It Runs in the Family by Frida Berrigan Read Free Book Online Page A

epidural. The doctor examined me and suggested a forceps assist to get the baby out.
    “You are going to need to push,” she said. “I am just going to direct the head. We only have a few tries. Can you do that? If it doesn’t work, we will bring you to surgery and do a C-section. Is that okay?”
    “Yes, yes,” I responded.
    So I went from the quiet intensity of home labor, where it was dark, warm, and full of whispered suggestions, to the tightly controlled chaos of the hospital, where it was bright and cold and full of shouted commands to push, push, PUSH. And there he was. His head all misshapen, like an Incan pyramid: steeped and conical. He had worked so hard against my body. His eyes were so bright. He was so alive.
    We nursed, we laughed, we cried, and we stayed in the hospital for two more days and nights. Everyone took such good care of us and taught us how to take care of our precious little one. His head magically got round and smooth. We named him Seamus Philip Berrigan Sheehan-Gaumer. Seamus (Irish for James) after Patrick’s cousin and grandfather, and Philip after my dad. We threw Berrigan in there just so he could have two lines on his Social Security card and driver’s license, and so there would never be enough boxes for all the letters in his name on any standardized forms. I felt lucky all the way through my labor. Lucky to have midwives, lucky to be able to go to the hospital when it was absolutely necessary, lucky to be able to deliver my baby the old-fashioned way, and especially lucky to have a healthy baby. I also felt lucky to be covered. We did not get a big scary bill from Middlesex Hospital. It was all covered.
    This is what I wish for all people. This is what a civilized and just society provides for its people. This is a right.

WHO YOU CALLING MAMA?
    W hen Seamus was born, I took a leave of absence from writing my regular column for Waging Nonviolence . What was I doing? Getting to know my kid. I struggled with many questions during this time. Who am I when I am not an activist, an organizer, an energetic and creative homemaker, and all of the other roles I have carved out for myself? Who am I, when all it seems I am doing is taking care of this infant?
    Eventually, I learned to approach this time with Seamus—and with my family—as a gift, a foundation upon which I could build and grow comfortable with a big new facet of my identity—being a mother.
    When Seamus was a happily napping infant, I might get an hour and twenty minutes of grown-up time here and there. The challenge was to use it wisely. I watched a lot of TV on Netflix. While he nursed, I consumed all of Better Off Ted and most of IT Crowd and caught up with those zany kids on That ’70s Show . I figured out what all the fuss was about with Mad Men and watched all six seasons of Lost . Occasionally, it would occur to me that I should be watching A Force More Powerful or a Ken Burns documentary—something edifying—but I was equally happy queuing up another sitcom.
    When I was not nursing (which, depending on the day, might be for hours-long stretches or mere twenty-minute snippets), I washed his poopy diapers, frantically ate everything in sight (mostly cold), and tried to stay on top of a few select responsibilities.
    My “to do” list used to be a page and a half long: War Resisters League conference calls, Witness Against Torture meetings, my responsibilities at the local food co-op, tending my community garden plot, volunteering at church, writing assignments, speaking gigs, and family responsibilities. I am a list maker, a planner, a do-er. And for weeks, maybe months, I made no lists, I set no plans, and I did very little. Yet, I was active and so was Seamus. We came to know one another, to understand one another, to settle into a relationship as mother and son. I had to learn to be okay with measuring my accomplishments in ounces and pounds gained on a happy baby instead of measuring my accomplishments as