I promised details about Rachel’s birth for those who want to read them. WARNING: this essay contains a description of natural childbirth, so if you can’t handle it, don’t read it.

Rachel is two weeks old today, and the most pleasant baby we’ve had. I don’t know how much truth there is to the theory that the kind of birth experience a baby has affects his or her personality for life (it certainly affects the mother's willingness to have more children), but Rachel would support the theory that the more peaceful the birth, the more peaceful the baby. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that we’ve done this four times before, and we’re more relaxed. I am certain that the mother’s feelings during pregnancy and after birth are reflected in the baby’s disposition. All I can say about that is, “Poor Eli.” No wonder our first kid is so keyed-up.

The previous four children were born without drugs and with minimal intervention, under the care of a midwife, but in a hospital setting. There is a time and place for medical attention, for medication, and for “meddling.” Natural, uncomplicated birth is not it. It took me a few babies to realize I do not need to be in a hospital, just relatively near one in case of emergency. I have a history of late babies and long, slow labors. Once I figured out that it takes my body a really long time to prepare itself for the last phase of labor, I just stayed at home until it was time, or, in a couple of cases, allowed the midwife to start an induction using Cervidil (to ripen the cervix), but I never actually needed a Pitocin (IV) induction. I’ve also condoned various interventions to speed things up: stripping membranes, breaking my water, enemas—you name it and we’ve tried it. But I’ve never had an epidural (no needles in my spine, thank you very much) and don’t mind suffering a little to bring a child into the world. In fact, I would say that the suffering is proportionate to the elation one feels afterward.

But this time, I wanted something different. Having a baby in the hospital is like going to McDonald’s at lunch time. A hospital is a place of busy-ness—people running around in scrubs, officiously doing their duties and following protocols. The L&D room is needed for the next customer, so taking 24 hours to have a baby makes one a nuisance. Also, the nurses are used to 90% of women wanting to be drugged immediately, and then they rest comfortably hooked up to a monitor that can be seen remotely at the nurse’s station down the hall. These moms require very little. The mom going natural is always asking for things or refusing things, and some nurses feel rather put out. And when it’s time to actually have the baby, the busy-ness increases: a team of strangers in green swarm into your room and turn on bright lights and start unpacking mysterious packages. The end of the bed breaks away and when that wee thing comes into the world, it is a shock of lights, noise and air conditioning. They are whisked away to a corner of the room to be poked and cleaned and checked. No wonder they scream their little heads off.

As we have gotten more organic and natural in everything we do, it makes sense that this assembly-line approach to birthing babies would become less acceptable to me. When I found Rosemary Birthing Home (www.rosemarybirthing.com) in Sarasota, I knew that aside from having a birth on the boat with an island midwife—we’re not quite there yet—this would be the best option for a peaceful, natural birth for our fifth child. I mean, my midwife’s name is Harmony for heaven’s sake! We were right. There was no rush, no sense that we were a burden, no unnecessary meddling.  Instead of McDonald’s at lunch time, it was like going to a friend’s for a home-cooked dinner and staying to open another bottle of wine. The birth was no shorter than normal, but aside from my water having broken (which starts a 24-hour intervention clock ticking) the experience was so much more relaxing. Labor in the courtyard, in the tub, in the shower, in the rocking chair, in the kitchen, in the garden, on the boardwalk along Sarasota Bay—no one was telling me what to do or how to do it. Not that we didn’t try to speed things up a bit—I went to the acupuncturist, tried herbs and homeopathy, even drank a Castor oil smoothie. The difference for Jay was marked, too. He hates hospitals, and was a little wigged out after Sarah's arrival (at 9 1/2 lbs. she was hard to get out). He bowed out of Sam’s arrival, leaving it to a team of girlfriends instead. But he was more comfortable in the homey atmosphere at Rosemary and was on hand when Rachel arrived, just outside the door. Even Sarah, at seven, felt comfortable and was there to see her sister’s birth.

In the end, Harmony gave me the extra time I needed to have the kind of birth I wanted to have (we were close to having to transfer to Sarasota Memorial), and when Rachel finally decided to show up, she came fast. So fast, in fact, that I didn’t even make it to the birthing tub and had her in the shower, where I had been laboring for the pain relief of pressurized hot water. When I picked her up for the first time, she wasn’t crying. She was quiet and alert, looking around and wondering where she was. We spent the first couple of hours of her life just looking at each other, holding her in the warm water of my (undefiled) birthing tub, nursing, and generally basking in the post-childbirth glow. (Man, those hormones are like a really good drug.) We had Rachel the night of May 2nd, and at midnight, we broke out the chocolate cake and candles and celebrated Sarah’s 7th birthday on May 3rd! I had plenty of time to rest and recover (Harmony herself made my breakfast the next morning after Jay had gone with Sarah to pick up the boys) before heading out to my mother-in-law’s. It was, aside from the part of childbirth I’m already forgetting about, a totally pleasant experience. I will never have another McBaby again (if I have another at all). I never cease to feel amazed at the miracle of new life—thanks be to God for answering all our prayers for a smooth delivery and a healthy baby!

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Pictured (l-r) Priscilla, the apprentice midwife, Tarin, friend and birth coach, me and Rachel, and Harmony, midwife

One of the joys of our adventurous lifestyle is meeting new and interesting people. That usually occurs in the local Laundromat. I met Roe, Emma and Owen just after their arrival at the marina. They had come through a bit of nasty weather and landed at our peaceful doorstep with a lot of laundry. The laundry room here is air conditioned, and thus conducive to long conversations while folding clothes.

We have a soft spot in our hearts for people who ditch Normal and live dangerously. These three “Kiwis” as we dubbed them—although only Owen is a native of New Zealand—are just that. Owen, owner and captain of s/v Dulcinea, is an experienced sailor, but Roe (pronounced “Roo”) and Emma are just along for the wild ride. They’re still on the part of the learning curve where you call the specialized gear on a boat “that thing-a-ma-jigger.” But they’re learning fast, and they can keep an eye on the horizon, GPS and the autopilot. What else do you need from crew?

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They became friends partly because our children lack age-appropriate playmates in the marina and rely on adults that still act like children to toss them into the pool and other such nonsense. But in the times I caught up with them sans children, we had long conversations about life on planet earth, maps, tectonic plates, racism, religion, politics, child-rearing, and other more serious topics. It’s so refreshing to get another perspective on America; sometimes we can’t see ourselves unless we step back and see the reflection from another perspective. I hope the time we spent together was mutually beneficial.

Today, after a couple of false starts, the three Kiwis and a spare crewmember sailed off into the horizon. They are headed toward Mexico at the moment, but ultimately home to New Zealand via the Panama Canal. We will be following their progress at www.milkrun.co.nz and living vicariously as they cross the great Pacific with their gnome Gary in tow. We will all miss their company, but perhaps the children more than anyone. Good playmates are few and far between. 

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To Owen, Emma and Roe: we wish you fair winds and following seas. We’ll be praying for your safety at sea and look forward to watching the documentary that will make you all millionaires!  Maybe we’ll see you in New Zealand someday…

We brought Rachel home this week to the boat on Thursday, and she took her first dinghy ride today (we visited friends on our old dock). We are happily settling into a “new normal” and the children have welcomed the new sibling with ease and grace. All are eager to help and think that baby sneezes are about the funniest thing they’ve ever seen. Who doesn’t? She definitely adds a sweetness to our home—and is such a calm and peaceful baby. Maybe we will have a low-key kid yet. There’s always hope.

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There are a few moms I’d like to thank this week for making it happen. Many thanks go to my mom, for giving birth to me and, consequently, her grandchildren—what a miracle that inside the tiny body of a baby girl is not one, but potentially two generations. Also, Mom came up for a quick visit and gave me a lift home to the boat. To my mother-in-law, who made my “babymoon” possible. We escaped to the quiet and peaceful environs of her house to recuperate and enjoy snuggling, learning to nurse and sleep at night, resting, visiting with old friends, and luxuriating in long baths (a rare treat). Also, she had been to the store and bought all of my favorite foods. To my good friends, Susan, Tarin and Vicki, who spent a long 24 hours waiting for Rachel to show up. They provided companionship and support when I needed it, and I couldn’t ask for a better group of women to pray a baby into this world! To my midwife Harmony, a mom herself, who went above and beyond the call of duty and let me labor the way I needed to in a relaxed environment, and even cooked me breakfast the morning after. To my sisters, Sascha, Tennille, and Robin, who are right there with me in the trenches of motherhood, slogging through all the difficulties from diapering to disciplining. To my favorite grandma, Pearl, who passed away several years ago, and gave my daughter a good name-sake. To all the moms in my life: I love you all and wish you a very happy Mother’s Day.

It’s hard to believe we’ve been back at the dock for a month now. I must say that it hasn’t been a hard one, either. The comforts of land life mitigate the losses of beauty and freedom inherent to cruising. Of course we miss seeing the sunrise and sunset over a clear horizon, the quiet of an anchorage, the daily treks to the beach for “recess” and a hundred other small things that make cruising such a pleasure. But being able to step off the boat (eight months pregnant, mind you) and drive an air-conditioned vehicle to Publix to load up on relatively-inexpensive organic food somehow makes up for it. We have enjoyed visits with all the family that we haven’t seen since last spring and almost got caught up with all our friends. When it gets hot on the boat in the afternoons, I take the children to the local Planetarium or the Public Library across the street (insert sigh of happiness here). Plus there are our favorite local hangouts that give the chef a night off, which she seems to need more and more as the due date approaches.

That said, there are some subtle changes that make me pause in my reflections. Why, for example, do we suddenly live by a clock-imposed schedule instead of a natural schedule? We used to be up (and down) with the sun, eat when we were hungry and never feel guilty if we were “late” for some daily activity. All of a sudden, we are staying up late, waking up late, and feeling some kind of pressure about it, especially after daylight savings kicked in and made everything an hour “late.” Really, who cares if breakfast is at 8:30 or 9:30? All the normal things are happening in the normal order, but that clock suddenly has the power to make me feel stressed out. I barely even looked at the clock when we were cruising.

And then, last night, it started raining cats and dogs in the middle of the night and I woke up feeling confused. It took me a few dazed moments to realize that that booming sound was thunder, and the sparkles on the window were raindrops, and that the wind was causing us to actually move in our slip. That got me thinking, when is the last time we looked at a weather forecast? We used to live and die by them.

While doing the dishes the other night, it occurred to me that we take a lot of other things for granted, too, like unlimited hot water. At anchor, I would never have wasted the amount of water doing dishes that I do now, because it comes straight out of a hose from the city water supply. I should still conserve water, but I really don’t.  And who has even looked at the battery monitor lately, let alone run the generator or kept an eye on the solar output?  All discussions about wind generators have been replaced by consultations on carpentry and upholstery. We are really getting soft. When we got hot this weekend, Jay even turned on the air-conditioner. We are officially living in a “dockominium,” insulated from the raw realities of wind and weather, the awareness of our dependence on water and power, and the sometimes frustrating experiences of daily survival. The transition to living at the dock may have been easy, but less seamless than it might seem.

Part of the charm—and the challenge—of our family is that we really don’t let anyone tell us what we should or should not do. With children, we expect immediate obedience (often for their own safety) but allow them to ask “why?” later. They also attempt difficult things and daring feats that other kids might not because someone is always telling them that they shouldn’t. Jay and I have our own rebellious streak. Without it, we would never have made it this far. The unsolicited advice we receive includes things like how we should not have five children (far too many in this day and age), and how we should not sell our house in this market, but we should be building our careers and retirement savings and not gallivanting around the planet in a boat blowing those resources.

The same goes for advice on pregnancy. Everyone has an opinion about what is appropriate behavior for a woman in my “delicate condition.” Someone stopped me in Georgetown and said they were happy to see that my being pregnant didn’t stop me from cruising. He was just trying to be nice, so I refrained from using the comeback that came to mind—that I was glad that his being old didn’t stop him!  Other activities I have been either stared at or scolded for include loading groceries into the dinghy, kayaking, hiking, snorkeling, riding my bike, sitting on a picnic table, moving a lawn chair and having half of a glass of wine.

Anyone who knows me knows there’s not much delicate about me. It doesn’t mean I don’t have limitations, or that I don’t occasionally pay for that can-do attitude. But I feel great. I have even been known to say that I like being pregnant. I can think of nothing better than this lifestyle for growing healthy babies: we eat almost everything from scratch, get plenty of sunshine and fresh air, exercise even when we’re not trying to, and generally pursue happiness and harmony. Some people just can’t handle it and feel the need to put a stop to such reckless joy. Good thing we know how to ignore good intentions.

February 20, 2011

If you can imagine the perfect day after being gone from home for a long time, that was my day yesterday. We reunited with good friends at the House of Pancakes in Marathon, spent the morning with them, then went out for pizza at our favorite local joint, the Hurricane. Jay and the kids went back to play and do laundry at our friends’ house while I headed to Publix. I nearly wept to see cantaloupes 2/$3.00, not to mention fresh berries! I didn’t even try to control myself. While we’re traveling, I try to keep everyone happy and comfortable, so I filled all requests, from animal crackers to Haagen-Dazs ice-cream bars. I even bought a couple of boxes of Kraft Mac-n-Cheese (gasp!). We can go back to our home-made, organic diet in a couple of days. It was a fun day.

After living in France for half a year during college, I know about reverse culture shock. I appreciate certain things about my homeland because I’ve been away from it, and I am likewise appalled by certain things, whether I’ve been away or not. We already know what we will miss about cruising, and what we will appreciate before we go “back out.” There’s nothing like a life of self-deprivation to make you really thankful.

Over the last few weeks as we’ve made our plans to return to Florida, I began talking to the kids about what’s coming next. Every time I mentioned the prospect of coming “home” they corrected me—“you are home!”  I guess we have really convinced them that this boat, and where their family is, is home. I had a hard time explaining what I meant by “home,” chiefly because I mean different things by it. That made me reflect on what that word really means.

In returning “home” from the Bahamas, I meant to our homeland, the U.S. “Home” in Florida for me means friends and family, the Gulf Coast where Jay and I grew up together, and even “home” to the marina where we kept our boat for two years. Yet, coming to Marathon felt like a homecoming, too. We lived there for six months, getting our feet wet, so to speak, in the cruising lifestyle. Our friends there make it feel like “home” to us. In a previous blog I talked about always feeling homesick for somewhere. They say that home is where the heart is, so if we leave a little piece of our hearts everywhere we go, then we are also always at home. That’s no small comfort in a world where so many feel disconnected.