Yes you read right. Lothario’s, Don Juan’s, Prince Charming’s,
Romeo’s, Lady Killers, Libertines, Paramours, Heartbreakers………….
And I can say this from
compelling experience. As I sit here, on
some level, grieving the passing of my most recent affair with a midwife,
planning an outing to catch a glimpse of her, I’d really like to acknowledge
the sexual nature, that from my experience anyway, is at the root of all of our
interactions with each other. Whether
they be ‘sexual’ in the real sense of the word, or sexual in the attraction
towards each other, or sexual in the understanding we feel about each other, or
sexual in the confidence we exude………our sexuality is at the foundation of our
sense of self. It has to be. We’re mammals, created and designed by
millions of years of honing and adapting to procreate. Sex is essential to that. And everything else. Sex is part of birth, sex is part of death,
sex is part of great illness, sex is part of our most treasured friendships,
sex is part of looking after our children, sex is part of our wider
communities, sex is underlying our family relationships………. Whether we like to
talk about it or not, sex is at the bottom of everything. Our big Corporations and Religions use sex to
drive us, sell to us, motivate us, inspire us, suppress us, and often we’re in
denial of our own version of it. And most
of this sex is happening subconsciously, innocently, guiltily, blissfully,
honourably, subversively, and seductively…….all at the same time as being
totally platonic as we’re happily monogamous.
But sex is there all the same. A
powerful essence of our natures. All of
us. Whether we like to express it, talk
about it, show it, feel it, or not.
Now.
That being said.
Midwives combine quite a few
different levels of sex. They are there
for us on a fundamental level, no matter who is around or how many times we’ve
done birthing before. They are there to listen to all the intimate details of our
sex, and bleeding, and previous sex, and talking about our vaginas, and any
diseases we might have picked up, and how well our vaginas can and will
open, and all those other subjects that
are reserved for our own heads or our lovers usually. They ask us questions about things that our
best friends and lovers don’t even think of.
They’re deeply aware of pregnant women’s insecurities and sensitivities
and woo us with gentle understanding when others may dismiss us as being
hormonal. They’re considerate suitors
during pregnancy, till the consummation of our birthing experiences, and then
there’s the gentle letdown during the postnatal period, where they help you
prepare for the fact that they’re going to move on. They’re there for the
gently sexual pregnancy, the intensely intimate birth experience with all the
oxytocin’s pumping round the whole event, and they’re there for the incredibly
sensitive, and sometimes sexually painful after period as well. All rather ‘take charge’ kind of roles, done
with a woman’s compassion.
And so many of us feel so
strongly about our midwives, and love them so fiercely, and stand by their
sides, and do whatever we can for them………………..because we’ve had an experience
with them that was the same intensity as a mad, intense and sweet little affair
while we were having our babies, and then we watched our loves move onto the
next lover, the next woman with child, and the next bearer of such in tune and
devoted attention. So we go to her
coffee mornings, or her meetings or picnics, or to any place where we know she
is likely to be, and we look at her from afar, or we recapture a moment from
years ago during birth and the affair with each other, or if we’re lucky enough
we get to stay friends.
But many women can have just the
one experience with a midwife, just the one mad affair, and then have nothing
more to do with the ‘scene’ , but be left with a gentle memory of a brief
liason. And some women don’t experience
any kind of love at all with their midwives, and can feel quite ripped off by
the experience, as a virgin offered Romeo, and instead given Quasimodo. And in the worst case scenarios, women can
have truly horrific experiences with midwives, where they more take on the role
of Bluebeards.
I’ve felt jealous over my
midwives. In a few different ways
too. Jealous of their attention
definitely. Jealous about them having
amazing births with other women. Jealous
of intimate stories I hear other people have.
Even jealous of other women going through ordeals after their births,
because I know ‘my’ midwife is totally being there for them. Jealous enough to feel a skip in my heart
when I know I’m pregnant, and will be spending time in the sun lushing up on
another…….. or the same midwifes care, attention, focus, understanding, love,
loyalty, appreciation, empowerment, support, positive and inspiring thoughts,
skills, experience, and knowledge………..until I’m fully cooked, and both me and
the babe are moving forward into the journey, and she moves onto the next
affair.
And it’s not an illicit affair
either. Not a secret I have to
keep. Currawong usually falls just as deeply in
love as I do. So do the kids. Other friends can almost get jealous
themselves, as between us and our kids it’s ‘our midwife say’s this’ and ‘our
midwife did that’. It’s a publicly
approved of affair. That everyone who’s
loved a midwife can relate to. That
other mothers get, even though they may not equate it with an affair. But I say, that in all my years around birth
and experiences thereof, not to mention the stories I’ve read and the people
I’ve witnessed, that it’s a relationship with the same intensity and loving,
and this analogy may start at least to make some sense of some of the very
intense and passionate emotions surrounding birth within it’s different factions
at the moment. I’ve read many articles
with disconcerted obstetricians, media reporters, and legal people talking in
uneasy terms about the cult like following of midwives, the women and children
surrounding them in a colourful throng.
The devotion these crazy midwives attract. And they really don’t seem to get it. The huge amount of love and sexuality flowing
around these birthing creatures, interacting with the women and families around
them who see themselves reflected. I
remember reading one article about an obstetrician, talking about how he wanted
more adulation for what he did, and had studied years to do, rather than watch
midwives get all the action. But they
don’t seem to get that birthing in a hospital just isn’t sexy. Being treated as another number on the
treadmill of birth doesn’t get a woman hot.
That whole white or blue coats with gloves thing isn’t a turn on. (For most people anyway). Women really respond to their chosen carers
treating them with compassion, respect, gentleness, understanding that birth
isn’t an everyday experience for birthing mothers. Women really respond well to being treated
like a goddess. Both when the baby goes
in and when the baby comes out. That’s
the area in which most midwives I’ve met really excel. And the attitude that makes them so
incredibly attractive.
And let’s face it. A lot of midwives are just goddamn sexy. In their attitudes. Their unique sense of personal fashion. Their knowledge and support around
birth. Their general attitudes towards
women. Their conversation skills. Their depth and capacity to ‘be there’ in all
matters birth, death, sex, or illness related.
Their quirky personalities. Their
cars full of stuff. Their fierce
loyalty. And I’m talking all midwives
here. The hombirthers, the
hospitalbirthers, the hospitalbirthers who really wish they were homebirthers
and vice versa. The students, the ex
midwifes, the part timers. And also the
ones who midwife both birth and death.
The first midwife I ever met was
a friend of my best mates mum, and even though we’d never met before, she was
gentle with me as she told me that the drugs I’d taken in my early pregnancy
with my first daughter wouldn’t affect the baby, as the placenta hadn’t
attached yet. The second midwife was a
squinty eyed hospital old timer, who drew in a whole group of us first time
parents for a pre natal group, and told us with great humour and risqué
innuendo about all the different ways we could birth, and some of the things to
expect. And the only midwife I remember
from my virginal first birth hospital affair, was a beautiful and tall woman,
who told me I reminded her of her daughter.
This created a connection between us, and made me feel set apart from
her ‘others’. I wanted to go back in
afterwards to thank her, but felt too shy………what if it didn’t mean as much to
her as it did to me? What if she’d
already forgotten me?
My second hospital birth was such
a joyous and party like experience, and I was so caught up in my partner,
mother, surrogate mother and friend that I hardly noticed the midwives. The one who was on duty when he was born was
friendly, and happy, till we went and had him far too early according to her
calculations, and she freaked out a bit cause I was still in the spa bath. Pulled the plug on me cause she hadn’t done a
water birth before. Just like the
withdrawal method!! Totally
unsatisfactory, and interrupting the sexual dance that was bringing him
down! But I got the water turned back
on, and stuck my bum and hand over the
plug hole, and was determined to have my way.
Which I did. Born in water. And by the time he got there, she’d called
all the other midwives in the hospital, and they were all standing round as he
was born in the sack. Crying, and
clapping, and welcoming him to the world.
The first homebirthing midwife I
met for our third baby, busily pressed her suit to not just me, but to my
partner, small family and mother all at the same time. We needed her to be the legal midwife, as the
student midwife who was courting us as well needed a registered midwife to be
there. She had all the flashy birthing
aids – bouncy balls, books, articles, photo’s, messages from other women about
their love for her. She also came with another midwife who took amazing black
and white photos, still some of the best birthing photos I have. She was the first to tell me that when we had
a homebirth midwife, we had a ‘midwife for life’. Which she didn’t end up being. She was there for the birth, kept the water
too hot so I fainted on getting out, panicked a bit at that, was happy again
when I came to, stuck around to weigh the baby and get a copy of the letter of
complaint that she’d encouraged me to write on her behalf to hospital staff who
had spoken badly of her, and that was it.
That was the end of our affair.
Blunt and unsatisfied. When I
rang her to tell her I was having a hard time, she told me about how terrible
her husband was, told me I’d be allright, and that was the end of that. I wasn’t happy. It hadn’t left me with blue birds singing
round my head and all the woosy feelings of love and emotion that I saw in my
other friends who’d had homebirthing midwives.
She didn’t come round and clean my house and bake me goodies like a
friend of mine’s midwife did. She didn’t
do any placenta prints. She was a very
vague and unsatisfactory suitor. And
like a woman spurned, I went on a bit of a bitter thread about midwives after
her. Got together with other women who
didn’t like midwives, and said ‘yeah!’
Read lots of books from the Christian right about unassisted childbirth,
and how intrusive midwives were, and how they got in the way between a woman
and a man and their baby. I agreed. Got all sniffy about midwifes in general. What was all the fuss about? They were just doing a job…..
Till I got pregnant again with
our fourth baby. And had a chance
meeting with another midwife. Who very
gently swept me off my feet again. Sat
with me a whole day while I purged, and complained, and cried, and
whinged. Sat quietly, and respectfully
and understandingly. And then offered me
whatever combination of her care I needed or desired, no obligation, and no
expectations, and totally un-judgementally.
I started to fall in love again, and was so very glad when she made it
all of the 250 kms to be there in the classical sense of the word. To be with me. With her knowledge. And her happiness to take a back seat. And she gave me the gift of letting me catch
my own baby. Lift her out of the
birthing pool. Work out myself what gender
she was, when and how I wanted to. And
then gave us a guided tour of the placenta, which I’d never met before.
And she really is a midwife for
life. Has kept in contact no matter what
all these years, has been available for all sorts of honesty from me, has
remembered birthdays and the babies she helped into the world. A faithful love. But a Cassanova nonetheless J. Loved to distraction by a whole harem of
women, who will tell you their stories about her with tears in their eyes. She also introduced me to another midwife for
life, who was even more of a superstar, and they were both there for me with
the birth of my fifth child. Which was a
facing of every fear I had about birthing – to be out of the water, to have to
transfer whilst in labour, and to have a caesarean – which I did with the
gentle ministrations, understanding, path easing, and love, of two amazing
midwives. And the best bit was they were
so completely there for me afterwards, my first love in particular, helping me
to heal, getting me to rest, doing every little thing she could think of to
ease my shaky days afterwards.
Then there was the world famous
birth of our sixth and seventh twins born two days apart and in water as a
VBAC, with my superstar midwife who was totally amazing in her friendship,
advice, support, compassion and tender charming ways. We were all so in love with her that I
actually felt shy and would sometimes lose my breath and stutter when I had her
undivided attention. I looked forward to
her visits with the excitement of preparing for a lovers tryst I’d have to constantly chase the kids out of
the room and give Currawong stern looks when no-one else was looking, just to
have a little time with her on my own, as everyone else had a crush on her as
well. And the love, understanding, and
compassion she poured on me as I went through such an extraordinary birth, only
served to put her higher in our esteem and love. She was so close to us all through the 3 day
process and afterwards, that I felt quite privileged to have so much of her
time.
And that’s not to mention all the
other midwives I’ve come across in my time in South Australia, who I got to
meet and make friends with, they impressed by my lengthy birth history, and I
impressed with their general midwife grooviness..... Many an hour was spent at
the local farmers market with luscious midwives sitting round us swapping
stories. The places we could go in our
conversations of and about birth and related topics was deep, and gold, and
uterine.
All these midwife women I’ve met
through my time have been amazing and colourful characters, willing to explore
any taboo subject with total honesty, on friendly terms with all bodily
functions, and able to see the beautiful in everyone and everything. And the best bit of advice I ever got was in
the dawn of welcoming a new baby to our nest, when I was advised to not ‘forget
that Currawong’s your baby too, and needs to feel loved, so drown him in
breastmilk and fuck him lots’……. Advice that he was very appreciative of, let
me tell you.
At the point of writing, and this
piece has been trying to be born for a few weeks now, I’m not really sure if
there’s any point to what I’m trying to say, except to acknowledge a part of my
relationships with my midwives that I really treasure. An intimacy and closeness that I wish I could
experience with a lot of other people. And maybe an aspect of why there are so many bruised personal feelings and insecurities in the debate around homebirthing at the moment. If nothing else, maybe the start of a debate.....
Midwives are cassanova’s…….and they know it!
And now for a bit of book.....Balthazar and Nimue that is. If you haven't read it yet, or want to recapture what was going on, chapters 1 and 2 are here,
http://spunoutpost.blogspot.com.au/2012/02/love-story.html, chapters 3 and 4 are here,
http://spunoutpost.blogspot.com.au/2012/02/chapters-three-and-four.html, chapter 5 to 8 are here
http://spunoutpost.blogspot.com.au/2012/03/last-installment.html, and chapters 9 and 10 are here
http://spunoutpost.blogspot.com.au/2012/03/law-of-repulsion-and-more-book.html ........now you can read on.
Chapter 11 - The next time.....
She walked into the pub off the street, the busy cold street,
leaving the cool nips behind as she edged by the fire warmth. She saw him before her and fell straight in
his eyes. She asked how he’d been.
“Oh, not too bad considering how much you’ve messed with my
head. I can’t seem to get you out of
here...” he tapped on his skull.
She smiled, she big gap tooth grinned.
“Glad to see I’ve got company then.”
He looked at her closely with questions in mind.
“Had any wild dreams lately?”
The silence that followed ensured their connection. They looked around them to think for a
bit. Speculated on the glass mirrors
behind the bar, bleary eyed barflys, soft cushioned foot rests, clean sparkling
glasses, the faint waft of beer spills and music cranked full.
“Wanna go somewhere quiet?”
She smiled her agreement, too shocked yet to speak.
.........
They curled into blankets and pillows and sheets. No talking as they sated lust. Replayed the great rite they’d engaged in
before. Sweat and wetness sprinkled
merrily, sparkling in the soft ebb of the candle’s glow.
“I’ve seen everything differently.
You’ve reminded me of who I am.”
He couldn’t contain his wonderment.
“I see in you all the women I’ve known, all the hurt I’ve caused,
all the anger I’ve birthed, all the love I’ve felt, all the states I’ve aspired
to, all the reason for life. I’ve been
your oppressor so many times, and yet you love me. I’ve borne your lash cleaving me bloody, yet
I trust you still. I’ve stolen your art
and your beautiful soul, but it lives on.
You’ve pushed me so far to the edge of extinction, yet I’m by your side.”
She smiled half sad and spoke softly.......
“You’re all that you say and yet more. I thought I could never let your kind inside
again, I closed the doors tight and drew the blinds. I was happy once in my world on the fringe,
till I started to wake and wanted to feel all.
You are the outside world, entering my inner sanctum. You terrify me with your deadly dark, yet I
see the same mirrored in me. Only with
you do I feel like I’m all my playacts, all my reasons, all my arts, all my
darkness, and only with you are they seen all together. I’ve run from you so long, yet it’s you who
holds the key. Just as I hold yours....”
They clung again and blocked out all but sensation. Cut adrift in the mid morning hours to ride
the swells. Cloaked their rapture in
thousands of guises and masks and perceptions.
Reeled through time to find new scenes.
.........
“What do you love of me?” She
lazily brushed fingertips over his chest.
He barely faltered. “Your strength and nobility, your wisdom and grace. Your smile and lips, your soft belly
warmth. Your innocence and carnality,
your sex and pure. Your muses and
wanders, your theories and plans.”
She looked at him sweetly.
“You realise that all you see in me is strong in you. That all you love in me, you love in
yourself. And all that irritates, is
your own critic nagging in your ear. We
are mirrors to each other. You love me
for what I draw out in you. What is it
you love of yourself when you’re with me?”
He pondered. He
wondered. He looked round the room at
his clothes strewn around him. He cast
his mind back through his many long years.
“I love how I tremble, see the mysteries before me. Feel in my godself, and nurture my core. I love how I’m a better man, and feel you
within me, see all your aspects from maiden to crone. I love how I know that I’m just on the edge
of the precipice taking me out to my future.”
.........
They travelled the train to the hills together.
And the ancestors travelled with them.
Chapter 12 - New lives.....
They lived in a mansion set in a quarry, with cliff walls entangling
craggy arms round the house. Life was
sweet and sensual, her daughter and mother happy with the addition to their
lives. They bathed in salt water and
themselves and rising awareness.
Sexuality, the rising serpent sliding through their lives, was starting
to stretch in awakening.
One night she’d gone out with friends to glittering pubs in the city
not far from the hills. Whole souls and
half souls, mostly the latter, drifted in and out of her vision, no spark, no
connection. She was heading for home,
leaving drunken friends behind grinningly, when Balthazar came into view and
beamed in her path.
They floated through pubscapes and dreamed through a night of
intense love and wholeness. Exotic clubs
and colourful people dizzied themselves through the night. Later, she’d taken him back to the hills in
the moonlight, and led him up a disused path to an abandoned, ivy strung
house. Inside the door lay broken
floorboards, dusty spider webs, tattered curtains flaying in the breeze. Burn out rooms, an abandoned piano, and
yellowed paint cracking walls. To the
left of the entrance lay a mattress draped in satin, surrounded by candles she
leant to light. Filmy white tatters
floated the windows, and soon wafts of incense hung the air with musk. She slowly unwrapped her layers and peeled
off her skins, spread out before him in soulish wholeness and sweet white
softness. They stroked and kissed and
supped and fucked and entered each others skin.
Dawn snuck in through the tattered curtains and lifted hair on a
breeze through the cracked wall. They
put skins back on softly, and went outside to the car. Drove through the dawnswept hills, misty from
it’s sleeping, sunbursts pushing through to caress their lips. Music spiralled and dew breath floated, and
everything they needed in the world was there.
Every touch of fabric and skin was a sensual delight. They drove in almost silly happiness,
grinning and beaming and soaking it in.
.........
By day she spent time on herself and her studies, her daughter and
mother, and sweet time with him. He
found work at a studio making drawings and concepts, and began to build his
clan. They started making mutual friends
and creating the couple webnest. Life
was swimming outside the broadnet of harshborn patterns and cultural lore. They dreamed dreams of acres with gardens and
horses, earth caves and children, parents and kin. A soft land of healing, writing and teaching,
making and playing, and growing within.
They deepened their connection and found stronger bindings, and
dreamed of the past lives they’d lived and their cause. And their web spun beyond them, and traced
shadows round them, bringing light to the grey and warmth to the chill. The echo they made shuddered out through the
life waves, to ebb on the beach of divinity’s shore.
They both felt that finally, after a lifetime of giving and taking,
and ending up feeling alone and drained, that they’d found a partner who
fuelled their fires, and helped them grow stronger without giving in. Together they glowed brighter, and people
around them felt touched by the fire.
.........
The ancestors watched still, spread all around them, taking small
breaks for light refreshments.
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