Grab a cup of tea - perhaps from our Crowdfunder partner Small & Wild - and cosy up on the sofa. I want to tell you a story…
This is the tale of the birth of my second son, Woody, who was born at home.
Ah, home-births…
Scented candles.
Fairy lights.
Hand-written affirmations.
Birthing playlist.
Whale-song.
Yeah, no. That’s someone else’s story. Mine, typically, is a little rougher around the edges.
Not that I hadn’t wanted those things, but I learned from my thwarted first home-birth attempt. At three hours from start to his beginning, my eldest’s impatience to land earth-side meant we didn’t have time to even blow the damn birth-pool up.
Hence why the midwife looked aghast when I suggested a local birthing centre for number two:
Do not get in a car. You’ll be giving birth at home. Make sure you have old towels. Lots of them. More than you think you’ll need.
I’d had a hypno-birthy trouble-free labour the first time around, and an awesome doula lady in my corner (shout out to Terri @ Cornwall Hypnobirthing), so her decree was more pragmatic than draconian.
So far, so gravy.
In a sleep-trend that’s continued throughout his now 16 months, Woody started to party at 4.30am.
I had two phone-calls to make: one to the midwife and one to our baby-sitter to come and look after our eldest so the husband could feed me honey, gave me back massages, whisper birthing affirmations…oh, sorry, reality: loose his bananas at the 999 call handler who kept telling him to lay me on my back…
Mate, there’s no (expletives removed) way she’s laying on her (expletives removed) back. No, I’m not going to (expletives removed) ask her. No, I’m not going to (expletives removed) tell her.
She’s an autonomous being successfully guiding our son down the birth canal, along with her handy friend, GRAVITY. You total (expletives removed).
In hindsight, I should have been a little hastier to make those calls. By 5 am, whilst speaking to the midwife, things progressed to the point where I really couldn’t.
Husband was advised to call 999 as, “There isn’t a cat in hell’s chance of Sandra arriving in time.” (Disclosure: I don’t think the midwife was called Sandra, but you get the gist).
He rushed downstairs to check on our now awake two year old and open the door for imminent (ha!) paramedics.
I knelt over the bed: a position I would remain in from this point onwards. We hadn’t bothered with the birth-pool this time around - saving both a few quid and a lot of hassle.
The time between surges was now barely a minute. All sorts of things were happening. (Let’s just say a new duvet was required and thank goodness we have wooden floors).
Husband went to wash his hands. And breathe deeply.
I then turn to see my - soon to be biggest - boy hovering in the doorway, taking in the scene: mummy leaning over the bed, naked and mooing.
After a second or so of deliberation, he walked over and, without saying a word, popped his two toy comforters - the Bun Buns - next to me. He took a bedraggled bunny ear and lightly stroked my cheek. I felt my breathing regulate.
The babysitter arrived with the next surge and she scooped him up to the succour of breakfast and Paw Patrol - whose theme tune was to be the soundtrack to my final moments of labour. Classic.
True to character, Woody made quite the entrance after a labour of only 90 minutes. He crowned as a first responder ran up the stairs, donning his gloves to catch him. A cornucopia of medical personal followed, totalling at one point five paramedics in two ambulances, a patrol car and last, but not least, the long-suffering Sandra who bossed the situation like a good ‘un.
They all were very nice, and did a lovely job of helping the hubby clear up.
People marvel at a lot of things about this labour: its brevity, my luck, lack of pain relief, the amount of biscuits the paramedics ate and the husband’s handling of bodily fluids…but the thing that sticks with me, is my eldest’s empathy.
Despite the odd situation, and I’m sure a degree of fear, he placed my (apparent) distress above his own.
And that act is what defines my last birth for me…the pain, the panic and the palaver fade, but that act of love will endure. (Along with the new-born snuggles in my own bed. Bliss.)
In the end, empathy
The fourth and final component of PACE is, of course, empathy. It’s not just coincidence that it sits at the end of the acronym: empathy is perhaps the ultimate goal - an empathetic attitude the destination we’re hoping to get to both in our parenting and as humans.
Sarah explains a little more about this facet of the PACE approach in the Parenting Handbook which accompanies Bartley’s Books.
“Empathy is a way of showing that you care about your child’s world and, when things are difficult, are able to cope with these feelings, share them and help your little one with them. As well as feeling cared for and understood by parents, children who experience this develop empathy more quickly themselves - an important life skill.”
Nudge embodies both curiousity and empathy as he reflects on Bartley’s responses in the first lift-the-flap story: ‘Please Stay Here - I Want You Near’. Engaging in this interactive element of the book flexes your little’s - and your own - empathetic muscle.
Ego. Errors. Enemies.
As empathy is something we can teach and that we learn, I hold onto the ‘birthing Bun Buns’ anecdote as evidence I am doing something right. Sometimes.
Because there are many less than perfect moment; many of my own empathetic errors.
The enemy of empathy? Ego. Our own needs sometimes get in the way of getting it ‘right’ on the empathy front…
World Book Day. Cue sinister mood music. The day every kid dresses up as their favourite film character.
As the glue-guns of the world cool, we can inspect the abomination that is March 5th - a wound perhaps still raw for many of you.
Now, I’m a book-loving mother…I read, I write, I even teach them, but the cold horror of WBD makes me detest the written word, albeit briefly.
My pet hates?
1. Supermarkets. Pushing to the end-of-aisles, not books, but over-priced costumes targeted at frantic or forgetful parents. I caved this year. He went as Batman. What? It’s comic book, right?
2. ‘Where’s Wally?’ costumes. Yes, it’s a book. But of very few words. It’s like, 98%, pictures. Its POINT is pictures. What do you mean, ‘Just like a comic?’ (N.B. It’s redeeming feature is that it’s a fun ‘read’ with two of you…deepening your attachment relationship.)
3. Social media brags - mine included: reels of home-made, home-sewn, couture pieces referencing books WAY BEYOND THE READING AGE of the kids…it’s unashamed parent-gloating territory and it rots my soul.
And actually, it’s partly my feeding of the insatiable social-media monster which morphs World Book Day into WBD (Worst Bloody Day).
I get it wrong every year.
Hours spent on the design. Pulling all-nighters on the construction. Thrifted, foraged and re-purposed items. Top drawer mumming. Gold star, please.
And then the big reveal, “Look what Mummy’s made for you…”
Cue sinister mood music.
And will the little blighters smile nicely for the camera? Will they sit still?
Will they even WEAR the damn things?
Roundly, no. No they won’t.
Cue my rants:
Why do I bother? Can’t you see how hard I’ve tried? Stop being so selfish…do you know how long this took?
Ah, there’s the rub.
Although I’m yelling at them to empathise with MY efforts, really I should be empathising with their response.
Mummy - exuding fumes of stress and desperation and coffee - proffering an itchy waistcoat, tight hat, twitching with little sleep, too much caffeine, hands bloodied from errant needles and staples - YES, STAPLES - with orange fuzzy felt super-glued in her hair like a rabid Gruffalo…well, even the most chilled kid is going to pick up some less than sanguine vibes.
No wonder, then, that they reflect back what I am giving out. Tantrums. Tears. Toxicity.
In the end, none of this is about them - and only glancingly about books.
Even with the best of intentions, this yearly exercise is mostly about my ego and my needs…to look good at the school-gate or on a social feed - no wonder that they don’t understand, no wonder that they freak out slightly (a lot).
I need to empathise with them and act differently, lowering my expectations and understanding and accepting their emotional response to what I would class as innocuous fancy-dress.
Embody + Emulate
The trick with empathy is that it’s an attitude we need to refresh daily.
My takeaway from World Book Day?
A reminder to play fancy dress. Myself.
To imagine life in their little clothes and walk for a second in their tiny shoes.
To show them I am trying to understand. That I am curious about their inner world. That I care enough to take time to explore their feelings…that I love enough to empathise.
The birthing Bun Buns had no magic salve, but they relieved my pain. Or rather, my son’s empathy did.
Empathy does that: it is portable pain-relief.
Sometimes it feels like empathy is in short supply - but actually, its stocks are limitless, self-replenishing and cumulative.
If we apply it, we can heal each other and ourselves.
Becks x
www.rebeccaritson.com
@rebeccaritsonwrites
The Crowdfunder campaign is now live! You can pledge to pre-order our children's book, "Please Stay Here - I Want You Near" and our Parenting Handbook here on our crowdfunding page: www.crowdfunder.co.uk/parenting-through-stories