The journey has begun… I am finally being certified as a birth and postpartum doula, breastfeeding coach, and childbirth educator, all at the same time! What is a doula, you ask? Well initially, it was a Greek word that literally translates to “female slave”- hmmm, I’ve always thought that was the direct  translation for the word “wife”? I digress… so a doula is essentially a labor companion and  support person for the birthing mother, and often helps the whole family after the birth, as well.

So- that is my new job description, in a nutshell! With a giant leap of faith, and a ton of learning and studying about amazing vaginas and uteruses, (is that the correct grammar? Is there a plural form, such as vaginai, or uteri? I guess I haven’t got to that part of the textbook yet?), it has been determined that I am a certified doula, that is, after I supervise two births.

Perfect! I have supervised two births- they are sitting right in front of me on the carpet eating Doritos for breakfast and watching “Yo, Gabba Gabba”! Certainly the fact that I directly supervised them emerge from my own body, then directly supervised the four stitches that followed (three from tearing, one ‘extra stitch’- a little postpartum gift from my OB), then I directly supervised months of swollen, leaky boobs and cracked nipples, and now I directly supervise the pervasive “muffin top” that I still blame on my pregnancy weight gain, from five years ago!

My rationalization sadly, did not convince the Board of Doula Certification, and in order to hold that coveted slip of paper in my hand, I must supervise two births, and in small print, the rules clearly say that they can not be of my own loins (in case you’re really sick of me saying ‘vagina’). This makes sense, of course- all professionals must practice before they graduate to having a practice of their own.  Hairstylists practice on doll heads in beauty school, doctors practice on cadavers, and doulas, well, actually, we actually practice on live, birthing mothers! At least until my invention of the blow-up pregnant and giving birth doll, complete with copious amounts of spilling bodily fluids, sharp-tongued obscenities recorded and played to an unnerved husband, and a slippery, screaming baby that emerges after 21 1/2 hours, is patented and marketed sufficiently, we are blessed to have living, breathing individuals on whom we practice our methods of labor support.

The tricky part for a new doula, is finding these willing participants. There is a super cute preggo mama in my Zumba class- I have often thought about how to approach her to offer my services. So far, my idea goes something like this, “Hi, you are such a beautiful pregnant woman!” I would chime cheerfully, “Here’s my card- I would love to volunteer to support you in the birth of your baby!” I would say with confidence and poise, until she pauses and looks at me a little funny, then I would explain, “I’m not a stalker, or obsessed with pregnant women, well actually, I sort of am, which is why I chose my profession- not being a stalker, but more like a pregnant-woman-obsesser, well, and a baby-obsesser too. But, I’m not a weirdo or anything.  Plus, because I’ve been trained to handle all birthing situations, you won’t have to be embarrassed at all if a little something comes out while you’re pushing your baby out- ’cause I’m totally trained to handle that kind of stuff, because I’m a healthcare professional! I am so open-minded, that even if you don’t shave your down-there action, I would never judge you- let’s face it- it takes a contortionist to weed-whack down there when your 9 months preggo! Even if you can braid it- I won’t say a single word- I won’t even think of making up song lyrics like, ‘do your pubes hang low? Do they dangle to and fro…. can you tie ‘em in a knot, can you tie ‘em in a bow?’- isn’t it funny how sometimes songs can just get stuck in your head?   Soooo- when are you due, again?”

Still practicing my approach…

There comes a time in a mother’s life, usually when her youngest is off to kindergarten, that she looks around her empty, quiet house, sits down to go to the bathroom for the first time in eight years without interruption of little knocking hands, and she thinks, “wow- I could get used to this!” But, it’s only for a short time that she enjoys her newfound freedom, and then starts to wonder, “now what?”

For all of us mamas who gave up illustrious careers to become stay-at-home mothers, it may be a fantasy to go back to the bustling business woman that you were before. In my case, I was a manager of a $9 million menswear division for Nordstrom in Los Angeles. I wore a designer suit and high heels, and matching bra and panties every single day. I had coffee breaks in the mornings, and lunch meetings in the afternoons. I was sent to meetings in Las Vegas, Palm Springs, and all over Southern California. I had an office, I had “people” that I was in charge of, I had reports and numbers, bar graphs and pie charts, and most importantly, a very thick employee discount at Nordstrom!

But, that was ten years ago. Matching bras and panties haven’t been a part of my wardrobe in so long. The only thing I could do matchy-matchy with is a black bra and my black Spanx with the hole in the waistband. Nothing like the gorgeous, intricate Felina underpinnings of my past. And the term wardrobe is used quite loosely- more like pile of yoga pants (all black), bra-top camis, and velour track suits that are easy to snatch off of the top of my dresser (or the floor), in my disheveled rush out the door to get my kids to school on time. I can’t remember the last time that I had a “coffee break” without one or both of my children running all over Starbucks, asking for another chocolate milk, or more “shell cookies.” I haven’t been in charge of $9 million worth of inventory for a long time, that’s for damn sure! But I have been in charge of selling a house we couldn’t afford, doing our taxes and managing a mountain of debt. I haven’t had “people” in so long that I surely wouldn’t remember how to manage them! Unless you count the little people that I currently manage, but I somehow don’t think that “If you call your brother a jackass one more time, you will not play wii for three days!” is very effective in the workplace.

Alas, I have come to realize that the power business woman that I once was, is very likely just another chapter in my book, but the question of “what now?” remains a very real one. I don’t regret my decision to give up my fashion career for motherhood. Sure, I may not run huge seminars, take clients to decadent restaurants in Santa Monica, or attend meetings in buildings who’s address contain the words, “Wilshire Blvd.” But, I have run a couple of Daisy-girl troop meetings, I was in charge of our class auction basket last year, and I know where  every McDonald’s with an indoor playground is, within four cities. For now, I’m just trying to think of how to make that look enticing on my resume…

“You are the woman I’ve been waiting for all of my life.” He said. Awkward silence followed. “I have thought you were the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on, and I have thought about doing this for a long time…..” And with those words, he leaned in and kissed me, full on the mouth. He reached around my seatbelt to encircle my waist with one hand, and slipped his hand underneath the waistband of my favorite sweatshirt with the other. As he sloppily pressed his tongue further into my mouth, my words were muffled by his lips, and silenced by my shame, as the abusive act continued.

I was 15, and he was a 36-year-old youth pastor at my church. The legal definition of sexual assault is: “Sexual assault refers to a continuum of behavior that includes rape, but also encompasses any unwanted physical contact of a sexual nature. On this continuum, everything from non-consensual kissing and fondling to forced oral, anal or vaginal sex, is an act of sexual assault.” In reference to my specific situation, the law defines what happened to me as “Sexual exploitation by a helping professional.” Sexual exploitation in this case refers to any non-consensual sexual contact perpetrated by someone in a place of authority or leadership over the victim. Example of perpetrators in this case would be teachers, church leaders, physicians, and therapists. This type of sexual assault can be particularly distressing for victims because of previous feelings of trust and respect for the perpetrator. In addition, this type of sexual assault can be difficult to disclose to others because of the status of the perpetrator as a respected and trusted person in the community. Respected and trusted, indeed.

My family and I practically lived at our church. From the age of 12, I volunteered at the church to lead youth-choir, was highly involved in the youth group, played the piano during the church offering for the main service, and my family was one of the founding members of the church. We were part of the church when it was 60 people in a warehouse in the “other side of the tracks” part of town. We grew with the church while they quickly climbed to over 2,000 members, and had become quite a pillar in our then- small community.

I realize now, nearly 20 years later, that I was well-groomed for this act to occur. I understand now, that even at 15-years-old, I had little knowledge or even life experience, to have cultivated a different outcome than that which happened to me, to my family, and even to his family.

My “New Year’s Resolution” for 2011 was seamingly simple:  to forgive. I decided that I am ready to forgive- ready to leave the proverbial  plastic bags full of emotional garbage that I’ve been carrying around all of these years behind for good. But, as I opened my email this morning, emblazoned across my homepage, was a story about a local youth pastor that had been accused of molesting two teenagers. In an unexpected flood- it came rushing over me. http://www.mercurynews.com/breaking-news/ci_17015591?nclick_check=1

Although, I know that I am a “victim”, I’ve read the handbooks, I’ve been to counseling, I’ve “acted out”, and I’ve attended many V-day and victim/”survivor” associated events. Sadly, I have never identified with either. What I can I can however identify with strongly, is being a mother, and the fear of someone hurting my child(ren). I’ve never disassociated myself sexually, never became withdrawn or disengaged intimately or even emotionally. I have rarely even discussed my abuse, other than with very close friends, and of course my very loving and supportive family. But, while I am trying to muster this whole spirit of forgiveness, it enrages me that churches and other places of public gatherings are not required by law to fingerprint and/or perform background checks on volunteers, or even employees.

I will work on forgiveness, and I will work on letting go. But, I feel a new inspiration to use my experience not as a cry for sympathy or pity, but as a call to action. Something more needs to be done to protect kids from “sexual exploitation from a helping professional”. Whether it’s committed by, most notably, a priest in a Catholic church, or a less-publicized choir leader in a neighborhood Baptist church, the impact that that type of violation has on a child and their family is immeasurable. I have nothing against God, and have nothing against the fellowship of a church family. But, I do think that a “Beloved, let us LOVE one another (1 John 4:7)” and “let go and let God” attitude should not be considered when allowing people that can do harm to our children and families, hold places within our church communities. I don’t think that my experience will change legislature, or bring about a law named after me. But even if I protect just one child from going through what I did, or cause one parent to insist that the people that work alongside their children be background-checked and fingerprinted, I will have the most overwhelming sense of accomplishment. And I may even start to forgive.