Friday, December 4, 2009
The night passes in five, ten-minute intervals.
I am conscious that I am resting, drifting in and out of dreams and silly head-stuck songs, aware of baby-movement, of womb-tightening that has not stopped for hours.
It is an almost-normal night. There is a full moon. Pete wants to rest early; Piper napped at five, so she is awake. She plays with my hair, sticks her fingers up his nose. She giggles when my fingers find her chin in the dark, and I giggle too, and she giggles again, and we both have the giggles. Pete is grumpy. I cuddle her close.
The midwife has been called. She is resting too. I am glad not to disturb her tonight, worried that each contraction will be the last, that I will be embarrassed because I did not know - again.
But I know. It will be soon.
Morning breaks quiet, and still they come.
I eat. I drink. I remember another morning like this, so nervous. Mom and Dad came in the thunderstorm the night before. We slept and woke and waited almost all the next day. And then Piper came, and I was a Mama.
I am not less nervous now.
Pete has left for work early, to take care of some pressing things, while Piper sleeps and labor comes slow. I breathe through as I sit, willing the baby to drop a bit, hoping to hold him soon. He was busy last night.
The pain comes low, insistent, then eases. I surrender to it, last night's shock-shivers lifted. I consider how this pain - of all pains - begs me to my knees; I wonder how I will meet God there today.
I hope it will be today. This can go on for days, they say.
I open my hands, mutely asking His nearness, His entrance into this journey of mine. The tears aren't from the labor. They are longing welling up, vulnerable seeking sufficient.
And I can ask this, for the labor of another mother brought God human into our life. Into our death. To bring Life that is God with us.
The full moon sets; the sun rises through clouds.
I wait for Him.
(Image © Informal Moments Photography)