I am on my knees, bearing down. I know it’s time to deliver this baby. I look around: lots of folks in the delivery
room, some of them nurses and doctors and such, some family, none of them
particularly interested in what I’m doing, talking among themselves. I survey
the room to determine where else I might deliver within this space. A low bed, a high bed, or where I am---a
blanket on the floor.
As I see the baby’s head crowning, I realize that the circumstances
of this birth are not important. Bed or
floor is not important. Whether I am
alone or have help is not important.
What matters is me, the baby and the birth. It is happening exactly as it should happen, whether I go through
controlling mechanisms or just do nothing.
This is a reassuring realization.
As the baby’s full
head comes out and I see his face, I clear his mouth with a finger sweep,
making sure there is no obstruction to his breath. “I’m okay” he says.
When he’s fully delivered, he stretches and feels his new-found
freedom, his eyes still closed like most infant Buddhas. He’s beautiful, robust, brown-skinned,
intelligent. Again, when my sister appears at my side to offer help, he says “I’m okay.”
He seems so wonderful, like a miracle, something special. Is his father African or Indian? I wonder dreamily. I have no idea who the father
is as an individual, just that he must exist; there’s evidence he exists.
Holding this baby close to me, I feel his warmth. He is still moist from birth. I swaddle him and let him sleep. Moments later I’m talking to medical staff on
the other side of the room. Just small
talk. There’s a feeling that something
perfect and wonderful has happened, but it’s also perfectly natural and
unremarkable too. I know that my baby will be
okay. He told me so. Still I want to get back to him and hold him
close again.
