And Here You Are — August 1978

 

And Here You Are — August 1978

Vacuuming is the first sign of labor.
Next, Rose scrubs the stovetop, washes shelves,
toothbrushes the countertop grout.
Nobody can stop her. The cabin, immaculate
as Rose calls the midwives. We go to
the back yard where we keep a waterbed
for these hot August days to bask in
the good vibes of the pine tree,
the Jersey cows in the pasture across the street,
the funky country smell of home.
The plan is, when labor picks up, we’ll drive
to the hospital for the actual birth.

Midwife Iris examines, says one centimeter
so there’s plenty of time. She and midwife Sara
make mint tea in the kitchen.
The full moon is rising, pregnant and orange.
Left alone, Rose and I smooch a little,
which seems to shift labor into high gear.
Rose feels an urge to push.
I fetch Iris whose tea is still brewing—
that’s how fast it happened.

One look, and Iris says the baby is crowning.
Forget the hospital. Sara is gathering towels,
Rose is blowing puff-puff-puff,
Iris is putting on latex gloves when
with a snorting sound your head pops out
with a hand at the neck. Your left hand.
From day one you were left-handed.
A tight fit but Iris eases you out. Sara wraps you
in a towel and places you on Rose’s belly.
You’re a girl, our steaming fresh baby.

Doctor Don arrives — Sara had called him.
He won’t go near Rose. He’s been warned
he’ll lose hospital privileges if he attends
one more hippie home birth. So he stands
by the garbage cans with his doctor bag
in case of emergency, but Iris knows exactly
what she’s doing as she delivers the placenta
with a cloud of vapor in the cool night air.
Sara lights candles that flicker with the breeze.
Moonlight casts shadows through the bishop pine.

You grasp my finger. Your cord, clamped. I cut.
I help Rose sit up, which is tricky in a waterbed,
and we put you to the breast.
Doctor Don from the garbage cans says
“I see ten fingers and ten toes. Good job.”
He departs. Iris and Sara clean up and go.

At midnight, Quinn the German shepherd
stands guard. Indoors we sleep holding
your flesh to our flesh for contact,
for affirmation of this miracle.
Welcome home our black-haired bundle of life,
our daughter forever, our precious pine cone
dropped by the moon.

.…..

Note: I love birth stories. We make plans, nature changes them. This, our second of three. Each an adventure.