I’ve been a freelance writer for about a dozen years and have written for pretty much every women’s magazine out there. Before kids, I used to write a lot for Marie Claire. I pitched every one of my stories — that is, I came up with the idea, wrote it up, and it was approved and assigned by the editors. One of the ideas came about after a friend had her first baby. Afterward, she confided, she was having problems. Any time she laughed, coughed, or ran, she leaked urine. I did research for her and realized that her pelvic floor muscles were probably stretched out or damaged from pushing for more than three hours. It was a story, I decided, and I pitched it to my Marie Claire editor. Here’s an excerpt from the letter (yes, an actual snail mail letter since my editor wanted to see clips, too) I wrote:

Thank you for taking a look at my pitch on vaginal strength and gynecological physical therapy, which I sent to you today via e-mail. As I mentioned in my e-mailed pitch, the researchers I’ve spoken to such as Dr. Lauri Romanzi, a uro-gynecologist at Cornell University-New York Presbyterian Hospital say American women are missing out because few know that their vaginal problems can be solved using directed Kegels, biofeedback, and other physical therapy methodologies. This leads to needless suffering just because doctors and most media outlets are squeamish about the topic. I’d love to be the one that breaks down these barriers and helps let Marie Claire readers in on the secret.

Completely crappy letter, but hey, I was just a wet-behind-the-ears kid. But I digress as usual. The story was assigned, but not exactly in the way I envisioned. The title of my story morphed from “Get a Stronger Pelvic Floor,” to “Best Orgasm Ever!” You can read it here. There’s still advice and info that stands the test of time. The testers were two of my karate pals and me, of course. And I got to go into Dr. Glazer’s New York City office, get uro-dynamic testing, and take home a vaginal biofeedback machine. It was fairly awesome. (I remember being very offended that I was “strong” but lacked “endurance.” In layman terms, my pelvic floor muscles were strong, but got tired quickly.)

Anyway, fast forward a half a dozen years and I was pregnant with my second child — you know, after my first child that weighed in at 8 pounds, 5 ounces at birth and who has a giant head. I got the flu. Twice. I had HUGE issues. Every time I coughed, I leaked. (Sorry for that TMI.) I blogged about it. Anyone who is having similar issues should definitely read that post, Whiz Bang, You’re Wet (Or How Not to Pee Your Pants).

As my story and the book, The Bathroom Key, show, there are millions of women suffering with urinary incontinence but they don’t have to be. There are treatments and exercises and help available. You just have to be willing to talk about a problem that could seem a little embarrassing. In this case I think we as women need to take a page from men. They are more than willing to go into their doctors’ offices and tell them about weak urine streams and erectile dysfunction. Why should we be afraid of talking about a little leaky urine?

Have you ever had a problem with bladder incontinence or any other pelvic floor issues? Did you seek help? How did that go for you? I’d like to know.

And I really, really LOVED the fact that you suggested talking to my doctor if he or she brings up an early childbirth. LOVED the questions you included in the letter to ask him or her before agreeing to be induced or sectioned. I’ve taken the liberty to copy the questions below:

• Is there a problem with my health or my baby’s health?
• Can I wait to have my baby until I am closer to 39 weeks?
• Why do I need to induce my labor or have a C-section?
• Will inducing labor increase my chances of a C-section?

Fan-freaking-tastic! Doctors should have to own up to the fact that they have a wedding or vacation or just don’t like getting out of bed in the middle of the night. They should have to admit that, for the most part, induction and C-sections are just easier for them. They don’t have to deal with missed time in the office or having to leave home early or late or miss their kids’ soccer games. Induction, to be sure, is a process of convenience. Bravo for you, Empire Blue Cross, for actually letting women in on the secret that they are in charge of their own bodies and their own care. (WE ARE, and if we don’t realize this, we SHOULD!)

Oh, and the detailed drawing that shows the difference between a baby’s brain at 35 weeks versus what it looks like at 39 to 40 weeks? Well, that’s just genius. I also liked that you tell women straight out that it’s important to wait until at least 39 weeks because organs are still growing and the ability to suck and swallow is still developing. All in all, it was really smart of you Empire Blue Cross, my insurance provider, to team up with the March of Dimes except for one small problem: I miscarried on August 29th. I have to be honest: My heart actually hurt a little when I opened your envelope.

People, people! Email marketing is really not that difficult. I write about it several times a month for one of my oldest and favorite clients, Crain’s BtoB. You are both large organizations with plenty of marketing cash. You should have some kind of database updating methodology that takes people like me off your lists. I know you didn’t do it on purpose, but wow, that was sucky. Invest in some marketing automation software or a better list management program.

In the meantime, keep up the good work. I can say that even though I am still very, very sad about my lost baby, I am so proud and happy to see that we’re finally on our way to a place where pregnancy and birth aren’t medical conditions, and women are let in on the fact that they — not their doctors — should be driving the way their babies are born.

Best, –KB

The miscarriage was so horrific that I had my husband rush me to the ER. I sat there in the middle of the night stanching the blood with a big, fluffy towel, trying to remain calm in front of my kids, who were sleepy yet questioning sitting in the backseat.

There was so much blood, so many clots. I was terrified. During the seven hours I was at the ER, my hemoglobin dropped from 14 to 10. I was given three bags of fluids and had two open IVs in case they needed to give me blood. That’s how bad it was. Still, when I went home I was able to relax a bit since the clots had stopped and it looked like the “products of conception,” as the doctors so nicely put it, had been evacuated. The horrible, painful sonogram done by the evil (IMHO) sono tech found just clots left inside. I would continue passing them, said the doctor, who told me to follow up with my office and see a doctor — not my midwife.

Okay, so I called my office, telling them what the practice’s covering ER doctor told me. I showed up for my 2 p.m. appointment yesterday and — what’s this? — I’m told I am seeing the midwife, who I love, but is obviously not a medical doctor. I balk, but stick around. What else can I do? They send me into the sono room. I can see there are still dark patches inside, which are clots, the sono tech says. Is that bad, I ask. The tech tells me I have to talk to my midwife, but that clots can sometimes be passed on their own or reabsorbed by the body. Okay. So I go and talk to my midwife who tells me that she wants me to take Cytotec. (I find out later that this is simply one drug company’s brand name for misoprostol, a synthetic prostaglandin E1.) She wants me to take 200 mg every six hours for five days. It will cause contractions — “heavy contractions” — that will expel the last of the debris from my uterus. Oh, and it might make me bleed “a lot.”

I’m already feeling woozy from my lack of hemoglobin. I really don’t want to bleed heavy again, so I go home and start doing research. First thing I find is that what my midwife has prescribed is an off-label use for Cytotec, which is only approved by the FDA for the treatment of ulcers. I also find a treatment guideline that suggests, for an incomplete abortion (another way to say incomplete miscarriage), the dosage should be one 600 mg dose. The closest thing I see on that treatment guidelines related to my dose is for a “missed abortion,” which is basically when the baby stops growing but bleeding has not occurred. In that case, the dosage is 200 mg every six hours for two days. Hmmm. The whole heavy bleeding thing is freaking me out so much that I call over to the office asking for clarification. I explain what I’ve read, and how I know this is an off-label use of the drug, meaning it isn’t approved by the FDA. The girl who answers the phone puts me on hold and comes back with the following message from my midwife: “Diane says that she gave you the dosage she gave you, and if you aren’t comfortable with that then maybe this isn’t the practice for you.”

I am crushed. I am blown away. How could my midwife dismiss me this way? This is someone who gave me her cell number when we were waiting for a heartbeat. She was going away, but wanted me to text her when I got the results. Someone who hugged me when I was scared because my husband was less-than-thrilled about the pregnancy. I love her as much for the way she’s taken care of me this pregnancy as I did for her championing for me back when I was giving birth to Little Girl. I am hurt and scared and feel like I am being dismissed because I dared question her medical authority. Not one to slink away and just do what someone says without getting an answer to my questions, I called over to the main office. (This is a big practice with offices all over Long Island.) I speak to the patient care woman, who used to work with my husband at his old job. I tell her the whole story, even emailing her the links I read and she promises me that the doctor I saw in the hospital will call me back that night. She never did. I went to bed heartbroken and feeling very alone.

This morning I called back to the practice again. Kathy, the woman I originally spoke with, avoids my calls. I get Regina, one of the desk people on the phone. Regina, who has been there every step of the way with this pregnancy so she knows the deal. She tells me that the medical director wants me to come in. Is he going to do another sono or an exam, I ask her, because if he’s just having me come to chat I’d rather pay my $20 co-pay and just talk to him on the phone. I am still lightheaded, and don’t have someone to drive me to Garden City during rush hour. (And sit around the two hours I know it’s going to take to actually see this guy. The practice is notorious for making people wait and wait and WAIT.) She tells me to try and find a ride.

In between calls I reach out to another practice and spoke to a nurse. She is puzzled as to why I am getting Cytotec because I am still bleeding. “Your body is trying to expel what’s left. Why are they giving you anything yet?” We agree I am going to come in tomorrow to see the doctor there — the doctor, which is what I was told to see in the first place.

Okay, so I make a half-hearted attempt to get a ride. Anyone I would have asked has their own issues today. Work, sick children, etc. So I call back and tell Regina that I can’t get a ride, and that I will be getting a second opinion tomorrow at another practice. But I still want the results of my blood tests. Has my hemoglobin gone down more? She tells me she will try and get the results, and she will report in to the medical director about what I said. And that’s that. I am waiting for my results.

This has been a horrific summer. The pregnancy was a shock, but one that I was very, very happy about once my husband got on board. (He was initially scared and upset.) Still, as happy as I was, I never let myself get too excited about the pregnancy. I never expressed happiness at midwife appointments. First, there was no fetal pole. Then the heartbeat was slow when we did see one. I went through this once before, and I was heartbroken when I miscarried. This time, the emotional pain was worse. I haven’t cried so hard or so long as the night they told me the heartbeat stopped. I wanted that baby with all my heart and soul, but I think I knew from the start it was not meant to be.

Right now, the fact that my once-loving, caring, fabulous midwife has dismissed me for asking simple questions — and the fact that she couldn’t even be bothered to get on the phone with me to do it herself — is also breaking my heart. As someone who has issues with the whole area down below it takes a lot for me to trust someone. It’s pretty easy to dash that trust into little pieces, and that’s exactly what’s happened here.

Anyway, I didn’t write about my pregnancy earlier in the summer because I figured I’d never write about a miscarriage if it did happen, and I’m of the wait until the second trimester to share camp anyway. I probably would have stuck to my initial inclination if my midwife and medical practice had treated me with the respect and care I deserve as a woman, a customer, and a human being. The lesson, of course, is that we still have a LONG way to go before medical personnel get that patients are CUSTOMERS and PEOPLE. We are not a number on a chart or “a case,” as I was called this afternoon while talking to Regina. It sucks I have to find another doctor, but there are plenty of gynecologists and midwives out there. There has to be someone who will see me as more than just a co-pay. I just have to find her.

Note to anyone who knows me and is reading this missive: Some of you know what’s going on. I told my close friends when I got the bad news that the baby died. Those who didn’t know: Don’t talk to me about it and don’t talk to anyone else about it. If I didn’t tell you personally, I don’t want to talk to you about it. I don’t know how to say that more nicely, so I will just leave it at that.

It may not be beautiful, but I wear it with pride.

While I was pregnant with Big Girl one of the things I was most afraid of was stretch marks. I knew my skin was a candidate. When I was in my early 20s, I gained 40 pounds and soon after the insides of my thighs sported purple yet translucent marks. What would pregnancy do to me, I wondered.

As soon as I got a positive pregnancy test, I did lots and lots of research on the topic. (A side effect of being a journalist.) I found out that there’s not much you can do to prevent stretch marks. Even those women who don’t gain a lot can end up with a tummy filled with white lines. I did, however, find one promising study about a product only approved for use in Europe. The product, according to the research, prevented stretch marks — big time. I had to have it. My husband, who was working at a large, worldwide company, contacted one of his colleagues in Spain asking him if he would pick up a tube for me. That man, bless his heart, went out and bought me two tubes of the stuff, which I religiously smeared all over my belly twice a day for ten months. (It fit right in with my Natural As Possible theme since it’s mostly herbal extracts and vitamin E.) It worked — to a point. After I gave birth I noticed a tiny stretch mark on my right hip. I dubbed it my Big Girl Tattoo, and proudly showed it off to anyone who would look.

When I got pregnant with Little Girl, my husband had recently quit his job, so I went out on the Internet for my European anti-stretch mark cream fix, buying it from a website written totally in Spanish. (Thank goodness for Google Translate!) Again, I slathered the stuff everywhere. Again, I escaped the fate of many of my friends. The bulk of my belly was fine, but that tiny Big Girl tattoo? Well, it got a little bigger. And wider. And you know what? I am surprisingly okay with it.

It’s a daily reminder of the absolutely amazing work that I did mentally, physically, and emotionally having my babies. Mentally, I was able to get past some pretty difficult eating issues. In fact, I’d even venture to say that my pregnancy cured me of my eating disorder. Even before I felt a single kick I realized that I could never forgive myself if I died because I was trying to be thin. I would never want to leave my kids because I was too vain. (It probably helped that I was smart enough to see a therapist for my entire pregnancy both times around.)

Physically, well, I have documented my birth stories pretty well, but I have never done anything so amazing than those days when I pushed those kids out of me. And emotionally, well, those kids change me every single day. They just do. I am forever grateful for them and for that.

Before I had kids I was big into karate. (That’s me. I don’t do anything without going big.) I took my black belt test three times, failing twice because I was pregnant and once because I just wasn’t good enough. I always said I was going to get a tattoo on my ankle to celebrate achieving my black belt goal. Now, when I look at my hip I realize I have nothing left to prove. Getting that black belt would feel nice, but it’s not going to change me as a person. I am a mother. I am a warrior with a non-quitting spirit every day of my life, and my baby tattoo reminds me of that every single day.

How did your pregnancy (or your partner’s pregnancy) change her body? How did you deal with that? I’d like to know.

Little Girl inside my tummy. May, 2008. Sigh.

Last night I went to spin class and the woman spinning next to me was pregnant. It took me back three years ago when I was that person making sure I was drinking enough and feeling my baby kick to the beat. (Big Girl used to sleep in my belly during the classes. Little Girl was awake and dancing, I think!)

Little things like that remind me how much I love being a mom, and how much I would love to be a mom of three. In fact, it’s times like those that I sometimes feel a visceral pull on my heart. Normally, I love my family, and wouldn’t change a thing, but every once in a while my heart reminds me about how much I’d like to have one more child. As crazy as my life is, as busy as we are, I know I could handle a third.

Sure, I am aware of the fact that I am not an easy pregnant person, and that I have medical issues that might make a third pregnancy dangerous. I don’t even know if I could conceive and carry a third, but the desire is there.

My husband is set, though. He loves having two kids. He’s not interested at all in having a third. As much as I try and tell him how much fun it was/is being one of three, and how maybe this time he’d get a boy, he doesn’t care. He loves having daughters, he says, and as an only child he’s often overwhelmed by the noise and confusion that two children bring. Not even the prospect of going to Islanders games or having a little second mate on our boat are enough to sway him. His girls will go to hockey games with him, he says. His girls will learn to drive the boat.

Sometimes I lie in bed and think about the baby that I lost through a late miscarriage. I think about how he or she would be in the last year of preschool. I wonder if I would be having the same regrets or desire for another if that child had been born. Maybe this is all hormonal — not real. But right now at this time in this place it feels very, very real.

Are you happy with your family size? I’d love to hear about it.

I’ll give you the quick and dirty summary. Researchers think that triclosan interferes with estrogen sulfotransferase, an enzyme that is linked to the metabolism of estrogen. Estrogen that’s supposed to move through the placenta and help the baby grow. Estrogen that plays a “crucial” role in brain development and the regulation of genes, and helps regulate the amount of oxygen that gets through to the developing fetus.

From the report: “We suspect that makes this substance dangerous in pregnancy if enough of the triclosan gets through to the placenta to affect the enzyme,” said James, a professor and chairwoman of medicinal chemistry in the UF College of Pharmacy. “We know for sure it is a very potent inhibitor. What we don’t know is the kinds of levels you would have to be exposed to to see a negative effect. We know it is a problem, but we don’t know how much of a problem. We need to move forward and do additional studies.”

And the Food and Drug Administration’s response? You know, the FDA that in April said it would be taking another look at triclosan. (Even as other countries and entire continents ban the chemical. The European Union, for example, put a complete ban on Triclosan — anything that might come in contact with food — that goes into effect as of 2011.) Crickets, baby. Crickets. Not a word. Even after earlier this year the Natural Resources Defense Council (NRDC) said it was suing the FDA.

For more than a year I have reported on almost every single triclosan-related event. Every new study. Every annoying fact and figure. And we’re still in a holding pattern. Yeah, I know there are far more important things going on now, but it’s TIME that we step up and contact our FDA and tell them how we feel. How do I feel? It’s time to join the rest of the world and make it impossible for triclosan to cross a placenta. We need our government to protect us. Now! Not sure why? Read one of my first blog posts to learn more.

Want to get involved? You can contact the FDA directly. Check out this link for phone and email info. You should also contact your local congressperson. Here’s a link where you input your state and Zip code. We are the only ones who can affect change. Remember, the chemical lobby spends MILLIONS every year to keep things the way they are. But WE are the ones who vote people in or out of office. We do have power. We do.

The nutritionist spend about an hour or so with me during our first meeting. We discussed the food I liked, the food I didn’t, and what the growing baby inside of me needed. Not just calories, but also calcium, vitamins, protein, and essential nutrients. Then, based on my height and weight, she gave me a target calorie goal. I would be journaling my food intake every day, writing down exactly how much iron, for example, I was taking in, how much protein, how much fiber (to help ward off constipation), how much folic acid, how much good fat. I was charged with a huge responsibility: Take in enough good stuff to help that little baby grow. I took it very seriously.

I ate real, whole food. Lots of lean meat, cheeses, vegetables. I ate a protein bar every day. (They were super-yummy chocolate raspberry bars.) I ate yogurt. Almost everything was organic. If I ate something sweet it was made with real sugar — no artificial anything. At the end of my pregnancy I had only gained 19 pounds. It seemed to be the right prescription, though. Big Girl was born a week late at 8 pounds, 5 ounces. I went home with only ten pounds to lose. It came off that first month. So what’s the point of this story? Who cares?

Well, according to a recent study by Janet Currie, a health economist at Columbia University, and Dr. David S. Ludwig of Children’s Hospital Boston, women who gain too much weight during pregnancy may be setting their kids up for obesity in adulthood. A scary thought — that overeating during pregnancy can make your kid fat. The New York Times has a great story about this study and others. It talks about the recommended guidelines for weight gain — typically much less than most people gain. It’s not happening, though. Very few people stay within the recommended range. Pregnancy is now a free-for-all, with many women eating hot fudge sundaes every night and chocolate chip muffins for breakfast with snacks of candy in between. (And many end up with too-large babies and gestational diabetes and all sorts of health complications.)

It could be so easy to say women are just selfish gluttons. But that would be too easy, and not the real reason, I think, that women are getting so fat during pregnancy. I think the problem stems from our society’s ideals that say people — women in particular — should be super-skinny. Most aren’t, of course, but most of us try to get or stay slim. When you’re pregnant and this no longer applies, your mindset shifts. I have several friends who were size 2 before they got pregnant and who gained 40, 50, or even 60 pounds over the course of 10 months. They have been subsiding on next to nothing pre-baby and so when they were told, “Make sure you’re eating enough for the baby,” they went nuts. Who wouldn’t want to eat everything you’ve been denied for months and years? Heck, if I didn’t go into pregnancy with a nutritionist in my corner who knows how much I would have gained?

For me, though, I couldn’t eat all those “bad” foods because I was so focused on the nutrition. In fact, I think my healthy gain can be linked back to the protein and iron goals I had. Sure, I could meet my caloric needs eating five bowls of ice cream, but in order to hit 40 grams of protein, I had to be eating enough meat, hummus, beans, and soynut butter to make that number. Same went for iron. I have always been slightly anemic because I am not a red meat eater. So every morning I started my day with a big bowl of Cream of Wheat. I also ate broccoli, beans, and spinach. I am not exaggerating when I say after hitting all my nutrient goals some nights I felt quite literally stuffed. I couldn’t have chowed down on brownies if I wanted to. I didn’t have the room in my stomach.

I’m not sure why pregnancy isn’t seen as more of a collaborative health condition. I don’t know why, for example, every woman doesn’t get to meet with a nutritionist and a therapist after seeing their doctor or midwife. I can tell you that, as someone who went through it not once but twice, it was really nice having lots of different supporters in my corner. And that cream of wheat really is a great way to start the day.

How much weight did you or your spouse gain during pregnancy? Were you happy with your gain? Would you do anything differently? BTW: This post is how I am participating this week in Real Food Wednesdays and Fight Back Fridays — two awesome campaigns to get people eating real food again.

Billy Joel was playing Shea Stadium — concerts that were being billed as the “last play at Shea” since he would be, what else, the last artist to play the stadium before it was knocked down. The concerts were scheduled for mid-July. I was due mid-June. I bought the tickets in March because I figured what would be the big deal about leaving a month-old baby with her grandma? I delivered a week late, though, which meant that Little Girl was only 25 days old on July 16th, the date of our concert. Still, no big deal, I thought. Boy, was I wrong.

It took me forever to leave the house. I kept asking if my mom was going to be okay. Little girl was so little. My mother shooed us out of the house. We got on the Long Island Rail Road, planning on transferring to a special line that only runs during Mets games and other events. We got there, meeting our close friends who are Billy fanatics like us. And everything went downhill from there.

I had a physical ache in my body wondering if the baby was okay. Elsewhere, on the stage, Billy was doing his best to thrill the crowd. And he did. Angry Young Man, My Life, Everybody Loves You Now, The Entertainer. The hits kept rolling. So did the stars. Tony Bennett came out for an amazing New York State of Mind. The crowd went wild. John Mayer was next to sing along to This is the Time. Don Henley came out for Boys of Summer, a tip of the hat to the Amazing Mets, Shea and its baseball heritage. Normally, I would have been singing and swooning and swaying along. Not this time, though. For example, I can’t remember if I stuck around for Pink Houses with John Mellencamp or if my husband told me about him.

Yes, I left. I left that amazing concert on that beautiful, historic summer night. I couldn’t concentrate on the music. I kept calling home. I wanted to see my little girl more than one of my favorite musical stars. I told my husband to stay (why should he waste what was a pretty expensive ticket) and jumped on the train by myself. I transferred at Jamaica — or was it Woodside, I can’t remember — and drove myself home. I then walked the two or so miles from the train station to my house. I beat my husband by maybe 30 minutes since he didn’t wait for the train and he had the car to drive home.

At the time, I thought I was insane. Why couldn’t I be away from my little girl for a few hours? She was in very capable hands. But when I calmed down a bit and did a little research I realized that my desire to see a great show was up against biology, and of course biology was going to win!

When babies are born we have chemicals like oxytocin, which is called “the hormone of love and bonding” that flow through our veins. Chemicals that trigger feelings. Chemicals that make us want to take care of and nurture our babies. Biology wants us to bond in a big way and keep those babies right next to our bodies so they can eat, grow and be happy. (In fact, one study links the first trimester levels of oxytocin in a woman to the level of bonding they have with their newborns. And another April 2010 study suggests we might be able to help autistic children recognize emotions by introducing oxytocin via nasal spray into the equation.)

And so, looking back at that crazy night I can finally forgive myself for being so erratic and missing out on such a historic night. Am I sorry I missed Piano Man where the entire crowd sang so loudly the stadium shook? Sure, but some things are bigger and stronger than Billy Joel. (Sorry, Billy!)

My Big Girl meeting my Little Girl.

Two years ago today I was a week overdue with my second child. I had 48 hours left before they would have to induce me, my midwife told me. The high risk doctor had already blasted me the day prior saying he would have induced me at 37 weeks.

Two years ago today I woke up and prayed what I was about to do — acupuncture — would work. It worked with my first daughter, who was also a week late, so I had every body part crossed and double crossed. My appointment was at 10 a.m. I got to the office and made myself comfortable on the exam table. The acupuncturist slowly put the needles in. They hurt. A lot. Lots of energy blocked, she said. Then she burned some herbs (mugwart) just to give the treatment a little more oomph.

Two years ago today I left the acupuncture office and went to my midwife’s practice for a noon checkup. She was at the hospital doing a delivery so I saw one of the OBs. She examined me, told me I had a slow leak and was already “six or seven centimeters dilated,” and sent me right to the hospital. I wasn’t feeling even a single contraction, but I did what I was told. Sort of. I knew it would still be a while before delivery time so I went home (sad that I would be missing Big Girl’s (then Only Girl) dance recital) and did some last-minute chores. I changed the sheets. I cleaned the house a bit. I got into the car with hubby and we drove to the hospital stopping for a hero sandwich because I was starving! I ate an entire hero before laboring with my first daughter, too.

Two years ago today I got to the hospital around 2:30 and proceeded to get into a huge fight to give birth my way. I wanted intermittent monitoring. I got it, although the witch labor and delivery nurse was only supposed to leave me on the monitor for 15 or 20 minutes and would often “forget” to come take everything off. I wanted to wear my bra. I won that skirmish. I wanted to walk the halls. I won that, too. And I didn’t want anyone to offer me any pain medication. Already a HypnoBirthing veteran, I knew I could manage my labor using the self-hypnosis technique. I also wanted a birthing room, a battle that my midwife, Diane Lucks, fought for me — and won. (Triage was right next to the nursing station; the birthing rooms were WAY down the hall. Being in a birthing room meant the nurse actually had to get up off her ass to take care of me.)

Two years ago today my labor progressed every time I was up and walking. It stalled when they made me sit in that stupid bed with the monitors on. (Monitors that more and more doctors are pointing to as the reason for a skyrocketing Cesarean birth rate.) I can honestly say I didn’t feel the contractions until the end. But since I was not given any Pitocin or other drugs they were manageable. Only 55 seconds, actually. Most of the time I was able to convince my body that I wasn’t feeling any pain. Only pressure. Yes, when they checked me again at 7:15 and my water broke I started feeling the contractions a bit more, but even then I could look at the clock and realize I would get through it. And eventually, I did. When I got to the end and was ready to get that baby out of me and I did and in record time. All it took was three pushes sitting up in my birthing-bed-that-turned-into-a-birthing-chair. And Little Girl was born at 8:57 p.m.

Two years ago today I hugged and thanked my most awesome midwife, who let me be as natural as I wanted while providing me with the best care possible. Without her I know I wouldn’t be writing this particular story. She was there for me every step of the way fighting to keep my birth one that had very few medical interventions. I know in my heart I had a big part in that, too. By staying home as long as I could, demanding intermittent monitoring, asking to walk the halls, giving birth sitting up — not lying on my back without the help of gravity, and not being afraid of feeling the contractions I had an easy, uneventful delivery. And my husband, too, of course. He was supportive, thoughtful and kind. He fought for me, too. We were a great team. (I actually felt really bad for him because his legs hurt the next day after walking the halls with me for hours.)

And so two years later I say happy birthday, little girl. I remember it all like it was yesterday. Thanks for being you. Mwwwah!

Hope you had a good weekend. What’s your birth story? Everyone has one. Would love to hear it.

As inductions went up, so did C-sections.

I am a reality show watcher. I love E!, especially. The shows are so bad that they are good. My husband and I (okay, I) love yelling at the screen when people do really stupid things. But over the holidays, I was doing more than yelling. I actually started to cry. The show: Kendra, the spin-off of The Girls Next Door. The problem: they induced her a little early, resulting in a C-section. The entire time I was watching, I was telling at the screen: “Don’t do it! Inductions rarely work! You’re going to end up with a C-section.” Which is exactly what happened.

I’ve written about this before. According to the National Vital Statistics Report by the U.S. Department of Health & Human Services, the rate of inductions more than doubled over the past 20 years. It was 9.5 percent in 1990. It was 22.3 percent in 2006. I’ve also recounted the stats that The March of Dimes is trying to get out there: that babies shouldn’t come out until they are ready. Late preterm infants (babies born between 34 and 37 weeks) are:

• 6 times more likely than full-term infants to die in the first week of life (2.8 per 1,000 vs. 0.5 per 1,000)
• 3 times more likely to die in the first year of life (7.9 per 1,000 vs. 2.4 per 1,000)
• Often weigh between 4½ and 6 pounds, and they may appear thinner than full-term babies.
• Remain at higher risk than full-term babies for newborn health problems, including breathing and feeding problems, difficulties regulating body temperature, and jaundice
• More than three times as likely to develop cerebral palsy and are slightly more likely to have developmental delays than babies born full term.

But doctors continue to do scheduled inductions and, when those inductions fail, C-sections at 37 weeks. Some just skip the induction entirely and do the C-section from the start at 37, 38, 39 weeks. (And The March of Dimes and researchers says 38 and 39 weekers aren’t a good idea, either. Check out this great March of Dimes feature: Why The Last Weeks Count.)

Right now I’ve got a friend who is pregnant. She was due on January 7. She had a C-section with her first baby. Now she’s trying for a vaginal birth after cesarean (VBAC). Amazingly, her doctor is letting her go one week post-date. He knows that most first-time moms are a little late. (And since she never delivered vaginally, as far as her cervix is concerned she’s a first time mom.) I am so impressed with that doctor and with my friend. She’s been done for a while. She’s got a 19-month-old, and running around after him tires her out. But she wants to have a third baby, and she doesn’t want to take on all the risks that a second and third C-section entails. So she’s waiting. And the doctor isn’t pressuring her or pushing her.

I wish Kendra Wilkinson’s doctor was as kind. I wish he let her body do what it needed to do. Yes, her baby was large, but that doesn’t mean she wouldn’t have been able to deliver him. Or maybe he would have been one of the 15 percent of people who the World Health Organization expects will have C-sections. (Yes, that’s right. The WHO recommends that countries set a goal of a 15 percent C-section rate. Sort of stinks that, right now, the U.S. rate is 31 percent.) But she’ll never know, will she? In the meantime, if you’re reading this please think good thoughts for my friend. She’s only got 24 hours before her scheduled C-section.

Are you a mom? How did you deliver your baby? Did you have a choice? Did you ever feel pressure to do one thing over the other? Talk about it below.