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On an Autumnal day in New Zealand in March, 1996, I gave birth to my first child at home in a birth pool by candlelight. Mozart’s music played in the room, and she arrived in this world peacefully. She didn’t cry or fuss, but just looked into our eyes and took in her surroundings.

Half an hour later, it was time to cut the cord (if I knew then what I do now, we’d have had a *lotus birth and not cut the cord). She howled and screamed. It has been said that cutting the cord doesn’t hurt, but she clearly felt ‘something’ as our physical connection was severed.

 

Seconds after giving birth at home, by candlelight and Mozart, to my daughter Bethany.

Seconds after giving birth at home, by candlelight and Mozart, to my daughter Bethany.

 

aucklandgarden

For eighteen years, we have shared our lives. At seven this morning, we waved goodbye. That umbilical cord was well and truly cut. And it bloody well hurt me too. She’s on her own now. This part of my mothering journey with her is over.

I’m no longer there to protect her, make sure she eats her greens, warn her off certain boys, and prompt a bedtime to ensure adequate sleep. My job is done.

I look forward to hearing all the stories about university life. But today, I grieve. Today I trust the tears which fall so freely to cleanse old wounds.

I have found it interesting in these past few weeks how differently people respond to pain. Those who have attachment parented their children ~ they understand. They allow me my grief without trying to band aid over it.

And then there are people who are quick to remind me that she’ll be home in ten weeks. It’ll zip by, they say. Maybe. But I doubt it.

If you ever miscarry, someone is bound to say ‘never mind, you can try again’ or ‘it wasn’t meant to be’…rather than just honouring the loss. They mean well, of course, but it doesn’t help.

Yes, Christmas might be just around the corner (at my age it’s always just around the corner!)…but that’s more than 150 meals we won’t be sharing together. More than seventy mornings where I won’t get to see her smile or share a cup of tea.

As a bonded family, every day is a lifetime to savour. So, in some people’s world ten weeks is nothing. This morning, for me, it is a long time away.

I appreciate she’s not going off to war or ill in hospital. She’s a beautiful, healthy young woman with adventures ahead of her ~ but that doesn’t make the cutting of the umbilical cord any less painful.

The eighteen years between giving birth and saying goodbye, now THAT has zipped by.

beth

Veronika Sophia Robinson giving birth in water

Veronika Sophia Robinson giving birth in water

Many years ago, in fact it was the first time I was living in England (about 1994), I heard a voice in my dream so real that I wondered if it was a dream. The voice said to me: You will write The Beautiful Birth book. At the time, I was working as a Media Officer for Compassion in World Farming having just finished a stint doing the same job for the Royal New Zealand Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.

 

I thought it an odd dream ~ my work was about animal welfare and animal rights. What did I know about children? And actually, at that time, I wasn’t even interested in having babies. (How quickly that would change ~ I gave birth two years later!)

 

But the voice was strong. Kind, but strong. I popped into a beautiful little New Age bookshop that morning. It was called The Open Window, and was in my village of Petersfield, Hampshire. Two books on waterbirth literally fell off the shelves (spooky, I know) and landed at my feet. I bought them, and devoured every page.

 

My mother, who had birthed eight children, had given birth unassisted at home to the last three. If I had any idea of beautiful birth, it would stem from her experiences of tuning in with her body and birthing in private.

 

So, my life changed. In 1995 I set up the National Waterbirth Trust (in NZ), wrote affirmations for a CD called Peaceful Pregnancy (which my husband did the voice over for), and in 1996 gave birth to my beautiful daughter Bethany, by candlelight and the sounds of Mozart, in our bedroom. Oh how my life was to change. Between then, and 2002, I had given birth again, and lived in three countries, and began publishing The Mother magazine (which I went on to edit for 12 years). www.themothermagazine.co.uk

 

 

Seconds after giving birth at home, by candlelight and Mozart, to my daughter Bethany.

Seconds after giving birth at home, by candlelight and Mozart, to my daughter Bethany.

Writing The Birthkeepers was, I believe, the book I was told about in my dream. It describes the three biological needs of a birthing woman, and how important they are for an easy and ecstatic birth. Half of the book contains stories from women who had empowered births. As the subtitles states, it is reclaiming an ancient tradition. To birth, in tune with our bodies, is to do what our ancestresses did long before man interfered with the birthing process.

 

The Birthkeepers

The Birthkeepers