Birth

On the night you were born, your uncle says it was perfectly clear. He and your cousin Petey saw the stars in the cold night sky while they walked home to their house in the middle of the night after you finally made your entrance. You and I were too busy, of course, to be admiring the spring night, but I like to know the stars were out in full force, spilled out like silver glitter on dark velvet, to welcome you to the world.

In the days and weeks after you were born, I thought a lot about your birth. I wrote out a detailed birth story, that broke down the stages and timing of the contractions, the progression of dilation, and length of each stage of labor. But now, exactly six months after your birth, what stays with me are brightly muddled images, in no particular order, and bearing little relation to one another. The sound of the fish tank burbling as I lay on the red couch in early labor. The cold and oily lipstick taste of the cherry ice cream and castor oil milkshake I drank early the morning before you were born. Hot water on my back and the cold glass of the shower wall on my forehead as I leaned against it, rocking through a contraction in a candlelit bathroom. Intense, chaotic, all-consuming pain, without language, and without bearing, my only anchor the flame glowing behind Our Lady of Succor's serene and unruffled gaze.

The moment I reached down and felt the damp, warm, solid slickness that was your head emerging, and realized with a sudden shifting of consciousness that it was you, my little baby daughter, I was trying to push past that seemingly insurmountable barrier, and not some nameless thing.

Because I was still coping with intense contractions and a retained placenta, I did not get to hold you for very long right away, but I do remember, very clearly, those first few moments after you emerged. I remember asking, before I could help myself, "Is it really a girl?" And I remember them handing you to me, and holding your soft, damp self against my bare skin. But what remember most is your eyes, wide and clear and dark blue, looking around in wonder at the new world you had become part of. They were not like many newborn eyes, bleary and unfocused. They were perfectly alert. Just like now, you were determined not to miss a thing. After those first few minutes, your Daddy held you, while I finished birthing the placenta, and was sutured, half listening to the excited cacophony of voices around me. I heard people calling relatives, and feet pounding up the stairs to to show you to everyone, or perhaps to bring them all down, I don't know. I heard you crying a little, and I heard my mom talking with the midwives about the birth. I learned that you had "busted out" with your little fist in the air, the other pressed against your cheek. Mostly I enjoyed being able to finally lay back and rest after many many hours of hard work.

I often wonder if or what you remember from that night. I used to tell you, when you were still in my belly, that when the day came that you were ready to come out, it might be hard, and it might hurt for both of us, but that we would be in it together. No matter how hard it got, I wanted you to know that you weren't alone; that it wasn't just me or just you facing this unknown and sometimes frightening transition, but both of us. This isn't just my story, but yours, too. You won't ever be able to tell me how long you remembered it, or what form those memories take, but I like to think that they are and will forever be a part of your subconscious. A fleeting trace of the warm closeness of the womb, the pressing intensity of our bodies working together to bring you forth, the cold shock of the air on your naked body as you slid into the midwife's hands, and maybe even somewhere back in your mind, like a word in a foreign language long-forgotten but still on the tip of your tongue, you'll remember the love and joy in my eyes looking at you for the first time.