I remember my mom picking me up from a play date when I was about 9 years old. As she came in the door, another mom pulled her aside and showed her the picture I had drawn that afternoon.They spoke in hushed tones, and my friend’s mom seemed a little uncomfortable. I learned on the car ride home that it was the subject of my artwork that bothered her: while all my friends had been drawing pictures of horses and rainbows, I had sketched out an image of a goddess-like woman with voluptuous breasts and a curvaceous body.
That was the first time I can remember my art provoking a real and honest reaction, instead of the typical “very nice, dear” response most nine-year-olds receive. Not quite the reaction I expected, but it was an authentic one nonetheless. Fortunately, my mother did not make a big deal out of it. After all, this was nothing new for us… by then she had already come to terms with my crayon-laced musings on femininity.
In fact, I am sure now that much of my early artistic inspiration came from seeing my mother’s beautiful pregnant body, and then watching her breastfeed my baby sisters and brother.
What a blessing for a child to witness such awe inspiring things at that impressionable age! It’s really no wonder why I drew the things I did: I simply wanted to draw something beautiful. Innocent enough, right? But I was very aware, even back then, that my artwork made some people uncomfortable. It was brought to my attention that this was not considered “normal”.
I started buying into the idea that I was weird.
Sometimes in life, you cross paths with people for a reason. I made a new friend in fourth grade, and her mom was a midwife. I didn’t know what that meant back then, and it didn’t matter much to me at the time. All I knew was that the walls of their home were adorned with images of breasts, bellies, and vulvas! Oh, the vulvas! From colorful, abstract floral paintings to stark black and white photographs, my pre-pubescent eyes just drank it all in. No shame, no embarrassment, no explanation. Just pure divinity.
I became more curious about this thing called “midwifery” after coming across a placenta in the fridge. (I have since become one of “those people” who kept their afterbirth stored among the frozen vegetables… but back then in my innocent quest for some string cheese, this was quite a shock!) So my friend gave me a tour of her mom’s office, a bright and cheerful room off the kitchen. I was endlessly fascinated by all the instruments, gadgets, and birth art! We got comfy and popped a birth video into “ye olde VCR”. (At that tender age, there was more than a little giggling going on during that private screening!)
I’ll never forget the energy I felt in that room. It felt like an exclusive club that I wanted so badly to someday be a part of… how I longed to sit on this wicker furniture, surrounded by abstract paintings of vulvas, sipping tea, and discussing my uterus! Maybe I wasn’t so weird after all… this was my very first glimpse into the Red Tent, and I couldn’t wait for my initiation!
Fast forward about 15 years… 15 long years during which somehow, after middle-school, high-school, college, and everything in between, I kept in touch with my fourth grade friend. She was now pregnant with her first child, and I had just found out that I was expecting too! (…and expecting two!)
Of course that very same midwife, my fourth grade friend’s mom, attended my birth. She gave me the amazing pre-natal care that only a midwife can. She helped me give birth to my daughters naturally and without drugs. She supported my decision to exclusively breastfeed my twins, and she gently ushered me into the exclusive club of motherhood.
My medium of choice may have gone from crayons to glass, but my inspiration remains largely the same. Occasionally my art still seems to cause feelings of discomfort in some, but I no longer allow that to bother me. I am too busy contemplating uteri while sipping tea in my wicker chair.
