A Teaser from the next book called, PUSH! The Sequel

The Tooth Fairy

Or

Why Can’t All Babies Be Welcomed Like This?

Renya was expecting her first baby, and she and Chris weren’t sure yet what planet they have landed on. Baby showers, advice from aunts and uncles they haven’t spoken to in years, doctor appointments, urine samples, GBS testing, no more smoking, low-sugar diets, ultrasounds, no more Coca Cola, and definitely no joints, alcohol, or all-night parties. And when did Chris’ mom start hanging out at Baby Gap stores, bringing home all sorts of miniature sports gear? They are left wondering when they stopped being kids fooling around with a little of everything that kids fool around with, at least all the ones they’ve ever known, to becoming Parents-To-Be. This is scary. This is very different. There are a whole lot of “you shoulds” and “you shouldn’ts” that go along with all this. And what is a doula anyway?

In the middle of all this confusion they get a call from me. “Hi. I am your doula.”

“Wassup?”

“Your DOO-la.” I should have said, “Your fairy godmother,” or “The tooth fairy” and they would have understood a bit more, perhaps.

“Yo.”

“I would like to make an appointment to get together and explain a bit about what we do.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“How ‘bout next Thursday afternoon after your regular clinic appointment?”

I get a grunt that I take for a “Yes.”

“Good. See you then.”

Grunt.

The waiting room looks and sounds more like the waiting room at the tuberculosis sanatorium I once visited in the 1960s. I guess that the same germs are present here, too, as prolifically as well. People hacking, sneezing, and spewing in all directions; babies screaming, teenagers smoking in huddles by the entrance, a smattering of obviously homeless people lining up at the free coffee pot, and an argument between a clearly drunk client and the receptionist.

The referral I received didn’t tell me too much except that Renya is Native American, has had a healthy pregnancy, and plans to breastfeed. So far so good. There are a few women in the waiting room that could be pregnant. No one is waving me over or anything so I finally asked a nurse if she could check if my client was already in an exam room and it turned out that that is exactly where they were.

At first I didn’t see Renya. All I saw was this gigantic African American man. Almost seven feet tall (6’ 8” to be exact) at 425 pounds, dread locks, cargo shorts and team jersey t-shirt, with ear plugs connected to something in his pocket. When I ask he tells me his shoes are 18EEEE. The only time I ever saw bigger shoes was when I recently toured the Red Wing Shoe Factory Museum in Red Wing, Minnesota with my grandson. They had the original pair of shoes they had made for the biggest man in the U.S., Igor Vovkovinskiy, who wore a size 23EEEEE when he was 16 years old. All I could think of was: “Wow! The BFG!” Chris turned out to be the BFG of Minneapolis. Our kids had loved Roald Dahl's BFG: The Big Friendly Giant book, and I was meeting the man himself!

Renya actually was in the room. Half his height or girth, she was very pregnant which was accentuated by a bright striped sundress. She wasn’t due for another month but looked quite ready to me. I was glad I’d have time to get to know them. We started out with my Doula movie, a short documentary made here in Minnesota. Afterwards I asked if they had any questions. Chris actually had a whole list he had been saving up. They were all very insightful, too. I was amazed at how much he already knew about birth and babies. Definitely more than most first-time dads. He was no slouch; he was determined to be a great dad.

At our next appointment we covered the childbirth ed breastfeeding class. They weren’t able to make it for the one at their hospital, so we piggy-backed onto her regular clinic appointment once again and used the clinic’s room and DVD player. Half way through the two Why-To and How-To Breastfeeding videos Chris’s phone rang. He answered it as I put the film on pause. Before I knew what was happening, he yelled into the phone one giant: “DAMN!” and ran out of the room ducking through the doorway to finish the call. He returned a few minutes later to tell us that his brother had just been shot in the hip at close range in Chicago and was being wheeled into surgery at that moment. I was stunned. Then they speculated about what kind of gun it could have been. I gathered that they were hoping it wasn’t a .22 rifle which they explained to me could have shot him in the hip, with the bullet ricocheting upward, further damaging other areas and organs, with the possibility of being fatal. I didn’t know what to think. This was so awful. I began to pack up the video then, but Chris said we should finish it up. I told him we could do it next time but he insisted, so we watched the rest of the video, while they continued to wonder what their brother’s chances of survival could be. I marveled that they acted like this happened every day. Were their lives so precarious? Did they live with this kind of violent drama on a daily basis? I hugged them both goodbye when their taxi came, though I had to go up on tippy-toe and Chris had to bend way down to reach my 5’ 4” height for my hug, assuring Chris I would be praying for his brother.

The next day I got a text from Renya inviting me to her baby shower the following Sunday. I have grappled with this over time. Should I attend my clients’ baby parties or should I maintain a strictly professional relationship with them? I decided to simply see, case by case, what felt right to do, and Renya and Chris both added that they really hoped I could make it, so I seriously considered going to this one. Afterwards, I realized that I had just been to a once-in-a-lifetime event. Whatever told me I should go was right, this time at least.

The shower started out like any other baby shower I have been to with silly games and fruit punch, the house draped in pink crepe paper streamers and It’s A Girl! balloons. Renya was wearing a sash over one shoulder and draped over her beautiful belly that said, “Mother-to-Be.” A tiny flannel diaper with a miniature clothes pin attached to it was pinned to each guest as we came in with instructions not to open either up until told to do so.

I looked into my punch as I sat down with the other ladies and then did a double-take. There was a tiny plastic pink baby frozen into an ice cube bobbing around in my cup. Now this was a new one for me. The MC of the afternoon announced the rules of the first game: The lady with the first baby to come out of the ice cube all on its own without any help has to stand up and shout, “My water broke!” and will get a prize. Groan. What am I in for? I wondered.

The diaper was explained next. You will be told when all the guests have arrived what to do with it. As far as the tiny clothes pin, if you see anyone crossing their legs throughout the party, you can take their clothes pin and add it to yours on your little diaper and the lady with the most clothes pins at the end of the afternoon will win a prize.

I wandered around the house, refilling my punch, mingling with all the other ladies, meeting Chris’s mom and Renya’s Dad and uncles who were busy grilling an amazing lunch out in the garage. The only clue I had so far that Renya’s family were interested in their roots and Native tradition was that she had mentioned some of the names they were considering for their baby girl and the Indian meanings for them. And it seemed to me that a lot of the guests had elaborate medallion and intricate, beautiful feather tattoos with symbols I didn’t recognize.

Several people checked on me periodically, asking if I had enough to eat and drink and was I having a good time. The food was spectacular: spicy steak tortillas, red rice, refry beans, and other very amazing dishes. I was too full in the end to eat the cake. Everything was so good.

Then the MC stood up and asked everyone to look inside the little diaper that they had received at the beginning of the party. The one with poop (mustard, actually) would win the grand prize. No one in the room had one that had mustard poop in it. The MC finally announced that it must have been with the friend who came earlier to drop off a gift but wasn’t able to stay the whole time and had left already.

The next game was explained to us: The MC would walk around the circle with a roll of toilet paper from which you had to unwind as much as you thought would be the equivalent of Renya’s bump or waist line. The MC already knew the correct measurement. We all did it and then our MC measured each one until someone had the exact length. Renya’s grandmother got the prize for this one. I wasn’t anywhere close.

Finally it was time to open the gifts. People had been very generous here, too. Renya and Chris’s baby could not possibly wear all the beautiful things she got. Her grandma, this baby’s great-grandma (bisabuela in Aztec) figured out that this baby would have to wear most items only once to make the rounds of all the stuff within the first year, by which time she would have outgrown every single one of them. Little did we know she would actually be too big at birth and only be able to wear the clothes that were intended for ten-pound, six-month-old babies and bigger.

At the party Chris sat down next to me at one point to fill me in on how his brother in Chicago was doing. It was a sawed-off .22 rifle as they had feared, but because it was discharged at close range it went straight through his hip and out the other side, sparing any further damage. He was quite relieved that his brother would be OK. This time.

Then the dancers arrived and we were all ushered out to the expansive back yard. About eight Native dancers, all decked out in exquisite regalia formed two lines and Renya was escorted and deposited into a central lawn chair. These dancers were not dressed in “costumes” as some of us less informed gringos might imagine. Native or First Nation people’s original dress is called “regalia” and expresses their deepest connections to the past generations. 

"What’s done to children, they will do to society." ~ Karl Menninger

A drummer was stationed to Renaya’s left, along with the drummer’s little son who could not have been more than three years old, who had an exact replica of his daddy’s large drum. With a nod from his dad, the drumming began. The dancers, too, were accompanied by two child dancers who followed the intricate steps of their parents as best they could and didn’t seem to be embarrassed when they couldn’t keep up but just forged ahead. Incense was lit and joined the dance until it was presented to Renya where she sat and left on the ground before her. At intervals the drumming changed to a different rhythm and a new dance began. It was stunning. Feathered headdresses waving with the dancers, rattles tied on the dancers’ ankles shaking with the beating of the drums, twirling, stamping, and leaping. I had never seen anything like it. Why can’t all babies be welcomed like this? I thought to myself. 

Less than a week later Chris called to tell me they are on their way to the hospital. It was a false alarm. We had two others that week, which is fine with me. I would rather be there to tell them not to be discouraged, that this is perfectly normal, especially with a first baby, and assured them that they can call me again any time. The next day I received a cryptic text: “We r guna go 2 hosp.” That turned out to be another false alarm. Finally, when they called the third time we realized it was the real thing. The contractions were pretty intense and building. The nurse announced that Renya was three centimeters and already 100% effaced, so we weren’t going anywhere this time. High fives all around. YES! Let’s do this!

By eight centimeters, Renya had changed her mind and asked if we couldn’t postpone this for another date. I said, “No, that isn’t happening. Your baby had gotten the official eviction notice. The more you walk and stay up on the birth ball, the sooner you will be holding her in your arms. You can do this, sweetheart.” I told her that this labor reminded me of the dancing at her baby shower. If she could imagine the drumming, that labor is actually very similar: the intense beat rising and falling, growing stronger and receding. The dancers coming closer with each new dance until she is presented with the incense and their prayers for this next journey we are now on.

Ten centimeters and the urge to push. After an hour of pushing, the midwives become concerned. Baby has not moved down at all. She should be at least halfway down the birth canal by now. The waters break and they are clear; the monitors tell them that their baby is still doing OK, too, all good signs, but this labor is going on so long now that they are concerned that her uterus might tucker out and cause too much bleeding eventually. Another hour goes by and the midwives consult with the OB doctor on that night who comes to talk to Chris and Renya about her concerns and they agree to a C-section. I know they are relieved and I don’t want to second guess their birth team. This baby really might be too big for her to birth vaginally. I am not the midwife this time, and I haven’t felt in there. I assure Renya that she has done everything possible and could not have worked harder, and my guess is that we will probably know what all was really going on inside once we see her baby. Which is exactly what happens. Though the ultra sounds told us it was a big baby, probably around nine pounds, she turns out to be closer to 11—Yes, as in pounds. And she even looks like her daddy who is on cloud nine by now as he literally dances her from the warmer back to her mommy at the head of the OR table.

I come back the next day and find a ravenous baby girl nursing non-stop during my whole visit. Her sugars are normal so Renya can stop worrying about that and just enjoy their beautiful baby girl. They have already fallen in love with her. So have I. Her name is Xochaitl, a Native name pronounced, SO-chee. Again I think, Why can’t all babies be welcomed like this one?