When my body decides it is time to birth this baby, I will meet the moment with every other woman who has birthed a baby before me. Imagine my hospital room crowded with inspirational energy. I have everything I need. I have everything I need. Everything. The wisdom inherited by my bones, muscles, and blood is wiser than any machine, midwife, or doctor, and if I listen to this magnificent creature, this ancient animal body of mine, I will be listening to nature and I will be fine.
After I had my first child, I was wary and worried for others to meet the births of their babies. For on the cusp of life, there is the possibility of fatality, of sudden surgery, and of disease and deadly deformity.
As I near this baby's entrance from warm wet womb to bright breathy earth, I do not have a lot of fear, but I have some, for I am human, and when it rises, or rather, pummels me, I simply try to be present. At this moment, we are still perfect. I am round and well, while he is swimming inside me like a fat fish in a small bag of water.
When my body decides it is time to birth this baby, I hope to not hide from birth, as I did with my first. For I know now what to expect. Pain must move through me. It is senseless to resist it. I am not even speaking of drugs, but of nonresistance. One must allow labor to take the lead. My body opened and shook the first time. I felt like land quaking, my plates shifting. I squeezed my eyelids shut, too frightened to look, while I panted and pushed and felt the rush and relief of birth. I know it will hurt. Just as I know my body will quake and open until this baby's head, shoulders, knees, and toes are out!
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