Moving On

I feel like, in many ways, I’ve been focused on baby for the last two months or so and other things have had to wait until “after.” Well, now it’s “after” and the other things are catching up. We spent last weekend in Edmonton, visiting with old friends, and saying, “No, we don’t live up north anymore, we moved down south to be closer to family, and we’ll be moving again this summer...”

My husband tells people, “She’s going back to school.” I’ve enrolled in a BFA in creative writing, as a second or after-degree (my first degree counts as half the credits for this degree). I can do it part-time and hopefully I’ll be able to work my schedule of classes around my husband’s.

I tell people, “He got into law school.” Into all four schools that he applied to, actually, and then we had to decide which offer to accept. Since only one school offered a creative writing program, the decision wasn’t too hard (other than the fact that it takes us away from family again).

We’ve known since we came here that this place was only a temporary stopping place. Partly because of that, and partly because of work, we haven’t gotten involved in the community here and hardly know anyone. We’re looking forward to starting over and meeting new friends, to getting involved in a church again. And to unpacking all our boxes. I left many things boxed after the last move, and now I’m looking at those boxes that haven’t been opened in a year and wondering what’s in them... and if we really need them.

When I applied for my program, I also applied to student housing, despite the warning that there’s a year-long wait list to get in. This week, they called to say that they had a 2-bedroom townhouse available for us. It’s even an end-unit, like we were hoping, so we only share one wall with other tenants. It’ll be the first place we’ve lived that has stairs; Lily won’t have to practice stairs at everyone else’s house like Sunshine did.

While I dug out the baby stuff before Lily’s birth, I also worked on sorting and decluttering. After three moves in three years, I’m starting to realize how much “stuff” we cart around with us that we don’t really use. I’ll admit that I kept most of my stuffed animals (the girls can play with them someday soon), but I’ve weeded through my books, my clothes, my knickknacks. Some things I just don’t feel like packing and unpacking again.

And so, in a month, we’re moving on...

Best Birth Books

In the last month before Lily was born, as my stress over the doctor/hospital situation went up, I borrowed nearly a dozen books on birth from the library and started researching. I wanted to be informed when we talked to the doctor and I wanted to know as much as I could in order to prepare for the best birth. I thought I had learned a lot before Sunshine’s birth; now I learned even more. Out of the books I read, here are the top three that I think every expecting mom should read.

Rediscovering Birth by Sheila Kitzinger—less a book on how to have a good birth and more a book on birth in general, this was an excellent resource. Sheila is a birth activist who looks at birthing practices around the world and through history. I found this very helpful as it made me question some of our North American practices of birth (the common assumptions we make about how babies come) and be more open to trying something new (like squatting to deliver). I also appreciated the sense that Sheila gave of birth being a natural, womanly process, one that I was uniquely equipped to perform.

Gentle Birth Choices by Barbara Harper—a registered nurse, Barbara talks about the options available to women in today’s medical environment and what choices are the best for mom and baby. She questions the use of some technology, such as electronic fetal monitoring, during birth and shows how simpler can be better. While many of the stats and information in the book are American, I would assume that Canada is very similar. Among the appendices in the back of her book, I found the birth plan I altered to fit what I wanted and gave to the hospital for Lily’s birth. Like Sheila’s book, Barbara’s made me feel good about giving birth.

Ina May’s Guide to Childbirth by Ina May Gaskin—I’ve heard about Ina May Gaskin since seeing the midwives for Sunshine’s birth, but didn’t pick up any of her books until now. In the first half of the book, Ina May tells a host of birth stories—stories radically different from those commonly shown in TV or in mainstream fiction. In the second half of the book, she discusses things she learned as a midwife on a commune in Texas, helping women give birth at home without technology or drugs. Often funny (at some points I was laughing out loud and had to read paragraphs to my husband), very factual, Ina May’s book was a delight to read.

If you are a mom, what books or resources did you find helpful during your pregnancy?

Book Review: Finding Jeena

Miralee Ferrell’s debut novel The Other Daughter was one of the first books that I received for review. I had been reading her blog for quite a while and was very excited to have the chance to review her first book. Since then, I’ve also reviewed her second book, Love Finds You in Last Chance, CA, and interviewed her several times. I was very excited recently to receive my copy of Finding Jeena, the long-awaited sequel to The Other Daughter.

Finding Jeena tells the story of Jeena Gregory, a minor character in The Other Daughter. She’s dating an awesome guy, has a wonderful new job, and is about to move into a new townhouse. Then things start going downhill. Her boyfriend dumps her for a new girl and a new job overseas. Suspicious things start happening at work until they explode in a court case and Jeena loses her job. Unable to find more work, she spirals into alcoholism and depression. When she loses her car and then her townhouse, she ends up at the last place she thought she’d ever be: a local women’s shelter.

At first, I found it hard to relate to Jeena. She’s a hard-working, arrogant career-driven woman who’s a little bit blind to what’s going on around her. She’s also very shallow. As the novel progressed and Jeena had to deal with the consequences of her choices, I began to feel sorry for her and then to like her pluck and determination. Miralee shows us both the best and the worst of a character; things that make Jeena loveable and things that made her less likeable. As I got closer to the end of the book, I found myself reading faster, wanting to know not only what happens to Jeena but also what happens to the friends that she makes at the shelter.

The ending was slightly disappointing. I found Jeena’s unexpected inheritance a bit implausible, a bit too convenient. Just because she has become a Christian and regained some of her money doesn’t mean that everything needs to be handed to her on a silver platter.

Overall, however, Miralee has spun another good story.  Fans of The Other Daughter will be excited to find out more about Jeena.  Perhaps the next book Miralee writes can tell us more about Jeena's friend Tammy and her story.  :)

Woman to Woman

One of the things that stood out to me in reading Rediscovering Birth was how often, in other countries around the world, childbirth becomes a gathering of women—the birthing woman surrounded by her closest friends and family. It seems typical of our North American society that we labour relatively alone; most women I know have only their husbands and perhaps a doula with them, other than the doctor and nurses. And I said that I wanted to birth that way, but I’ve come to appreciate the support of other women during birth.

I spent several hours on the phone with some of my mommy friends in the last week before Lily was born. One of my friends, whose daughter is the same age as Sunshine, has also battled a hospital to have the natural childbirth experience she wanted. We were on the same page about avoiding interventions and so her support and understanding of my stress and fear about what could happen at the hospital were a huge encouragement.

I waffled until the last minute about whether or not to get a doula, feeling at first that she’d be another stranger in the birthing room. The day before I went into labour, I decided another support person would be helpful, and so I called a doula my mother-in-law knew. She was not only available, but extremely excited to be asked to help. While there were times when I laboured alone or pulled into “labour-land,” I knew she and my husband were there, ready to give me support or to offer comfort measures.

My biggest source of support came from a place entirely unexpected: a blog buddy. I first started reading Nat’s blog shortly after I began my own blog. Her daughter is a bit older than Sunshine and we share an interest in natural childbirth, among other things. While my first birth experience was everything I wanted it to be (at the time), Nat’s was everything she didn’t want. When she read about my birth frustrations on my blog and emailed me, I was more than happy to chat. She shared information and advice she had gathered in her birth journey, helping me process my questions and worries and challenging me to demand the birthing experience I wanted.

As my due date approached and I grew more worried about the doctor’s threat to induce, Nat dropped a package in the mail for me. Unfortunately, Lily arrived before the package, which came the Monday after her birth. As I read it, I was moved by her eloquence and thoughtfulness. When she first talked about birthing beads on her blog, I thought “neat but whatever.” Now, as she sent me my own set, I realized how powerful they could be, how much it would have meant to wear them during labour, to have that visual reminder of another woman’s support and prayers during the toughest times of the birthing.

Lily's Birth Story

When the first tightening across my abdomen hit on Friday night, I glanced at the clock, just in case. 4:30 pm. Over the next hour, the cramps were regular enough to keep me hoping it was labour and sporadic enough that I kept forgetting the time of the last one—ten or fifteen minutes apart, and not very strong.

I began gathering the last few things we needed for the birth and finished making supper—bierox. I’d gotten the recipe from Carla’s blog and had been waiting for a day when I had all afternoon to spend in the kitchen. Maybe kneading the bread had helped get labour started.

After supper, my hubby picked up the phone to call his sister about getting together, and I said, “I wouldn’t do that.” He gave me a puzzled look and I added, “We might be in labour.” He hung up the phone. Then he wanted to know how far apart the contractions were. He called his parents to warn them that we might be calling them later. We walked down to check the mail. Contractions were about ten minutes apart.

His parents came when we got back from the mail and picked up Sunshine. After they left, we checked our email and Facebook. My hubby’s oldest buddy called and asked, “You’re still pregnant?” I said, “Yep,” grinning. Not for long now!

He talked to my husband for an hour or so while I read and wrote in my journal, pacing whenever a contraction hit. When they got off the phone, I called my doula to tell her we were in labour. Around 9:00 pm, I called her again to say she should come, since she had a forty-five minute drive. Then we watched Mythbusters while timing contractions.

After the doula arrived, we went for another walk. It was a beautiful summer evening; the sky was full of stars that we could just barely see past the streetlights. We chatted lightly, getting to know each other. By the time we got back, contractions were getting stronger and closer. My husband put our bags in the car and asked me a dozen times if we needed anything else. The doula braided my hair, rubbed my back, tried to help me relax through contractions. I thought about how I’d wanted this to get started and now I just wanted it over.

Just before midnight, my contractions were three minutes apart and very strong. We decided to head for the hospital. I had a contraction in the car just before we got there, another as we walked into Emergency, and another while we talked to the receptionist. She had a long list of questions for us before we could go into the room.

Once in the room, the nurse wanted to hook me up to the EFM, and I was trying to explain that Dr. O had said I could pass on it when the doula reminded me of my birth plan. She found it for the nurses and they used just the Doppler to get the baby’s heartbeat.

When the nurse did an exam, she said I was only 1 cm dilated. I was disappointed. When we’d gotten to the hospital for Sunshine’s birth, I’d already been 6 cm along. I wondered if moving from home to the hospital had made me close up again. I paced through a few more contractions, then asked to get into the shower. Perhaps the water would help my body relax and open. The nurse wanted to put an IV in first, but couldn’t find my vein; finally, after several contractions, she got the needle into my hand, wrapped it up in a plastic bag, and I climbed into the warm water.

My husband and the doula were back to timing contractions, so I had to yell at them each time one started or ended. Then the nurse had more questions for me—was I allergic to anything? Had I been sick lately? Finally the water wasn’t helping anymore, so I got out again. I felt like things were taking longer than they had with Sunshine, especially when the nurse did another exam and I was only 5 cm. The second baby was supposed to be easier, and it wasn’t.

For a while, I rocked on the ball or leaned on my husband through the contractions. They began getting stronger and I began howling through them—Ina May Gaskin or somebody had said there was a connection between the openings of the body. Between contractions, I dropped into the big recliner and zoned out. I tried to relax, to focus on the baby, to think about opening so the baby could move down. I asked Mother Mary and Saint Brigid (patron saint of midwives and babies) to pray for me, Jesus to be with the baby.

Then two contractions came back to back and I thought, “No, you can’t do this to me! I need a break!” The nurses told me focus and the doula told me to breathe calmly. I had my break after that contraction and with the next one I wanted to push. I mumbled that to the nurses and they called the doctor. They told me to get up on the bed and not to push yet. I had reached down to see how things were going, and I thought, “How am I supposed to get up there with a bag of water between my legs?” Between the next contractions, I managed to climb up and my waters broke.

Then, as the nurses scrambled around to find the squatting bar and get into their gowns, I had to push. My doula told me to blow, to focus on her, and everyone yelled “don’t push yet” and I tried not to but my body was pushing anyways. The bar never made it into place; I turned around and, hanging onto the doula and my husband, kept trying not to push while the nurse who had never managed to get gowned began to deliver the baby.

I remembered the burning ring of fire, but when they said the head was out, I was surprised. Then came the order not to push again while she checked the baby’s head; and when they said push, I couldn’t. Somehow, I mustered enough strength and muscle to give that last push, and the baby slithered, purple and wet, onto the bed.

As they rubbed her down, I tried to sit and said, “Let me hold her. Let me hold her.” She wailed and flailed her arms and finally she was clean enough that the nurses let me pick her up. She calmed immediately and the nurses kept rubbing her down and waited until the doctor came before cutting the cord. He was concerned about my bleeding, but the nurses told him I’d declined the oxytocin shot unless necessary, and he agreed to see if the bleeding would stop on its own. Dr. O had gone on holidays and told us that Dr. N would be covering for her, but this was a Dr. V, a tall man with a Dutch accent.

They wrapped us up in warm blankets and I tried to get Lily to nurse. Dr. V stitched me up and then, while my husband took Lily, I went for a shower. It was quick, as I was tired. Finally both of us were tucked into the bed, clean and wrapped in warm blankets, for a much-needed rest. Lily arrived exactly one week after her due date, just before 5 am on Saturday morning, at seven pounds and fourteen ounces—just a bit bigger than her big sister had been.

Watching Pixie Lamb

Darkness still blanketed my room when a hand began shaking my shoulder.  Blinking, I peered up at Dad and mumbled "What?"  It had to be before 6 am—entirely too early to be waking up.  But as I tried to roll over, he kept shaking my shoulder and said I had to get up.  He'd be waiting downstairs.

Reluctantly, I climbed out of my warm bed, threw on a few clothes, and stumbled down the stairs, trying to figure out what might be the cause of this early morning waking.  Only when I saw Dad in the entry, his shoes and coat on, did a thought penetrate my sleepy brain.  Pixie.

I slipped on my shoes, grabbed my coat, and we were out the door.  I wanted to run, to dash back to Pixie's shed, but kept my pace to Dad's steady walk.  As we got out to the sheep pen and through the gate, I saw that he'd moved a panel across the front of Pixie's shed.  We stopped there, leaning over the panel.  Pixie was skinny, her previously barrel-shaped sides now sunken, and she was busy licking off a tiny, wobbly white lamb.  She barely acknowledged our presence as her tongue zapped in and out, in and out, cleaning the wet and dirt from the lamb who was trying to find her feet and get to some milk.

That was Pixie's first lamb and as I wait around for my baby, I find my thoughts turning to her sometimes.  We never knew Pixie's "due dates" and didn't worry about when she'd lamb (sometime about five months after we introduced her to the ram). We never weighed her or measured her; in fact, it was hard to even tell that she was pregnant until we sheared her three-inch coat of wool off every spring.  With each year that she lambed, I got better at recognizing the little cues she gave before she had her lambs; she usually turned irritable, even towards me, and wanted to be left alone.

She lambed at night for the first two or three lambs.  After that first year, Dad didn't worry about checking her as much when she was lambing; she'd proven she could do it easily.  In the third or fourth year that she lambed, she did so in the morning and I watched—trying to stay discretely out of the way—as she lay down, got up, turned around, walked back and forth, lay down, panted, got up, moved around until the lamb came.  She just did it.  And it was amazing to watch.

Sometimes, as we talk about heading to the hospital, I wish that my birth experiences could be as simple and easy as Pixie's.  That, like her, I'd just know what to do and when to do it.  And that, like her, I'd be left alone and given the freedom to just birth this baby.

Book Review: Sing

Sing is the second book in author Lisa T. Bergren's series The Homeward Trilogy, which follows the fortunes of three siblings: Nic, Odessa, and Moira St. Clair.  I haven't read the first book, but Bergren provided enough background—without overwhelming the reader—that it was easy to follow the story and to guess at what had transpired to the siblings in the previous book.

Nic is fighting for his living in South America when he gets shanghaied onto a ship.  It soon becomes apparent that God is chasing Him and using any means to get his attention, from shipwrecks to a preaching seaman.  Nic, however, is on the run, angry at God for the loss of his younger brothers.

Moira is at the top of her career as an opera singer in France—until her manager steals all her money and her opera house closes its doors.  Left broke, with no prospects in Europe, she catches a ship for America and a new audience.  On the way, she meets Gavin, a charming, cunning man who promises her a new stage and a new fortune.  As they work their way across America, it seems that all of Gavin's promises are coming true... until they reach Colorado and everything falls apart.

Odessa is happily settled on a ranch in Colorado with her husband and her baby son, but troubles are facing the ranch.  As Odessa and her husband Bryce differ on what to do about their problems, Bryce's brother arrives at the ranch to help—and causes problems of his own.  Then the St. Clair's arch-enemy arrives at the ranch, bent on revenge against the family that put him in prison for four years.

Bergren spins a good story, with realistic characters and rich settings.  I found myself wondering what would happen with each of the siblings and how they would be reunited.  All three of them face struggles, emotionally, physically, and spiritually, and Bergren gives them no easy answers.  While faith is real for Odessa, both Nic and Moira have cast it aside, and Bergren allows them to struggle with their tough questions about faith.  Overall, Sing was a quick, easy read that leaves a few questions to be tied up in Claim, the last book of the trilogy.

Waiting for Baby

Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

My uncle called on Thursday night, just to see if the baby had come yet. He was hanging out in the city while his girlfriend was at a course. I told him we weren’t quite at due date yet and baby was still waiting. I’d barely hung up on him when my father-in-law called to check on baby’s status. My in-laws are watching Sunshine when the baby comes, so he wanted to tell us that they’d be out for a few hours but had their cell phone if we went into labour.

On Friday, we had another appointment with Dr. O, who checked everything and said that baby’s head is low but I’m not dilating yet. She was eyeing the calendar, as she’s going on holidays the next weekend, and is already talking induction if baby isn’t here by a certain time. I’d walk Lake Minnewanka all over again before I agreed to an induction, so baby and I are having some serious talks here. (Prayers that baby listens would be appreciated.)

On Saturday (the official due date), we went into the city to run a few errands. I dropped by Starbucks to chat with a few co-workers, who were all amazed that I was out and about on my due date. My hubby got an estimate for new tires for our Jeep at Walmart. We went to church. Had supper at DQ because we had coupons there. Walked the mall. No baby yet.

Yesterday, my mom arrived. She’s here for three days to “help,” though I’m trying to think of what we’ll do if baby doesn’t show up. Maybe we’ll finish painting the closet door in the hallway or go for coffee lots or take more long walks. She’s only here for three days, though, so again, I’m talking to baby. If he or she wants to meet Grandma D before she leaves (or to arrive today and give her a big birthday present), well then...

Waiting, I think, is the hardest. I’m trying to remember if I was this impatient with Sunshine. Oh, I know that something like only 5% of babies are born on their due date, so it doesn’t really matter that Sunshine was. Perhaps it’s just because I’ve spent the last month immersed in baby and birthing information—reading and writing and reading and talking and reading and thinking—and so I’m ready to just do it.

A Phone Fascination

Sometimes I wonder how Sunshine developed such an interest in phones, when I don’t think that I spend an unusual amount of time on phones myself (I’m more likely to email than to call someone). Then I see her little friends playing with phones just as much as she does; it must be a baby fascination with sounds and buttons that cause sounds.

For a while, it was safe to let her play with our cell phone, as she couldn’t press the buttons hard enough or figure out how to turn it on. Flipping it open and closed kept her entertained. Then, one night after she’d been playing with our cell phone quietly in her car seat, we got home to find thirteen soundless messages on the answering machine. At least she was calling home instead of, say, my brother (as had apparently happened before). That was the end of cell phone use for Sunshine.

Shortly after we moved south, my husband was exploring the shops in our new small town with Sunshine and discovered the free toy bin at the thrift store. The pink toy cell phone, complete with working buttons and batteries, was too good of a deal to pass up. For the next few weeks, we listened to Sunshine’s phone ringing, beeping, and saying “Hello” and “Please leave a message.” It fell apart and I taped it back together again, which silenced the speakers somewhat. Recently, the tape failed; we were again driving when we turned around to find out why Sunshine had been quiet for so long. She was merrily dismantling her phone, and this time it was too far for repair. (Maybe she’ll turn into an electrician.)

When my aunt and I took Sunshine to the zoo, she was interested in a few of the animals. More interesting were the “phones” at strategic locations along the path, where she could pick up the ear piece, push a button and listen to the announcer tell her about the animal that she wasn’t watching.

Lately, I’ve noticed that Sunshine plays pretend with her phone, actually talking into it (“yeah... um... ahahahahaha!... yeah... yeah...”) instead of just listening to it. I’m starting to wonder if I have that many funny phone conversations, because she seems to spend a lot of time laughing into her phone. It’s fascinating to see what she picks up on and repeats or pretends.

Earlier this week, my mother-in-law and I wandered into the thrift store to look for a few things. Sunshine was soon busy among the toys while we looked at kitchen things. Just as we found our items and got ready to go, Sunshine found the toy phone—one of those classic ones with wheels that the kid can pull behind them, with the wobbly eyes and the nice “bring bring bring” when you hit the buttons. Perfect, I thought, knowing her fascination with both phones and pull toys.

I’m just hoping that this phone fascination is a phase that will pass and that she won’t turn into one of those teenagers who spends hours talking on her phone...

Movie Review: A History of Christianity

When we lived up north, my husband was teaching religion classes to kids who had little or no background of Christianity, much less Catholicism. One way to bridge the gap between what they knew and what they needed to know to follow the curriculum was to find movies that told the stories. We watched several different movies about the early Christian church and various Bible stories. So when I saw Diarmaid MacCulloch’s A History of Christianity: The First Three Thousand Years, I thought, “What does he have to share about it?”

MacCulloch starts the movie by telling how he’s always been fascinated by beautiful old churches. He explores many old churches, starting in Jerusalem with the early churches, and following the spread of the Church from there into the East. While we usually think of Christianity as a western religion, it actually had better success spreading east at first because of the persecution in the Roman Empire.

While much of the movie felt like watching a tour guide’s slide show, as MacCulloch went from place to place, he also delved into the history. Several early church councils were briefly mentioned, along with the controversies and splits they caused among the Church. MacCulloch also talked about how politics influenced the spread of Christianity—in the west, Christianity became a state religion, while in the east it never did.

As we watched the movie, I found myself wondering if MacCulloch was a Christian or not. It may seem a moot point, but to me it changes how he tells the story. Is he merely curious, interested in historical facts and details, or is this personal, a search for a deeper understanding of his own faith? That question was never answered in the scope of the movie, which was factual but at times a bit cursory—more details would have been nice. It also felt like some details were overlooked; for example, MacCulloch claims to follow the church east, and mentioned India once, but never talks about the church in India.

Overall, Episode 1: The First Christianity was a quick, one-hour commentary on the early church that would work just as well as a radio program, since the visuals add little to what MacCulloch was talking about or were even distracting. Some of the facts and information shared were new; others were common knowledge. It is only the first of a six-part series, so perhaps the next parts will build on and add to what was begun in this episode.

Movie provided for review courtesy of The B&B Media Group.

Thoughts About Birth

As I’ve prepared for this birth by reading, writing, and thinking, I’ve come to realize that I have a long list of things that I don’t want to happen during labour. I don’t want any electronic fetal monitoring or vaginal examinations. I don’t want an epidural (or any other pain relief) or an episiotomy. I don’t want to receive IV treatment for GBS. I don’t want to deliver laying flat on my back. I don’t want a shot of oxytocin after the baby comes and I don’t want the placenta to be pulled out of my body. I don’t want the cord cut immediately and I don’t want the baby to receive eye drops or to be taken away from me for very long.

More than that, I don’t want to be confined to a tiny, strange room; to be examined, poked and prodded by strange people; to be told that such things must happen within such time limits. I don’t want more people than necessary at the birth, and when I think of a doula, on top of the doctor and nurse who’ll already be there, I think “no.” That’s another stranger, another person peering at me, another person within my space.

Birth is a private, intimate experience. In the latter stages of my first labour, I pulled into myself, into a dark place in my head where I could ignore the strangers around me, the ignominy of being naked and exposed, and simply focus on my body and my baby.

I gave birth to Sunshine flat on my back, despite the fact that in the months and days leading up to that birth, I thought that squatting would be the best position. When the time came, however, the midwife said “lay down” and I did. As I think about that, I realize that I dislike questioning authority. I’m used to doing as I’m told. So that even when I toured this hospital, with the intention of grilling staff to see if they would agree to all the things that I didn’t want to happen in this birth, I found myself unable to ask those questions.

I did finally meet Dr. O and she seems very nice—young, black, female. She shuddered when I mentioned episiotomies, reluctantly agreed to let me birth in any position I wanted (she said if I lay flat on my back, it’s easiest for her; I don’t really care what’s easiest for her—I’m the one pushing this baby out and laying flat on my back is NOT easiest for me), but was a bit more hesitant about avoiding the oxytocin shot (why are doctors so reluctant to let things happen naturally and to intervene only if necessary?).

When I think of the hospital, I think of all the things that I must fight for in order to have the birth experience that I want—the birth that I feel is best for both myself and my baby. And I know two things: number one, fighting is not going to help labour go well, and number two, I won’t fight. “Don’t rock the boat” is too ingrained in me and labour is not the time to be trying to explain to the doctor or nurses that in my research I found that... and thus I want...

So what do I want? I want to give birth in a quiet, comfortable place, where I can be relaxed and at peace instead of fearful or pressured; I want to trust my body and its ability to do what God created it to do to bring this baby into the world; I want to be free to labour wherever and in whatever position feels right at the time, and to deliver in whatever position feels right; and I want to catch my baby, to be the first to touch and hold him or her.

That’s what I want from this birth.