." She answered, "I do denial well! Sounds good to me!"

The next morning, she called to say that she'd done a great job of denying the contractions through the night, and managed to sleep quite well. Yes, the contractions had come every 10-15-20 minutes, but she pretended that this was totally normal, and she didn't waste any emotional energy on the contractions. By morning, she was feeling good, sounding bright and energized. Denial had given her a good night's sleep.

To make sure that she didn't have to do another night in labour, I suggested a good long bath after lunch. Her husband turned on music, and she had relaxed in the tub and chatted and laughed with her husband and sister. They made a great memory. They were living outside of time. "The bath was a turning point," said her husband. They didn't have to deny the labour any longer. After the bath, the contractions were 5 minutes apart and getting stronger and longer.

Are you noticing that this is a Slow Birth story? By playing the "denial game", they didn't focus on time, and allowed the body to rest and do its thing at its own pace. They were connecting as a family, and rediscovering that it's okay to trust the body's rhythm.

After the bath...after becoming so relaxed and soft, her labour began with strength and power. It wasn't long before we all headed to the hospital. The denial phase had lasted about 18 hours. We didn't count that as part of her labour. We started the official labour clock at 2pm. She started her labour happy, rested, emotionally strong, thanks to denial.

For the remaining 9 hours there was no need for denial. She could just inhabit her labour and let it advance slowly, at its own place. She danced, bathed, lunged, yoga'd, bounced the ball, stomped her feet, and sang. She only had one medical assessment during all that time. No one declared her "fully dilated", no one offered drugs, no one made her get on the bed...she just WAS in labour, without time, without judgement.

And her baby came with joy, her two feet planted on the ground. She was lovingly supported by one proud and amazed man, and four smiling women. Yes, she stood to have her baby, and clutched this little girl, called Lily, to her chest, laughing, "I don't believe it!"

Slow Denial had worked its magic!

- Jacquie Munro, Vancouver Doula, Slow Birth, Slow Planet

Prodromal Girls (or how to have the perfect Slow Birth)

Prodromal labour was the name of the game this week. Four babies were born, who each gave their mums long prodromal labours (and some long active labours, too.) None of the births were "easy" this week. But they were all amazing and beautiful and triumphant.

What's prodromal labour? It's Slow Birth at its ironic finest. It's that part of birth that isn't really labour yet (patience, patience). It's the body trying to deal with something without making it too challenging for the mum. But, the body doesn't realize that the mum has a brain (a very intelligent and 21st century brain) that continually tries to figure out what's happening...why is this taking so long?...why am I not having a 2 hour labour?...when will it pick up?...why?...how?...when? All those questions are exhausting. Prodromal labour demands that we honour the needs and rhythms of the body, and shut down the thinking brain. Prodromal labour forces the reptile brain to kick in. My job is to remind the mum that she must trust her body and baby...they both have their reasons for taking their time.

To us mere mortals, long prodromal labours can be challenging and undecipherable. However, to the four babies this week, the slow progress made perfect sense. They tried to give us their messages, and we did our best to interpret them. We promise to remember the lessons we have learned this week, and listen even more closely to the babies in future!

So, what was going on for these babies?

Baby #1: "Ooops...Who knew you couldn't come out forehead first? No one left directions for me! I thought it was a creative option! (They had to back me up and take me out, OR-style. Mum and dad didn't fuss about the change in plans, because I'm just too darned gorgeous!)"

Baby #2: "Hey, mum, I had my hand smushed against my face! And that cord kept getting in my way! I'm glad you gave me time! (I had fun being born in the water, it really helped make more room for me, and I made sure I slid out without tearing my mum, and, and, my hair was washed as I came out!)"

Baby #3: "Okay, if you only knew that I was 9lb14oz, you guys would have given me a break and been okay with the hours that it took me to figure out the best way to slide into the world! (Those people catching me all thought my shoulders would get stuck, but nope, I just needed to take my time so I wouldn't hurt my mum.) "

Baby #4: "Now, you have to understand what it was like in there. I had to twist my head this way, tilt it to the side a bit, just like that, then I thought, maybe, just maybe, I could mold my head into a banana and slide out mum's hip. (Oh, I forgot to say "Thanks" to the obstetrician who used her tiny fingers to turn my head into the right position. It was a breeze after that!)"

Now...we're waiting for Baby #5, who has yet to arrive. This baby may or may not be very overdue...who really knows for sure? We'll just have to wait and see...

- Jacquie Munro, Vancouver Doula, Slow Birth, Slow Planet

Slow Birth Breech

"Can we stop on the way and pick up a Big Mac?" asked the woman.

"Sure," said the man, as he turned into the drive-thru...

I was standing at the hospital entrance, wondering what was taking them so long. M was my very first client, and she was in labour. Her baby was frank breech (that's bum first). It was 1988.

M's family doctor was driving her to the hospital because they couldn't reach her husband at work. (Remember, this was life before cell phones and voicemail.) Charles, the doctor, worked out of a little home office in a small beach community, only minutes from her home. They were friends. She told me that he used to be a specialist in rural BC, hence his ability to roll with whatever came his way.

So, back to the scene. The doctor's car pulled up to the Emergency entrance, and out tumbled my client with a half-eaten hamburger in her hand. He parked the car and followed us into admitting.

(Okay...wait just there! Do you think this scene would EVER happen today? It was laughable then, but not completely absurd.)

We arrived at the maternity ward, and settled in. We could see the beach and the sparkling ocean from the window. There was a rocking chair in the corner, beside a full-length antique mirror. There were no monitors or equipment in the room. The nurses would set up in the hallway and only roll in the carts just before the baby was born. There was no disturbance.

"These contractions are nowhere NEAR as bad as our rowing sets!" M had been on the Canadian national women's rowing team. "Our training sessions were brutal!" (Perception is everything in birth.) I stroked her and she moved her baby down.

Now, I don't remember how long it was before her baby was born, but I do know that I was still breastfeeding my one-year-old son, and I didn't miss a feed!

There was no fear in the room, no increased anxiety because her baby was breech. The birth was allowed to happen in its own time. It was graceful and slow. The doctor just lifted up the baby's body as it was born, and out popped the head.

It

was

that

simple.

Now, you have to remember that the family doctor used to be a medical jack-of-all -trades in Northern B.C. He knew what to do at a breech birth. He knew that he had to trust the woman's need for food in labour - it would give her strength. He trusted birth.

Think about it!  That was the very first birth that I attended as a doula.  It was the first of so many Slow Birth lessons.

Over the next decade or so, I attended many breech births without worry. I knew I could trust the caregivers to be skilled at any and all maneuvers required. Dr. Woolley told me that he loved breech births. "At least you have something to grab on to!" Dr. Bagdan told me that breech births are often much less painful - "It's a soft bum, you know," and I remember seeing him catch two breech babies gloveless, just because they'd always come so fast (those two mums were breech themselves!) I also remember Dr. Thomas sitting on his hands and saying, "Jacquie, the key to breech births is to watch the flow of the labour. If the labour continues to progress without a hitch, then it will be fine. But, if the mother senses a block, then we'll do a cesarean when she gives the word." I saw him catch so many breech babies, and only one woman had a cesarean after she said, "It's not going to come." This was Slow Birth. It honoured the rhythm and messages of the body.

I don't know when that breech wisdom died, but after we lost Drs. Woolley and Pendleton, and Dr. Thomas retired, and the breech trial stopped vaginal breech births in their tracks, that was the end of it.

Sure, there were a couple of brave doctors (Go, Henry!) who would agree to attempt a vaginal breech birth, but that would be only if they were on-call on the day that a woman went into labour. Timing was everything - if the "breech" doctor was away, the baby would be born by cesarean.

A few years ago, my daughter asked what her options would be, if she was pregnant and her baby was breech..."Well, I'd have to drive you to Ina May Gaskin's "Farm" in Tennessee, or fly you up to Yellowknife to see Dr. Kotaska." (Recently, I told a doctor that, and she laughed, and said, "Yes, I'd do the same!")

So, you can imagine that I was thrilled to discover that BC Women's is hoping to start a Breech Clinic, which would ensure continuity of message, informed choice, and 24/7 vaginal breech capabilities. What a wonderful way to reduce cesarean rates! I hope the clinic opens soon.

I only wish that some of the new doctors could see how it used to be done - slowly, simply, and with such infinite trust in the body. Breech birth - the Slow Birth way.

Here's hoping that we can reclaim the old wisdom.

(Update April 3/09: Any woman in the BC Lower Mainland whose baby is breech, and wishes to explore the option of a vaginal birth, and whose current physician does not offer vaginal breech births, can now be admitted to BC Women's for care by a "participating" obstetrician. Thanks to all those involved for this fantastic policy change!)

- Jacquie Munro, Vancouver Doula, Slow Birth, Slow Planet