Life as a single mother of two was a roller coaster of emotions. My early childhood provided me with several mentors and role models for motherhood, despite the lack of that at home. Caregivers and family friends gave me a look into loving family homes and gave me references to pull from to try to provide this for my children. Still, my mothering skills were not ideal. The first few months the girls and I lived with my grandparents. Mamaw was a very loving person, and her help and mothering of me and my girls helped me adjust to this new role. She provided relief for nighttime feeds for two, guidance for parenting, emotional support for overwhelming times, and room and board for us all. She arranged for friends for meet with me and inform me of my options for returning to high school to finish my senior year, and then arranged childcare for the girls so that I could attend.

The door opened and I looked up to see my 15 y/o brother walking in. “Where is the key to dad’s trailer?” “Why do you need the key?” I inquired. “Mom kicked us all out. We need to go there.” I laid the baby down and walked outside into the cold to see my mother with my 7 and 9 y/o siblings in the car. “What are you doing? You can’t just throw all of your kids out!” I was irate. She went on to tell me that she just couldn’t do it anymore, she was giving them to our dad. Another big argument ensued, and I gave them the key, and she dropped them off. Alone. Dad was out of town working and they were there alone. I packed a bag for the girls and I, loaded them in the car, and headed to dad’s house to figure out our next move.

Graduation day for me coincided with Mother’s Day, appropriately, because my girls were in the audience. While I listened to the college plans of my classmates, my thoughts were filled with finding a job to support my family. Over the next two years I developed a relationship with a childhood friend. We dated on trips to the zoo, parks, playing board games, including the girls, and many times my young siblings, into our activities. We married in 1981 and became pregnant a few months later.

The joy of having another child was immediately followed by the anxiety of my previous birth trauma. I wasn’t a teenage mother, I wasn’t a single parent, yet the thought of having to see the doctors that had made me feel “less than” made me nauseated. One day I was talking to an old family friend about my uneasiness with the prospect of another pregnancy with these doctors, and after a moment she suggested that I talk with a woman at church that had been a maternity nurse at the local hospital but had just finished school to become a nurse midwife. The thought intrigued me. At church the next week I sought her out and briefly spoke with her about her new degree, and asked if I could speak with her sometime. She immediately invited me over to her house, and we spent a couple of hours just talking, well I talked, she listened. I told her the whole story, and she hugged me, apologized for the way I had been made to feel, answered questions about the problems I had encountered with my first pregnancy, and I fell in love.

My first prenatal visit with her was life changing. I was given my chart, instructed how to weigh myself, check my urine specimen, and record it all in my chart. I was introduced to her lending library, and I couldn’t read enough books. I checked out books on pregnancy, books on breastfeeding, and books about midwives that had changed women’s lives for decades. My husband and I attended the childbirth education series she offered in her office, and after our series ended, I attended the next series because I hadn’t delivered yet and was eager to learn. When I went into labor, she evaluated me in her office, and sent me home to rest until things picked up more. I spent the day playing with my girls at the public pool, timing contractions once they became stronger. After taking the girls home, I cooked a light dinner for my husband, and we headed to the hospital. Barb met us there, evaluated my progress, and remained with us until the baby was born. She supported me, educated me, and fought for my birth plan wishes to be honored. When my third daughter was born, she cheered for us, congratulated us, and helped us with breastfeeding. I had made a lifelong friend, and she had planted the seed of midwifery in my mind.

My love for birth inspired me to attend childbirth educator training classes. Barb helped me apply for a scholarship with March of Dimes to help cover the cost of the classes, and she promoted my classes to her patients. While I enjoyed teaching all that I had learned to other women, I felt that I was saying the words, but not fully understanding the physiology of the birthing process. I felt like something was missing. After speaking with her about this, about my desire for every woman to have a “Barb”, and about my birth experiences, I knew what I had to do. Shortly after, I enrolled in nursing school.