The Best Parts of Labor, or, alternately, A Mother's Love.

This moment right here, that is what makes 43 tedious hours go blasting out of your head.  The hand around your shoulder, the weight being released, the tiniest of loving bundles in your arms.  The inhale and exhale of sweet, sweet relief.  The bursting of love through each of your veins.  Your toes calmly on the floor.  Waters out.  Head out.  Body Out.  Placenta Out.  Cord is cut.  I love you, I love you, We love you exchanged.

That lopsided bump in your belly is removed, no longer will the butt be out of position on the right side.  No longer will that bundle of feet be in your left rib cage.  No longer will your head be unengaged after a full night of climbing stairs, nipple stimulation, cohosh and hip pain.  The story of our baby is coming soon, oh so soon is now over, the excitement of anticipation passed.  The moments are real and they are here and must be savored at every sip.

We rejoice at healthy heart rates, at low blood pressure, at drinking gallon upon gallon of water.  We ingest what we can, a sandwich here, a mango there, a bowl of yogurt, an egg.  The naps are short, but deep, "how long was I asleep?" "20 minutes" "Oh, it felt like 2 hours."  The sleep of waiting.  Waiting for a contraction to start.  Waiting for a contraction to stop.  Holding on just a bit longer.  Just a bit longer.  Waiting for the baby to turn.  Waiting for castor oil to take effect.  Waiting for the contractions to get stronger, stronger.  And strong enough to get into that tub of warm, warm, buoyant water.   And peeing and peeing and peeing all along. 

The tears are real that are shed.  They are of frustration.  Of sadness.  Of fear.  And of grief.  They are complete, soul shaking heart wrenching release.  They are the tears you shed alone in your bedroom in the middle of the night with your husband on your side.  They are vulnerable.  These tears attack you, they flood you, they are primal.  You release them and in comes another wave.  Another contraction to fill your face, your shoulders and abdomen.  Goodbye tears, and hello to the job at hand.  The work of birthing this baby.

And the joyful moment comes, not of birth but of dilation.  The moment where you can no longer lay down, the moment when your husband goes to wake the midwife.  The moment 40 hours into labor.  The moment when he says "It's happening."  And "How do you know?"  And "She has the look in her eye."  And everyone wakes up and we see the depth occur.  We watch the burden shift.  And the decision is made.  And the weight is lifted.  And I smile, a genuine, real, miraculous smile.  And I get into the healing waters.  And then the surrender occurs.

For giving birth is transcending.  I succumb to a trance, my mouth opens, my eyes bug, my body shifts.  I bear my weight through an ankle and a toe.  I let go of my body and release.  The pain is all encompassing, transforming and temporary.  It is something that is complete in my body in those moments.  Just keep drinking the water, rocking the pelvis, reaching and releasing.  I cannot even see the baby at the end, I just know it is my journey.  My passage-way.  My experience to move this body through my own.  For I am a divine being.  I am a miracle, and in turn we are all miracles and I create that in my moment of birth. 

And divinity comes as my husband rubs my back.  As I push through my legs, my arms, this little soul just keeps coming.  And I can feel a head and a sac of waters coming.  Closer and closer with every monitored moment.  Closer and closer to when our baby will arrive.  And I can feel the head coming, I know how soon it will be.  I remember how briefly I will feel this way.  I am grateful for the small, deliberate strokes across my mid-back.  I am grateful for my feet resting against my husbands lap.  I am thankful for this beautiful pool of water.

And then.  Just like that there is a head.  A father watches as his child's head emerges.  Rest: one, two, three, four.  Relief and pleasure and kindness and happiness in the very middle of our home.  And push: two, three, four.  The bundle of shoulders and limbs and butt and tummy and knees and feet come plopping out in one great tremendous jumble.  Into a fathers lap and a midwives hands.  We rise into the oxygen all 5 of us, we all take that first breath, cry that first cry, untangle our bodies from one another.  All hands on deck, all souls delighted, all of us through a mother's legs, into a mother's arms, and over the wall of a birthing tub.

And there we are together.  Delighted.  Exhausted.  Full.  Tears get erased by smiles, get erased by joy, get erased by warmth.  To look at your face, at your baby, your love of your life.  The pleasure of friendship.  A homecoming for us each.  A love for us all.  A happiness that's shared and shared and covered and uncovered and here we are.  The one of us, the two of us, the three of us.

And the four of us as sister is reclaimed.  We see you are a boy, and here is your brother.  And you are a big sister.  And we love you.  We love you.  We love you.  We love you each and every one.  Our family complete, our family united.  At long last our family is here.  And we are at home and we are in love.  Because I love you.  I love you.  I love you.