Motherhood for the Rest of Us

A tale from beside a birthing tub

I was reminded last week how much the middle of May stirs up hubbub on the topic of mothering. When I worked for a church, we spent an ungodly amount of time attempting to craft the Mother’s Day service in a way that would be sensitive to everyone. It’s a thoughtful leader’s stress dream—“We need a prayer that encompasses the full spectrum of the human experience of being mothered and mothering in 90 seconds—GO!”

Mothering is a complicated topic with complicated feelings. I’m not a mother, although I always thought I would be. Life doesn’t always turn out how we imagine, and I certainly never imagined I’d witness three births before going through my own, nor did I imagine I’d love the birth experience. Although there’s more to say about the journey of not having my own kids, today’s tale is about one homebirth escapade. Because it happened in 2020, I had time to photograph every moment. For my squeamish buddies, rest assured there is nothing too graphic unless you are disturbed by humans dressed as ducks.

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Among the adventures I wasn’t expecting in my life: helping with a home birth during a global pandemic. But there we were, deep in a year of the unexpected. In the spring of 2020, the babies missed the memo to shelter-in-place and my dear friend Laura’s baby was on her way, whether we were ready or not. Our little pod spent the days before the birth concocting limoncello, pouring beeswax candles, and taking uncessary photos to document these strange times.

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It wasn’t my first rodeo; I’d been at the birth when big brother came roaring into the world a few springs ago, recruited primarily for my strong farm hands and eye for creating soothing lighting. 

This time felt more familiar, and as the process began, I fussed around, compressing Laura’s hips during contractions, fetching drinks for her husband Pete. Everything was going smoothly, and I felt helpful and useful, a few of my favorite feelings. 

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As the final hours neared, Laura climbed into the birthing tub, holding out her hands, wanting Pete and me close as she pushed the baby into this strange new world. A few minutes in, I realized there was nothing more to do other than hold her hand and murmur encouraging words. I couldn’t go through labor for her, couldn’t take away the pain. My only choice was to sit still as she went through it. 

Time slowed and beeswax candles danced shadows on the walls. During her other birth, I hadn’t been this close in the final stages. The intensity rattled me, especially since I thought I knew what to expect. Empathy screamed at me to do something as Laura groaned, and every escape impulse screamed at me to bolt from the room.

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The gaze of the steady Berkeley midwives pinned me to the ground; “Sit, girl. Down. Stay. Breathe. Laura is strong. Trust that her body knows what to do.” 

I squirmed. 

Because here’s the thing—I don’t love to sit or stay. I think we are all prone to invade or evade the pain of others, and I often try both. If I can’t fix it or make it better, I’ll see myself to the door, thank you very much. So now I’m supposed to sit and bear witness to the pain, stop fussing, and learn to be present? Boy, oh boy, we’re in the deep end of the pool.

I did my best to sit and stay, but it cracked me. Silent tears streamed down my face, and I could feel Pete laughing gently at me. He’s better at sitting in the pain than me. 

But I sat. And sat, and let the tears come.

The female body is nothing short of miraculous. Soon, Baby Girl made her debut, perfect and round and yelling about being born in a pandemic. They named her Elsie Anastasia, Anastasia meaning resurrection. 

Here’s the thing they don’t tell you about home births—after a few hours, all the medical professionals leave, and you’re left alone with no grown-ups in the room. I took the night shift, and spent the wee hours of the morning nestled with Elsie, breathing in her goodness. It was a holy moment, almost unbearable beauty in a year of darkness.

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All the unsettledness of that year and the years following cracked me open, and I’ve spent it unlearning and relearning and being forced to give up control, to leave room for mystery. And I don’t know about you, but it’s been disorienting. The grief of this world seems like too much some days, enough to swallow me whole. I’ve learned again and again how hard it is to sit and bear witness to the suffering of others, how much we all need to be seen, to have someone be present as we groan.

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As I look back on the birth, I remember that life came out of all that pain. Maybe that’s all we can hope for, that somewhere down the line, through all the cracking, light will break through, and we’ll be changed, reborn, and made new.

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I’d love to hear from you!

Or connect with me on Instagram: @jackieknapp_

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