Candles Not Required

By Jenna Hull
Web Exclusive - February 27, 2007

I am not the product of hippie parents and I don't consider myself righteous. I am not an atheist, a liberal, or a neofeminist. I am not crazy nor am I from Mars. Yet these are typical assumptions people make when I tell them that my child was born at home. Intentionally.

I did not have the baby in the dead of winter, in some remote locale, alone and stark naked. I did not light candles, play new age music, chant to a birth goddess, or have a séance. I did not have my baby while hugging a tree or squatting in a rice paddy (not that there is anything wrong with the those scenarios). I simply labored, delivered, and birthed at my home.

This may not be not earth-shattering news to you, fair reader, but the reactions I have received from others have ranged from shock and disgust, to awe and praise—and to downright rudeness. More than once, I have been called a martyr.

But the most common response to my homebirth has been the simple question of "Why?"

Good question.

Let me explain.

When I found out I was pregnant, I was at ground zero with knowledge of birth, labor, and hospital rules. It was evident that I knew how to get pregnant, but beyond that, I really had no awareness of how the blessed event worked and what our country's system of maternal care entailed.

I am talking nothing.

Nada. Zilch. Niente, my friend.

At ground zero, I was unsure of what to expect. So I did what I thought I was supposed to do. After visiting the obstetrician, I got a copy of the only pregnancy book I had ever seen or heard about, and read up on what to expect, now that I was indeed expecting.

I dove right into that first book—but the more of it I read, the more I continually felt unsatisfied with its condescending tones and shallow reassurances. I just couldn't get into it and thought that there must be something wrong with me. I thought I was supposed to read the book and then, knowing know exactly what to expect, I'd be cool, calm, and collected. But that wasn't happening and my first trimester was quickly drawing to an end.

What was happening was that I was bombarded with new words, phrases, and concepts from obstetricians, family, and friends. Words such as episiotomy, breastfeeding, and hospital protocol appeared time and time again.

Let's backup here a minute: Episi-what-omy? Never heard of it. But, I had heard that sometimes doctors cut the area between where one goes number one and number two. (I later learned that that area in fact has a name. It is called the perineum. Pronouncing it is another thing: is it pur-en-ee-um or para-nee-um? Got me.). The whole idea of getting cut down there did not sound appealing, no matter what the circumstance, and I didn't think I wanted an episiotomy anytime soon.

But I digress.

Back to ground zero and new words.

Breastfeeding? A million questions came to mind. How does it work? How long does one breastfeed? Am I comfortable enough with myself to actually let my mammary glands be used for their primary purpose? Because up until now, they have only been used in one capacity (you know, the capacity that got me in the family way in the first place).

And how about all this hospital jargon? What is going on here? Why is it every time I ask one of the OB's a question about what happens in the hospital, I feel like I am the stupidest woman to ever become pregnant or that I am intentionally insulting the world of obstetrics? Why is it that I wait nearly an hour for a seven minute visit with the OB—and why is she always so tense and impersonal?

So I set aside the book that was failing to reassure me and my expectations, and picked up some other books I had never heard of (which of course isn't saying a whole lot because up until this point, I had never read anything about pregnancy).

The authors of these books did not hold back on their experiences, be they good, bad, and even ugly. They talked candidly of their pregnancies, doctor visits, labors, births, and postpartum periods. Some even talked of midwives.

My brain backtracked: Midwives? Mid-whats? Mid-whos? What exactly is a midwife? Aren't they the women who only deliver babies for the Amish? Don't they wear long, homemade skirts, with their waist-length hair held in place by a bandana? And aren't they all strict organic vegetarians? Don't they all light candles and chant during birth and encourage you to become one with your inner goddess? Again, at this point, remember, I am at ground zero, so forgive my shameful ignorance.