Baby

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.