This past Saturday marked the first day of the eighth month of my pregnancy. Two months to go. Eight short weeks.

I recently reread my blog post from the beginning of my third trimester, when I had three months to go. I was much more apprehensive about giving birth back then. I’m glad to say that time and my childbirth classes have served to calm my nerves.

What’s made the most difference, I think, is simply knowing more. I realize now how little I knew about birth before I began my childbirth classes, and my lack of knowledge startles me. What’s more, I realize that not only did I know so little about birth in general, I also knew very little about birth in particular. Think about all the women in your life who have given birth: your grandmothers, your mother, your step-mother, your sister, your aunts. How many of their birth stories do you know? I’m not talking about knowing a few details like how many hours she was in labor, or what each baby weighed. I’m talking about knowing her story: What did the experience make her feel? How did it change her view of the world? Did it alter her relationship with her body?

Do you know the birth stories of the women in your life? I confess that I do not. What other stories are we failing to share with each other as women?

We live in a society that has little patience for the laborious listening to stories. But stories shape us, they tell us what we know. It’s no wonder I know so little about birth, not having been told—or not having listened to—the stories that my friends and my family have to tell about their own birthing experiences. Again, I wonder what else worth knowing is not being shared, because the stories are not being told and heard. I wondered this as I visited my grandmother during a trip home this past weekend. She has severe dementia and doesn’t recognize me. Our time for sharing stories is past. What have I lost?

What I have gained is a determination to ask for people’s stories, and to share my own. I am going to send my other grandmother a tape recorder and a journal, so that she can record her stories for me. I encourage you to begin working to create a culture around you that shares stories. There is much to learn, and much to teach.

Noelle

My grandmother died earlier this year, after spending nearly 3 years in a nursing home. She had Alzheimer's. When I was younger, I never appreciated the stories she had to tell me, and I wish I had paid more attention.

At her funeral, I was surprised to see her high school yearbook and to find out she was a total brainiac. I, too, wonder what else I missed....

Rebecca Morrison
Mary Baldwin College, c/o 1998
NNPCW, 1995-98

Thank you Noelle for your questions, reflection and encouragement. Between the ages of 23-29, I lost all my grandparents, my father, a cousin and several friends. And along with them, history and stories and more.

Wendell Berry wrote, "I have learned what was here to be lost in the loss of it." He was talking specifically about the loss of topsoil in Kentucky, but for me his wisdom applies to all of life.

A huge lesson I learned from all this loss--particularly from the illness and death of my father--is that you love the people who are here to be loved now. You listen to their hearts, you honor their stories, you give thanks for their lessons. If I could have each person back, I'd do a lot of things differently.

The task before us today is to open wide--to learn and grow and love--with those we have now.

Melanie
NNPCW 1997-98