Baby

Annette, I wrote this in response to Day Three of the Mindful Writing Challenge, e.g. write from the “love window.”

The incubation of light and life in the middle of the night.
I attend the birth of my first grandson. The mother's mother
chooses to be on-call. My mother chuffs her dictum in my ear.
The unknowing of new mothers demands at least one sentry.
The percolating silence of the hospital, bleep bleep of the
monitors. My son offers his girlfriend ice chips and a warm
hand to clench. Trepidation defies the lavender oil and singing
bowl. The pain is manageable until it isn't. By then it's too late
for an epidural. The baby refuses to budge from the cradle
of the mother's hips. Pages and pages of a birthing plan flutter
in disappointment. It doesn't matter, I say. Only a healthy child
matters. She stares at the ceiling. Every mother tells this story.
How she succumbs to the primeval push, and decisions are out
of her control. The doctor breezes in. It's time now. We go in.