Well, hot damn, when I got pregnant with my sixth I just couldn’t
do it (be induced) anymore. A warm, decisive force was in me, quietly telling
me my moves, and instructing me to move as quickly away from the
medical model of birth—-and life—-as possible. It was so hard
sometimes, but I managed to trust. Even when the pregnancy grew so
long, 44 weeks, I managed to trust in birth.
Then the birth came, so easy, so beautiful, and for the first time,
I was not once hooked up to a machine. I was not once penetrated
by hooks, needles, or knives. I was radiant, blissful. I looked in
a mirror once–I glowed! In every hospital birth I’d ever had,
fitful, sagging sobbing was my most usual course; and I always
thought it was hormonal. No, the glow was hormonal; the sobbing was
a sign that I had been in a very wrong place, in the wrong time in history
for giving birth. (Oh yeah. Name a worse time—-you can’t. No woman
can go into a hospital birth now without needless intervention.) I
just pushed my baby out and went to bed—-my bed—-after drinking
from my own cups and peeing in my own toilet. Then I cuddled up
under my own covers with my husband and new baby. This birth changed
me. Before, I was gray; a vital connection hadn’t been made that
illuminated my pure colors for me.
But then, I gave birth as a woman—-fully female, only my own hormones,
no trauma or sadness, just sweetly sensual, rich magnificence.
That’s how I felt that day—-so beautiful and powerful, sexy, and
Exerpted from “Resexualizing Childbirth” by Leilah McCracken