I’m thinking a lot about birth lately. My grandson Elián’s second birthday was a few days ago, and next week marks the 33rd anniversary of when I gave birth to his mother—my first child, Marea. Marea and her wife Andrea are both midwives, and I’m excited to repost my #1 most shared blog ever, published just after Elián was born.

I believe that midwives have a tremendous amount of wisdom to impart, so I’m thrilled to announce that Marea (whose newest book, Baby Making for Everybody, will be out in April) is about to launch an online community called PregnantTogether. Her goal is to help pregnant people feel more supported and less alone during this pivotal time in their lives, and to share important information they may not receive from their obstetricians about pregnancy, birth, and trusting themselves and their bodies’ innate wisdom.

I hope you enjoy the blog, and if you know someone who might benefit from PregnantTogether, please add your name to Marea’s mailing list. Thank you!

*Feliciano, Andrea, Marea, Amada and newborn Elián only half a day old*

My new grandson, Elián Ruizquez-Goodman, was born late at night on January 30th. My daughter Marea labored for forty-eight hours to bring her ten-pound baby into this world. Although arduous, she gave birth in the comfort of her home, surrounded by loving, skilled support. Marea found intermittent relief in the warm water of the birthing tub in her living room. From there she could see her birth altar, filled with wishes and visions of love and welcome, as well as a second altar of photos honoring her family’s ancestors—reminders of the strength of her lineage and her participation in an ongoing cycle of life. Born under dim lights in the peaceful quiet of Marea’s bedroom, Elián was immediately embraced by his new family.

*Myra holding Elián during his first week outside of the womb, February 4, 2021*

Marea and Andrea are both home-birth midwives devoted to bringing respect and sacredness back to the birth experience. They eased their son’s transition from womb to world by keeping him exclusively in their warm bedroom, shades drawn, during his first days of life. For his entire first week, Elián wore nothing but organic cloth diapers. He was held skin-to-skin, covered only with soft blankets for warmth. When my husband and I visited, we held our thirty-eight-hour old grandson skin-to-skin as well, which made our initial connection especially intimate and delicious. Andrea explained that not only does skin-to-skin feel so good, it helps regulate Elián’s temperature and respiration rate, and boosts his immune system. For Marea, this intimate contact helps to regulate her milk supply and prevent postpartum depression. Babies cared for in this way cry less and sleep better.

Marea and Andrea are following the “La Cuarentena” postpartum protocol they recommend to all their clients whenever possible—a long-standing custom in many Latin American countries where mothers devote a full forty days (or fifty-four days following a C-section) to healing and bonding with their newborn. Friends and family help with cooking, cleaning and childcare for older siblings, but socializing with anyone outside the immediate family is extremely limited. Instead of working or hosting guests, Marea spends her days and nights with Elián in her arms—nursing him, stroking him, cherishing him. They have plenty of time to gaze into each other’s eyes and fall ever more deeply in love.

As I watch Marea rest, recover, and enjoy her new baby with no outside obligations, I recognize how wise she and Andrea were to plan ahead for this time. Everything they’re doing is working beautifully. My grandson is a calm and happy baby—secure, content and relaxed. Watching him have the luxury to slowly grow more aware of the world from a loving, well-protected cocoon has been extremely profound and moving for me. It’s a beautiful process that I’ve never witnessed before.

When Marea was born, I felt compelled to reengage with the “real world” as soon as possible, even though it meant pushing through waves of big postpartum emotions and physical discomfort. The concept of taking forty full days to recover and bond with my baby would have been inconceivable to me. Besides having a complicated and fast-growing business that required my attention, I had internalized the values of the society I lived in, always prioritizing productivity over rest or relaxation.

Marea’s entry into the world was harsh for both of us. When she was born in 1990, our local hospital had only recently installed a few birthing rooms on a trial basis. They were assigned to expectant mothers on a first-come, first-served basis, and I wasn’t one of the lucky ones. I was checked into a small labor room where, overwhelmed and fearful, I painfully labored in a hospital bed attached to an IV. When it was time to push, I was stunned to find myself being wheeled through a public hallway, legs in stirrups, covered only with a sheet. I was taken to the to the delivery room—a large, sterile operating room with white, washable walls and big, bright lights. It was obviously designed to handle emergencies, not to make birth a sacred experience.

Despite it all, giving birth to Marea was a glorious, heart-expanding moment. But soon after she was born, we were once again wheeled through a public hallway, this time to a recovery room. A few hours later, we were moved to our fourth room for the night. Drew, my loving, but completely inexperienced husband, was my only steady support throughout all of this, and all he knew how to do was bring me ice chips. We quickly lost count of the number of anonymous caregivers assigned to us, as well as how many times Marea was taken away by one of the nurses to be tested, bathed or warmed. If only I’d known enough to insist on skin-to-skin contact rather than letting her be put in an electric warmer when I was desperately craving to hold her!

There was no internet back then, and most of the information about childbirth Drew and I received came from corporate sponsored pamphlets given to us by our OBGYN, and the book, What to Expect While You’re Expecting. We also took a childbirth class where we were taught the current baby care protocols that we never thought to question, including how to swaddle an infant and the importance of getting our baby used to sleeping alone in her crib right away.

Typical hospital newborn nurseries in the 1960s when Myra was born. Many fathers saw their babies for the first time through the window during viewing hours.

Yet Marea’s birth was far better than my own. In a Brooklyn hospital in 1963, my mother was left to labor alone in a small windowless room while my father nervously paced the hallway. It would be a decade before men began joining their wives during labor, and longer still before they were encouraged to stay for the birth. My mother never nursed me because her doctor strongly discouraged it, and I spent most of my first week far from her arms in the hospital’s newborn nursery while she rested in a separate room—typical protocols for childbirth at that time. Additionally, it was traumatic for my older sister, just thirteen-months old, for her mother to suddenly disappear for so long and then return with a baby. In contrast, when Elián was born, Marea, Andrea and their two older children—Amada and Feliciano—cuddled in bed together almost immediately. Everyone got a chance to hold the new baby and bond with him right away.

As Marea’s mother, I’ve always been proud of her profession. But now, as I witness her and Andrea’s devotion and expertise firsthand with the birth of my new grandson, I have a whole new level of respect and appreciation. I believe that regardless of whether a woman gives birth at home or in a hospital, there is a tremendous amount of wisdom to be learned from midwives that can facilitate deep healing for humanity. Watching my grandson blossom in such a secure, calm and loving environment swells my heart and gives me joy and hope.

Welcome to the world Elián! Your grandma and grandpa love you now and forever.

Birth

Learn more about Marea’s PregnantTogether community!