Sap Bush Hollow Farm

Natural Birth
Shannon Hayes

Spring has arrived, and along with it, her annual rituals. Our routines on the farm change little from year to year. We shear the sheep, bag their wool, and then drive it up to the mill in Prince Edward Island. We return as the pastures grow lush and green, just as the buds are bursting open to show their tiny supple leaves that will make soft sibilant hisses in the May and June breezes. And then, just like every year before, we will herd the ewes out to pasture, where they will give birth.

I watch my husband and the shearer at work, removing each sheep’s heavy winter fleece. As the wool rolls off each ewe’s belly, I regard her pregnant form. I reach down to my own belly, bulging beneath my overalls. I have just returned from a visit to my midwife. We’ve discussed what it means to have a natural birth, and how important it is to me. A pamphlet she has given me advertising natural birthing classes for new mothers is crunched in my back pocket. Birth is an annual rite for these sheep and this farm, but it is an entirely new experience for me.

I stare at one ewe with newfound admiration. She is freshly shorn, placidly chewing her cud in the corner of the barn. When the gates are opened, she and her sisters will calmly lumber up the side hill to graze in the field that will become their maternity ward. As lambing season progresses, I will stagger along behind them, panting heavily, envying their use of four feet and cursing the evolution process whereby humans became bipedal.

This ewe’s hooves provide sure footing on the grassy slopes. My feet, swollen in my boots, feel unsteady, and I wonder if I should buy a pair of wider shoes. Her wool provided ample coverage for her growing body throughout the winter; now she no longer needs it for the duration of her pregnancy. I’ve grown out of my underwear, can barely pull on my socks, have stolen my father’s flannel shirts, and wear pants bearing cutesy labels such as “Motherhood,” “Zero to 9” and “Kik-Kin.” While she lived in the barn throughout the winter, this ewe subsisted on hay, grain and water. Now that spring has arrived, the energy-rich grasses and fresh water are her only dietary needs. As for me, in addition to my three square meals, I require a daily prenatal vitamin with extra folic acid, a trace mineral supplement, two capsules containing cold processed fish oils, 1000 mg of vitamin C, three antioxidant tablets and a steady supply of Ben and Jerry’s.

The ewe finally notices my attentive gaze. Slowly, she turns her head and eyes me, continuing her contended chewing. She knows the annual routine well. She will move with her flock, graze in the pastures, and lie in the shade of the hedgerows until her lamb is ready to be born. I, too, await my baby’s arrival. During this time I have downloaded a New Parents’ checklist from the internet, and I’m trying to understand the difference between a romper, stretchie and a onesey. I am organizing a list of things I will need; my husband and I are practicing installing car seats, studying up on the Bradley Method, and memorizing Ina May Gaskin’s Guide To Childbirth . I’ve been trying to learn what distinguishes a lap pad from a burp cloth, attending prenatal yoga classes, and pleading for hand-me-downs and diapering lessons from other moms in my community.

Throughout her gestation period, this ewe has required no human handling, beyond the shearing of her fleece. Once a month, and now every two weeks, I must go to the hospital where I am weighed, my blood pressure is taken, and my urine and blood are analyzed. I have been tested for HIV, Hepatitis B, iron deficiency, Chlamydia, Gonorrhea, and diabetes; and my blood has been examined for my baby’s susceptibility to Rh Disease, Cystic fibrosis, neural tube defects, Down syndrome, and spina bifida.

And when it is time for this ewe to give birth, she will separate herself from the flock, find a quiet, soft spot in the shade, and continue to graze between her contractions. When she is ready, she will lie down and push, and in good time her lamb will glide out. She will clean him up, and once he can stand, he will nurse from her full udder, which hangs gracefully beneath her, within easy reach .

As for me, when it is time, I will call my husband, and we will go to the hospital, where I will be surrounded by family, midwives and other medical professionals. I’ll probably have an IV, electrolytes, and fetal monitors. I will pray that I do not need to be induced, that there will be no need for a caesarian, epidural, or episiotomy. When my baby is born, he will be whisked away to be cleaned up, immunized, and returned to me for nursing. My breasts will be kept under wraps with a discreet nursing bra, appearing only for feeding time.

The ewe stares at me for one moment longer, then out of apparent boredom, or perhaps disdain, she turns her attention back to her flock. I, feeling rather silly, also stare another moment more, vaguely aware of the crumpled brochure in my pocket, aimed at preparing me for a natural birth. I reach back, pull it out and read the opening line: “Birth is normal, natural, and healthy.” I dutifully go inside to register for the class, curious to know what more there is to learn about natural birthing.