a plan for childbirth
I want to give birth in the rain, soft driving all-the-time Portland rain.
I want to give birth in the muggy cool of late spring, sweat beading on my forehead, between my breasts, under my raincoat as I walk from parking lot to hospital.
I want to give birth in a slow rush, the contractions certain and quick by the time I arrive, everything building in its perfect progression to the climax of pushing.
I want to give birth around many women who care for me, and my husband, and my son, and my family.
I want the day to be grey and full of promise; I want everyone to come in with hats and huge smiles.
I want to give birth in the presence of spring's first fat peonies, bursting into my room with their heady scent and their decadent fatness of pale pink and dark pink and purely white.
I want to feel pain, intense and strong, and I want to feel peace and certainty in the strength of my body, my muscles, my bones, my mind.
I want to be blessed by God, priest, and doctor.
I want my baby to cry out, lusty and strong, and I want to love him with every inch of my body, love him so that I cry fat tears.
I want the nurses, and my family, and everyone there to comment on his strong legs, his powerful lungs.
I want to live poetry, to remember every instant, to savor my experience for days, months, years, my lifetime. I want it all to endure, always, in my words, in my children, in the breath that swirls through us all.
