2010

This is an article I wrote for KidCulture magazine Spring 2010.

Raw Food & Your Baby

I glanced again at the list I had been given by the pediatrician detailing a baby’s first foods at six months and beyond. Most of it wasn’t the nourishment I wanted to offer my child in his first year of life. I simply didn’t resonate with meat every other day, processed grains with additives and sugar, or even cooking fresh fruit. There were the accompanying reasons to support this list and while I agreed with parts of it, I couldn’t ignore what the years spent living, researching and studying a life abundant in fresh, raw food had shown me.

As an adult, fuelling my life with more raw vegetarian food like fruit, vegetables, seaweeds, nuts, seeds and sprouts not only catapulted me into another wonderful orbit, but it gave me a shocking insight into what heavy, processed cooked foods do to us and how they detrimentally affect and debilitate our minds, bodies and moods. You don’t really know this to its fullest extent until you cross over to the ‘high raw side’ - even for a little while - and experience the exhilarating energy and beautiful clarity of thought that such eating brings. If this is what occurs to an adult, then how much greater the magnitude for a little baby whose biology is not unlike a tabula rasa, a blank sheet where certain imprints are laid for life?

It is common knowledge and has been scientifically proven that pumping a child with sugar laden food will see them becoming very temperamental over the course of the day - not to mention the ubiquitous additives, E numbers and other unpronounceable ingredients that a stroll along the baby/children’s food section of any common supermarket aisle will reveal. A great deal of it is clever marketing and the colourful ‘natural’ slogan with a gurgling blonde baby on the front is hardly natural at all when one learns to read between the lines of the back labels.

With all this in mind, even before giving birth, I knew that I would have to devise my own eating plan for my child. When he was born, I used the first six exclusively breastmilky months to research further, getting my hands on everything I could find from the classical, standard baby nutrition books to the other end of the spectrum with books written for largely raw vegan children to speaking with nutritionists that were raw food-friendly and of course, meeting mothers who were following a similar path. I had no intention though of being strictly raw or strictly vegan with my son. In fact through my reading, it emerged that exclusive raw veganism wasn’t advocated as there were certain nutrients that were very difficult to obtain like choline and vitamin K2 and thus, supplementation would be necessary which can be an added burden when you are chasing after a toddler as Shazzie describes in Evie’s Kitchen. A baby’s body and brain grow exponentially, at a tremendous pace, and so its diet cannot be the same as an adult’s. There are successful raw families out there like the Taliferos who run the Garden Diet website but they are rare and don’t live lives governed by alarm clocks and deadlines and routines that the average Cypriot family reluctantly abides by - nor do the Taliferos have carniverous, cola-guzzling family members.

In his voluminous book, Dr Gabriel Cousens, a well known raw foodist, also advises that a baby’s first food have some warmth to it, particularly from an ayurvedic point of view, something that makes perfect sense. In one of his books he has an insightful chapter, wonderfully entitled, Raising Rainbow Babies, where he explains that a baby is in the kapha phase of life in the Ayurveda dosha system so that a little one’s body is ‘cold, damp and mucous-forming’ and for this reason a baby’s diet must be warm. Spices like ginger and cardamom are recommended for use in baby meals to ignite its ‘digestive fire’. The meal can then be can be heated over a very low fire until it is suitably warm but not hot to the point that all beneficial, life giving nutrients are lost to heat which is usually the case with most cooked meals. The basic principles of raw food is that when you heat food above 48 degrees Celsius (118F) then that is when 100% of enzymes are killed and there is also a dramatic reduction of vitamins, minerals and other nutrients. This is one reason why cooking fruit largely renders it nutritionally useless, as well as altering its molecular structure and making it far more sugary. What you will find below is a month by month guide that outlines what is ideal as you lovingly watch your baby grow.

Why month by month?

A baby’s stomach does not have the adequate hydrochloric acid to digest certain foods in the way an adult stomach has. With each month though, this increases enabling your baby to eat a wider variety of foods. I am not a nutritionist nor a paediatrician and this list is by no means definitive. Indeed, we have all heard stories of three month old babies wolfing down T bone steaks and twenty four course meze meals and turning out just fine! I am presenting this list because it is one that over the year, people have asked me for as a rough guideline for their own babies. I feel that there are others who would benefit from it too as they may not have the time to read and research or know where to begin in terms of providing their child with a diet more abundant in nutrient- dense foods than what is usually recommended. Lastly, this is what I applied to my own child and saw him thrive on it, never once becoming ill and being a very happy baby – unless denied breastmilk!

In the baby first food’s eating plan, you will also find certain wholesome cooked food, but again, take care with how much heat you apply when making it. Whether to give flesh food or not can be a very contentious subject but I have included chicken and fish for those that do wish to offer it to their children. Here are some tips to maximize the eating experience for both of you:

TIPS

• green juices are a fantastic way to offer your child a myriad of super nutrients so start them early but in small amounts
• nut and seed milks or ‘mylks’ as they are known in raw food world are also packed with power – try hemp, sesame and almond
• don’t be afraid to tell carers/grannies/nannies/nursery teachers how you wish for them to feed your child, especially in those crucial first few months.
• as your child grows, there will be occasions where they will eat less than optimum foods and will have parties in fast food restaurants (and you certainly don’t want your child to be excluded) which is an added incentive to ensure the first year pure food foundations are laid.
• olives, bee pollen and hemp seeds are the most nutritionally complete foods found on the planet so try to get your children to enjoy eating these as early as possible
• the older your child becomes, the fussier they may become about foods they once lapped up – but there are clever little ways to get your raw like sprinkling over a favourite fruit or adding to a smoothie
• in place of salt, try seaweeds like kelp
• in place of sugar, try sweet fruits, raw agave nectar, raw honey (only if baby is over a year old)
• try to feed your child seasonally – e.g. limit giving mangoes in the winter even though on the list they may be recommended
• be creative and colourful - a good number to combine is 3 or 4 foods to make your own meal for example: ground flax seeds, mashed banana and beetroot/coconut topping make a beautifully tasty and vivid dessert
• be gentle with your child –and yourself!
• make it fun, let it be messy and eat along with your child

A Special Word About Breast Milk

The Cyprus Breastfeeding Association has adopted the slogan Gift For Life and it is my heartfelt belief that is indeed what you are offering your child for a lifetime. The documented benefits of breast milk are too numerous to delve into here but there are many books and websites that one can find to read further. Unless there is a strong medical reason, mothers are urged to breastfeed their children for at least a year. The World Health Organisation recommends at least two years, something that sadly, we don’t see much of nor is it encouraged in certain quarters of society. I write a special paragraph on breastmilk as it maximizes this eating plan and it is the ultimate raw food, all the nutrients in perfect ratios that no formulae engineered in a lab could ever hope to emulate. For that small percentage of women who genuinely cannot breastfeed, try speaking to a nutritionist for alternatives to cows’ formula milk – for example goat’s milk may be better milk for baby.

Baby’s First Foods Eating Plan

With Emphasis on Fresh, Living Food

6 months - Mainly breastmilk

Introduce:

Fruit: mashed apple, pear, banana, avocado, papaya, mango, watermelon(can be mixed with breastmilk )

Vegetables: pumpkin, sweet potato, parsnip, carrot

Quinoa - cooked or sprouted

Drinks: aniseed/fennel/chamomile tea & water

Coconut water (Dr Martin Coconut juice – you can get this from most Nicosia health stores)

Cucumber juice

7 months – mainly breastmilk

Introduce:

fresh or dried apricots, peaches

Millet buckwheat

Organic corn flour

Ground flax seeds

Bee pollen (preferably local)

Chlorella

Spirulina

water

vegetable & fruit juices (20ml-30ml each tasting)

fruit purees, mix 2 fruits baby has already grown accustomed to (3-4 teaspns 3 times a day).

Herbal tea & water

8 months – mainly breastmilk

Introduce:

Figs, kiwis, plums, grapes, cherries

olives

broccoli okra raw carrot - be sure it is grated otherwise steam it as babies can choke on raw carrot pieces

Almonds (ground or made into almond ‘mylk’)

Tahini

Sesame seeds (ground or ‘mylk’)

Pumpkin seeds (ground or ‘mylk’)

Sunflower seeds (blended in fruit)

Hemp seeds (blended in fruit or made into ‘mylk’)

Chia seeds (blended in fruit)

Pistachios (ground)

Raisins (soaked)

Wheatgrass juice

Carob - raw, ground into powder

mesquite

ginger

Fruit purees

Vegetable purees

Fruit & vegetable Juice – 30 ml

(especially leafy green juices e.g. parsley/lettuce)

9 months - breastmilk

Introduce:

pineapple, beetroot, turnips, asparagus, cauliflower, eggplant, spinach, sea vegetables/sea weeds, squash, brussel sprouts, celery

Oats barley rye

Live yoghurt

Organic chicken (very little)

Increase fruit and vegetable juice amounts

10 months – breastmilk

Introduce:

Ground sprouts .

Red pepper

Macadamia nuts (blended or chewed by mother first)

Brazil nuts (blended or chewed by mother first)

Fruit and vegetable juices - especially green juices

1 year & older

Introduce:

Citrus fruits

Tomatoes

Peas

Corn

Strawberries/goji berries/Incan berries/cranberries/blueberries + other berries

Wheat products

Pecans (ground/blended)

Walnuts (ground/blended)

pine nuts (ground/blended)

garlic

leek

shallots

onions

eggs (start with yolk)

raw honey

14 months

Introduce:

Whole wheat pasta

fish

Recommended Further Reading :

The books that include raw baby recipes have an asterisk

Rainbow Green Live Food Cuisine Gabriel Cousens *

Evie’s Kitchen Shazzie *

Baby Greens Michaela Lynn & Michael Chrisemer *

Green For Life Victoria Boutenko *

Optimum Nutrition For Your Child Patrick Holford

The Drinks Are on Me Veronika Sophia Robinson

Sunfood Diet Success System David Wolfe

The Womanly Art of Breastfeeding La Leche League

The Continuum Concept Jean Leidloff

Helpful Website: www.rawmom.com

2009

A Tale of Two Labours, One Birth and a Whole Lotta Arrogance .

The quest for an unmedicated, active birth in Cyprus

I am typing this ten months after having given birth and althoughdeeply personal, itwasn’t hard to write at all; once uncorked, the words bubbled out with similes and metaphors fighting for paper space. Initially I called this a birth story, but some time after, realised that it wasn’t; my true birth story is snuggled up in my personal journal and its focus rests much more on the beauty and thrill of bringing a child into this world. This though, is more of an account - one that refuses to be enclosed behind four clinical walls and seeks to expose a bullying doctor. It’s also creatively cathartic to write this birth account without anyone interfering to check its dilation or heartbeats per minute.

Legs akimbo in sneering stirrups, bright leering lights, overwhelming white walls and Madame Midwife hollering ‘SPROXEEEE!’ so ferociously you’d be forgiven for thinking she was having the next contraction My nightmare birth. So how, after scouring up and down the latitudes and longitudes of Larnaca and Nicosia in a monumental effort to avoid it, did I end up in that precise predicament?

From the moment the pregnancy stick magically turned into a blue cross, I flirted with thoughts of a home birth but seeing as support for this is very much in its embryonic stages in Cyprus and being a first time mum, I went for the next best option: a home birth in a hospital environment. Drug free, I imagined labouring under soft, caressing lights, Nigel Shaw’s soothing flutes undulating in the background and as I squatted my baby into the world, the Cypriot version of Frederick Leboyer would gently announce “Congratulations, it’s a….’ before placing the precious miracle on my eager breast to feed. And so began the search for the doctor of my dreams; one who respected the birth experience for the woman and the baby as much as he did his own profession.

My first choice of obstetrician was recommended by a friend, (which isn’t always such a good idea I have come to learn). He smiled a little too broadly and nodded a little too frequently when I spoke of the active birth I desired and, in my husband’s presence, even joked I could have plants in the delivery room. Alone with him however, the smile faded quicker than nitrous oxide. When I asked why, if the embryo was progressing well, did I need a scan every fortnight, he gave no reason other than ‘to monitor the baby’. I refused the fourth one, only consenting to the absolute necessary scans. That was when all joviality was swiftly anesthetised.

‘Why bother coming at all then?” came the irritated reply.

And then he did what many a doctor has done to a pregnant woman: Intimidate, scare her about the life of her unborn child. He used the words ‘dead baby’ even though I had clearly been trying to keep the mood light with a jest about giving birth under a tree. Emotionally limp, I left knowing that this arrogant person wasn’t for me and certainly not for my child but the words ‘dead baby’ stung resoundingly for weeks.

The next choice was an older, affable doctor in Larnaca who in hindsight, I should have stuck with despite his steamrolling secretary. He seemed all for natural birth - within reason of course - and keeping scans to a minimum. So why didn’t I stay with this endearing soul? Ah, that creeping, crippling archetype, Fear: Fear that the Larnaca- Nicosia highway would be too far once labour kicked off - I mean, who knew, the baby might roll out as we were racing past Lymbia! It was for this reason that we didn’t choose the Active Birth Centre in Limassol which sounded like the most appropriate place for me. How ironic then, that we got stuck in the Nicosia morning rush hour and given the time it took to get from Latsia to the clinic, I could have skateboarded to Larnaca backwards.

By this stage I was over four months and still doctorless but at least I had found a caring and intuitive doula (or more aptly, birthkeeper as ‘doula’ doesn’t translate well in Greek nor does it come close to defining her crucial work ) in Nicosia who would be with me during labour and birth as well as providing prenatal lessons. So many fascinating facts and invaluable advice about pregnancy and labour were revealed to me during these sessions, that I can tell you now, no one else would have informed me about them. Still feeling confident that I would find my Cypriot Leboyer, I absorbed a great deal of other childbirth literature and my ignited instincts were further fanned by the works of Dr Michel Odent, Janet Balaskas, Ina May Gaskin, Pam England and Sheila Kitzinger. I also tracked down other women who had made attempts at giving birth in the manner I so yearned for. Notably, the only one who had managed it was the woman who had given birth at home, assisted by her mother, who was a midwife, and the doula.

Some might say I approached the whole birthing process with the efficiency and diligence of a Donald Trump property developer. Perhaps so, but we live in times where women’s birthing instincts are lost amidst the fogs of pitocin, epidural opioids and doctors’ holiday schedules. Gone are the intimate tribes of yore where elders imparted their wisdom down the bloodline during each rite of passage in a woman’s life. Today some have never even seen another woman breastfeed. Besides, I too was developing ‘property’ - of the most precious kind.

During the fifth month of pregnancy I spoke to a few more obstetricians and if nothing else, I respected their honesty: They admitted they couldn’t perform their job unless I was half strapped, half hoisted and then sliced a little for good measure. One female doctor did agree to my birth plan, but, being scheduled for an overseas seminar the week I was due meant she couldn’t take me on. Then, at sixth months pregnant and beginning to despair, I finally found my doctor – or so I thought.

************************************

On the first day I walked into his over-polished office, I couldn’t help noticing the convoy of strangely dappled cows decorating his shelves. Rather odd décor, I mused, trying not to think of the fertile hotbed of bawdy jokes given the context the cattle were set in. We shook hands and I began.

‘Doctor, I know my safety and the baby’s safety is paramount and birth plans don’t always go according to plan however I’d like to know how you feel about…’ and so I elaborated. He seemed to listen, answering questions favourably if a little curtly and at the end of it all, said, ‘Sure, it’s your labour’. I left feeling the huge weight hauled from my shoulders and even pondered on the kind of gift I’d buy him once I’d had my baby. Another porcelain cow to add to his parade perhaps?

Looking back, I can see that the warning bells had cautiously begun ringing on our subsequent visits but sometimes you don’t hear what isn’t convenient to hear. My husband expressed reservations that he wasn’t giving us much attention. Any attempts at conversation or building a rapport were met by lemon-squeezed monosyllables and weary, bleary eyes that he thought nothing of rubbing so fervently that on one occasion I feared he’d gouge his left eyeball. The appointments were always hurriedly predictable apart from one week when he scolded me for gaining two extra kilos more than I ‘should have’ ( which I ‘m sure was just down to my breasts, who, being far cleverer than I, were beginning to huff and puff in protest).

“He must be so tired. I’m sure he was up all night helping a woman deliver,’ I would excuse him to my husband at seven months.

‘It’s mid August, he’ll be going on holiday soon and will be refreshed by the time I’m due,’ I excused him at seven and a half months.

“It doesn’t matter what he’s like, he’s agreed to my birth plan and that’s what counts,” I excused him at eight months. ‘And anyway,” I reminded my husband, “Four good friends have highly recommended him’.

Significantly I had overlooked one vital factor because three out of these four women had given birth nearly three decades ago. And, as I was to learn too late, there’s a difference between being thirty five and sixty five. Two weeks before I was due, I had to face the oozing truth: he was inattentive, impatient and inexcusable. Still, I held out hope that all would go well once push came to er…more push.

On our last appointment he perused my written birth plan as if for the first time before unsympathetically announcing that unless I gave birth on my due date, I would be forced to without a day’s ‘delay’. I protested about other doctors giving leeway, and why induce me if the baby was perfectly content in there and my placenta had no white spots to show ageing. But all to no avail.

Trying to quell my mounting panic just days before giving birth, I turned to everything I safely could to bring on labour: acupuncture, massage, yoga, chiropractor sessions, Hemisphere meditations, homeopathy, talking to my baby and yes, good old lovemaking. Two days before my due date and very distraught, I went for a long, long walk until it seemed there was no where else in Latsia to walk to. It all must have done the trick, because sure enough, at 3 am , my waters dripped and I was ecstatic to have avoided induction.

As soon as we got to the clinic (once contractions appeared to be very regular), we were met by Madame Midwife who prowled the maternity ward as if it were her rightful inheritance. In the small, stark room where labouring mothers are confined, I allowed her to tie me down and check the baby’s heartbeat whilst she babbled on about giving me this and that drug to ‘help me along’. Seeing as the doctor himself had previously said, ‘take no notice of her’ I did just that, figuring this was a temporary scenario until he arrived. And it was - I just hadn’t expected to fight for it. Not only did he take notice of her, but it became very apparent they were Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee.

‘You’ve only dilated two centimeters,’ he gruffly announced upon examining me, ‘ At this rate we’ll be here until tomorrow. We’ll speed things up.”

You may as well have hit me on the head with the cardiograph machine.

‘B-B-But doctor, we said no drugs…that’s what we agreed,’ I struggled in between contractions, confused at this 180 degree turn of events.

‘We’ll get it all moving quicker and you’ll be done by lunchtime,’ he added impatiently.

No, I thought, you’ll be done by lunchtime.

S eeing that I was resolute in my refusal of all intervention, he said something to the horribly dismissive effect of, ‘Go to the room and do it by yourself if that’s what you want’. Leboyer? This was Dr Can’tbebotheredwithyer.

I was so disturbed by his attitude that contractions subsided. I was only too happy to seek refuge in my room where my husband and doula assuaged my body and spirit until labour rhythms were back on track. It was liberating to be able to choose whatever position gave me relief and rocking on all fours, hugging my comforting blue birthing ball for the first half of my labour was a blessing as was using a TENS machine, listening to Nigel Shaw’s ‘Seventh Wave’ and being given penetrating hand massages to cope with the escalating ‘rushes’ .

It must have been around lunchtime when he walked in to examine me again. More disparaging comments were muttered but him mockingly singing, ‘It’s a long way to Tipperary ’ in reference to my lack of dilation, remained brandished upon me. Thanks for the encouragement doc. Plucked out of Labourland once more, it was then that I realised the impact words have on a labouring woman; they are magnified many-fold. Some parts of my intelligent body, or rather, all parts, must have felt threatened by him and decided that now was not the time to give birth, once again slowing contractions. My instincts tell me labour would have been much shorter had I not been exposed to these taunting interventions.

Only when night blanketed the Nicosia sky and the clinic fell quiet did I completely relax, my mother now also present in the room. Knowing that the doctor and his snide remarks had thankfully left the building allowed me to fully fall into the sacred space of labour. Sometimes I would stand naked by the large open window, deeply breathing up at the little gondola of a new moon as a hot water bottle was placed against my back and other times, I would retreat to the bathroom, to labour alone. As contraction chased wilder contraction, I felt the pulsating beauty of the primal, connected to the Divine by some serpentine umbilical cord, slipping into what the Australian Aborigines call ‘The Dreamtime’. To me, these staggering forces rumbling through my body were the very same ones that exploded planets and stars and galaxies into being.

At around midnight and approaching 24 hours since labour had first begun, one of the amiable but inexperienced nurses that had been left in charge came to check my cervix. Her words puffed a second wind through my very tired sails.

“You’ve almost fully dilated! You’re ready to give birth,’ she proclaimed smiling and we all cheered with the vigour of Eurovision Song Contest victors, even taking pictures of the moment.

‘I’ve made it! I’m headed for my dream birth!’ I thought elatedly

Little did I know as I allowed myself to be led to into the delivery room, that my second nightmarish labour was about to begin.

************************************

Family was summoned, the pediatrician was summoned… and so was the doctor. The disgruntlement at having been woken at 3 am was deeply engraved on his oval face. What followed altered the course of my labour. The person I put my trust in entered the regions of betrayal, emotional abuse and downright bullying.

‘Who told you you’re ready to give birth?’ he barked after checking me.

‘The nurse,’ I stammered, giving her name.

‘Stop blaming people! Now is not the time to be blaming people!’

No, really, read that line again because that is exactly what he flung my way. Part of me is still recovering from that reply.

“You’re not even half way there!” he continued and my little boat began sinking in the thunderous rampage.

The reddening face loomed large, inches above me, “I’ve let you do this your way but ENOUGH! I’ve got three clients early in the morning! Enough of this THIRD WORLD BIRTH! We’re doing it MY WAY NOW! You’ve had your 24 hours!’

So, the medical hourglass had beaten us.

Poof! Gone was the magical labour of a few hours ago. My ballooning sails had been ruptured irreparably. Exhausted and hurt and supine on the dreaded bed, I assented to pethidine but found that akin to being electrocuted every time I had a contraction. Even as I type, I feel immensely sad that I betrayed my body; it had now lost its beautiful ability to deal with the intensity as I entered Drugland and writhed like a skewered salmon from side to side. If I am blessed with having more children and so long as I am conscious, I will never, ever, ever allow anyone to strap me down whilst having contractions.

Arching my searing back, I couldn’t face the doctor’s pitocin plan; I’d heard too much about the pain of artificially speeding up labour. I looked towards the doula and told her there was only one exit road for me now that I was broken and sunken. Gingerly, she tried to discourage me. The doctor didn’t want to go ahead with my decision either but I insisted on an epidural, albeit the minimum dosage so I could still feel my legs.

It’s here that a few more people enter my birth story; the anesthetist, who it must be said was the nicest person from the whole medical team there, my soothing mother in law, rubbing my forehead as the drugs took effect and a few more hours hazily lolled by and thirdly, a very dear friend who also knew the doctor quite well. Her presence in the delivery room took the edge off his granite demeanour a little. In fact the energy in the room seemed to shift, to lighten, when she was there and I affectionately consider her my baby’s fairy godmother. Along with the doula, she remained by my side, both of them guiding and inspiring my inner reserves.

Seeing as I could no longer stand, rock on all fours or sway in accordance with my body’s rhythms there was only one other option to let my baby know that all was well: Singing. Not caring if I sounded like a drowning dingo to the rest of the ward, I crooned ‘Wearing my long tail feathers as I fly’ , carrying on even as Madame Midwife barged in and began fastening my ankles at perpendicular angles. With a look of smug satisfaction, she berated me for taking the long way round and hassling everyone in the process. I later learned she’d also been terrifying my huddled, ashen-faced family by telling them that the baby’s heartbeats were dropping, relaying the news with an array of melodramatic expressions from what, I imagine, must be a well rehearsed repertoire (we kept the rolls of cardiograph paper as evidence that the baby was never in any danger and as my doula reassured me, heartbeats would return to normal once a contraction had subsided). Interestingly, I still have the newspaper clipping featuring her, purporting to be all for natural childbirth and grinning like Betty Barmaid about to pull a pint.

A friend later said to me, ‘Perhaps you’d read too much about it all”. Knowledge is indeed a double edged sword but I believe that it did save me from halting the Caesarean direction the doctor seemed to be heading in when he began mumbling about the baby being posterior. ‘Use your hands,’ the doula and I urged him. If midwives can birth posterior babies, then surely he could too. He grumbled all the way through the procedure but finally, my little pomegranate was forcepped (note the word ‘force’?) out and my arms devoured him.

*******************

Never was there hatred towards the doctor but the weeks that followed found me wondering what to do with the snowballing hurt and anger within me - and it wasn’t to do with raging postpartum hormones. That’s not to say I was constantly thinking of the birth – how could I with a babe so freshly dipped in universe alighting senses I never knew I had? I could seamlessly write another couple of thousand words on the first few exquisite days with my little breastfeeding cub, indeed on the pregnancy itself, but that belongs somewhere else. Cloying dust however, does not belong in hidden corners and one final meeting with the doctor was due. ‘What’s the point?’ well-meaning family asked.

“I’m doing this for me, not for him.” And anyway, my breasts would never forgive me if I didn’t go, I added silently.

Two months later, my husband and I were seated in his office (which was beginning to resemble an animal menagerie), my baby soundly sleeping next to me. As we waited for him to end his phone conversation, my eyes rested on the cavalcade of cows. I was suddenly taken aback. Why hadn’t I seen those horns before, those sharply curving protrusions that were enough to make a matador’s eyes water. What a spectacular testament to my own myopia on all levels! And how symbolically appropriate for this bully of a doctor.

When he realised that I wasn’t in his office for a post partum check up, he was aghast.

“Is that why you are here? Well I don’t want to hear it, I don’t have time,’ he sputtered over and over like a rusty old faucet.

“You don’t wish to hear it but I need to say it.”

Calm but firm, I let it all out, every barbed comment he had hurled at me. His body language displayed obvious discomfort and his absurd, incoherent attempts at defense saw words crash into each other and I’m pretty sure quite a few syllables were badly injured.

When he could see that his last line, ‘You got a baby out of this didn’t you?” wasn’t working, he actually did apologise. Even though it was thickly coated in arrogance, his hallmark, I must admit, I didn’t expect him to go as far as saying sorry.

Since then I’ve been thinking that when someone is so blindly arrogant, you end up not taking them seriously anymore. And that’s what happened. I departed from the clinic, shedding my last few tears as I descended the first floor stairs. The park outside looked very leafy and green.

Don’t let my love of figurative language detract from the facts; the events stated here did occur and unfortunately, there are many other birth stories far worse than mine here in Cyprus . What seems to be emerging is too much unnecessary intervention wherein starts the domino chain of medical events. Here it must be stated that I am not against a doctor’s help when truly needed or against the administration of pain relief; there certainly is a place for the ‘small mercies’ of modern medicine and who knows, I may genuinely require a Ceasearean one day. What does grieve me is the dishonouring of childbirth. This largely stems from the attitudes towards labour and delivery where, more often than not, they are viewed as an illness that needs to be ‘treated’ quickly. Labour though, asks that she be honoured, to bloom in her own good time, much in the same way the Agros rose releases its fragrance and unfurls its petals at its own rhythm. This dishonouring, not only of labour but of the female body, has lead many a woman imploring for medication particularly when lying in an unnatural ‘V’ shape to birth, the worst possible position for mother and baby. Bringing a child into this world acutely connects us with the Great Life Source/Divine Father/Divine Mother and wise is the doctor who does not snatch it away because he has three clients the following morning.

Just as there will always be doctors only too happy to oblige a woman insisting on a Ceasearean, there also needs to be places for those of us who wish to honour our labour, who wish to birth actively. And there will be because a growing number of women living on this island are beginning to remember, to rise and reclaim and yes, if need be, to roar. That doesn’t mean we should seek out the nearest olive tree to birth under. In can be in little but large ways such as refusing to lie down and assuming the labour position of our choice; or it can be through having a knowledgeable person next us who will respectfully question the doctor when he begins preparations for a Ceasearean section; or it may be insisting that our newborn is not whisked away to a sterile ward but remains a fecund pulse away from its mother. Whatever the step, it is reclamation of ours and our baby’s birthrights.

If everything happens for a reason, then there are interesting answers as to why I had the birth I did, not least because we face what we fear. Addedly, if our outer world reflects our inner world, then I have quite a bit of work to do before future births! At this moment in time, writing my birth account feels like putting back a miniscule fragment of the shattered puzzle that is women’s birthing, as was speaking to the doctor one final time after the birth. However, there is one thing I did forget to say to him:

It may well be a long way to Tipperary but, in the words of a far heartier song, it’s a long way to the top if you wanna rock’n’roll…and having an active birth…well...it don’t get more rock ‘n’ roll.

Oh and to balance out that horn-headed herd, someone really should gift him with a couple of winking, belly dancing purple turtles.

January 2009

Raw Pregnancy...Sort of!

May 2009 take us forth to live our passions with life’s soft rhythm…..

I certainly need more softness because what a ride pregnancy and motherhood are! One moment it feels like gently gliding on a carousel and the next it is swashbuckling mayhem, navigating through the wilderness of sleeplessness, organic nappies and rocking chairs. But it’s beautiful! Pregnancy is being dipped in other-worldy splendour and giving birth, aaahhh….that’s initiation into the sacred, the knowing, the pulsing…..it’s going into the darkest cave, willingly dying and then boldly returning.

The last time I wrote (not referring to private journals), was about half a year ago. I really did think I would be documenting my pregnancy and raw eating with a monthly blog, yet when I fell pregnant - or rather ‘rose’ pregnant (you don’t ‘fall’ do you?!) – I had no urge to reveal anything. In fact, I luxuriated in going inwards, especially those first few months where I longed to be near gentle, flowing waters and cherry blossoms.

As far as raw eating went...er well….there wasn’t much of that in the first three months, not if you consider I’d been soaring on about 90% raw the year before. Even before I knew I had a little universe growing inside me, I’d take my fruit to work as usual, perplexedly stare at it, wonder why I couldn’t eat it, promise I would have it later until it would eventually end up an injured mess at the bottom of a frazzled plastic bag. One morning I nearly gagged on flax seeds and couldn’t even glance at them throughout my entire pregnancy. As for raw cacao, uh-uh, a big no-no there for the most part but strangely enough, after my eighth month, I had a real craving for it so perhaps my body and littl’un needed the magnesium.

Carbohydrates called to me (bellowed to be accurate), usually savoury ones, so there was a lot of rice being boiled during dark midnight hours. Perhaps if I lived on a raw vege village where some kindly, imaginative soul would prepare dehydrated meals and raw ‘cheezes’ for me, I could have eaten more raw, but with the fatigue that comes with early pregnancy, all I wanted to do was sleep and eat - usually whatever was within a three metre radius. That’s not to say that I didn’t make an effort. In fact I was very diligent with my seasonal green juicing until I was told to stay off the parsley as it could cause contractions. This had me researching herbs and plants to avoid during pregnancy and by the end of it, the safe ones had whittled down to just cucumbers and nettle. I wanted to sprout but I’d heard mixed reports so I played it safe with those too . Am happy to be a human guinea pig but not when carrying or breastfeeding my little baby. However, I did make sure that certain ‘mother’ foods were part of my pregnancy nutrition throughout, stepping it up a couple of notches after the fourth month when spring was in full Cypriot swing and the carbs were somewhat stifled. Here’s a list of them:

*bee pollen

* vegan DHA

*spirulina

*hemp seed smoothies

*maca

*carob

*seasonal fruit: notably grapes and watermelon (being pregnant meant I was entitled to the succulent middle bit without getting my wrists slapped!)

*chlorella

*marine phytoplankton

And plenty of squatting and yoga!

MY BIRTH STORY

Hmmmm...am troubled by this….you see I fully intended to put my birth story up on this blog as my birth beliefs have pretty much the same roots as my raw food beliefs. My birth story seemed to have written itself, or more appropriately, etched itself in my head three days after I’d given birth. I even had a title for it:

A Tale of Two Labours, One Birth and A Whole Lotta Arrogance

So why am I not putting it up now? Why am I postponing it? Because although no woman during intense labour contractions should be arrogantly mocked, betrayed and be shouted at (for a blunder on the nurse’s part) by the doctor she has placed her total trust in, something has occurred these past 2 weeks that has made me change my initial plans. This particularly well-known clinic has been in the news, as tragically, three little souls died there and another seven were battling for their lives. These babies were born healthy and fell ill whilst in the clinic’s neo-natal unit. My heart goes out to these mothers and I can’t begin to imagine their pain and anguish. What they have undergone is far, far worse (doesn’t compare really) than what happened to me so for that reason, I have decided to postpone relating my birth story.

As a side note, perhaps it is time mothers insisted, if they have the strength and inclination, to keep their little newborn babes in their rooms and let there be no visitors aside from immediate family. I believe that a newborn placed next to its mother gains immediate strength from having her so near – the immunization that comes from a mother’s love.

POST PARTUM EATING

Literally one and a half hours after I had given birth, I did not want a huge meal like I had anticipated. I drooled for raw fresh fruit so much so, that it took me by surprise. I also craved coconut juice but didn’t Bless my koumera Zoe for bringing a huge tub of juicy pomegranate jewels. I gorged and gorged on them after breastfeeding sessions whilst still in the clinic and when returning home. I wouldn’t even bother with a spoon, just scooping it up wit my hands and shoveling them in my mouth. Pomegranate body screaming for frsh salds fruit

Pulse and passion… vibrant, verdant passion – it’s what it’s all about isn’t it?

The Personal

On a personal note, it has been a few years of dancing with this raw lifestyle; I have been spun about, waltzed then teased, embraced and challenged! And what a dance it has been!

The first three days I committed myself to being 100% as an experiment, I felt as if a great giant hand had stretched my eyelids open - and when I carried on for another two days, I was a happy and curious alien that had gently landed on Earth. Then….no…I wasn’t the alien, I was very much a part of the Earth – everyone else seemed alien –like!! ;-)

After that, I knew there was no going back on this raw dance; yes, there were moments where I had to sit and catch my breath, trip over new steps – but there was no going back! Even now, with the challenges I face trying to be raw andpregnant, to give up on this lifestyle is no longer an option. There is too much magic awaiting. There is too much pulse and passion.

Plosive pie

Winding Back……

Flitting through my early raw journals, I have scooped out a few of the inner sensations I felt in the hope that any of you attempting the raw dance for the first time will also be inspired to go ahead and try and hopefully feel these too.

*aliveness

*calmness -mood changes are amazing!

*purified

*senses heightened – especially eyesight

* great mental clarity

*compassion (no road rages like before!)

*control over emotions

* attracting wonderful synchronicities

* excited about each day upon waking - motivated to work and play

* cleaning up/ de-cluttering other aspects of life like the home

And the physical changes:

* hair strengthened with less knots (alongside cutting out commercial shampoos)

* clearer skin (note I say ‘clearer’ not clear as I have what I call my teen ‘battle

scars’)

* much easier bowel elimination

* eyes sparkle

* effortless weight loss – even face shape changed around the jowls!

* stronger nails

Of course, starting points are important – and if you already are a vege/vegan this may come a great deal easier than for someone who is a fast foodie cookie!

********************

After 2 months, I was high raw, but still eating a little cooked food like pasta.

Here are reflections on these early challenges:

* difficulty cutting out coffee (even after I cut it out, still loved that coffee bean aroma!) It got to a point where the stimulus of coffee was too much and I no longer wanted it.

• When heavy food was eaten like pasta, cheeks were puffy the next day
• Other sweets easy but chocolate hard to give up (this was before I had heard of raw cacao)
• Sometimes hard to be organised mentally and practically
• Trying not to be ‘all raw or nothing’ – achieving balance
• Social challenges – eating cooked food at restaurant/person’s house because it was there!
• Curious comments/ unwelcome ones.
• Becoming preachy about raw food
• Dealing with old cravings – even meat.
• Dealing with old emotions that were surfacing
• After the first year

• Jan – April of that year my dance slowed down – when something very sad in my life occurred. Went back to pastries, sweets and cooked food . What followed was lack of energy, weight gain and feeling ‘withered’ (that’s what I wrote in journal)
• Resumed 80% raw Easter of that year and what a difference! Cells sparkled and ignited with life force!

Following that:

• Complete lifestyle overhaul – for the better
• plunged into more and more raw home study
• used myself as a guinea pig and foraged in Cypriot fields for wild edibles like wild purslane and malva (glystiritha and moloshes to you Cypriots!)
• Stepped it up a notch with juice fasting and more wild greens
• Made a dedication to raw and invested in proper juicer, dehydrator, saladacco etc …’cos if you’re gonna really dance, you gotta wear the gown!
• Got married and even had a raw wedding cake!
• Heard and saw David Wolfe in all his raw glory in Athens (my, that does sound nicely obscene!)

With Gina ‘The Raw Greek’ at her stall at David Wolfe seminar in Athens

• Whirled and twirled with raw, without effort being 95-100% for months
• Raw Journeys set up

Rapassion!

RAW JOURNEYS:

For Raw Journeys, it is coming very close to a year of setting it up and in that time:

• the website has gone up, along with the online store with its superfoods, books and raw cosmetics
• have held a few raw -living workshops with my nutritionist friend Barbara Karafoka
• great potluck by the sea in Limassol – but by the time I got to my courgette ‘pasta’, it had all gone!
• have given experiential guidance to raw -curious people
• been part of two Mind Body Spirit exhibitions where we served Cacao Truffles, Rainbow Curry, Raw Pizza and Mango/Rocket Salad. My raw buddy Gina Panayi (www.therawgreek.com) also helped us out invaluably in November ’07 at the Nicosia Hilton Park

Ok…that’s enough for now….will be writing more about my 9 day juice fast which isn’t much by Angela Stokes (www.rawreform.com) standards, but still worth doing. And of course...will also tackle raw pregnancy and all its delightful tumultuousness!