We Wait

It's raining and the sun is shining. The devil, as we say, is beating his wife.

Why did we laugh at that as children? And what does it mean that those domestic abuse hotline signs they put up in doctor's office's bathrooms have all the little number tabs torn off these days?

I don't know. It worries me, though.

Today is September 15, 2009. It is Lily's due date. Back in January, when she told me she was pregnant, September seemed so far away as to be unimaginable. And here we are, the middle of the month and we know there's a boy in there and his name is Owen, and Lily is ready to have him. Now whether he's ready to be born or not is another question entirely and isn't it always this way? Out of my four pregnancies, not one of my babies was born on his or her due date. They were all "late." Back when I had Hank, in the olden, olden times, the doctor told me at the end of April that he could come any day.

His birthday is June 10.

These days they would have snatched him out sometime in May and it would have been too early. He was born perfect, eight pounds, a tidy weight and ready in every way to take on the world as an infant should. He laughed out loud the night he was born when a little girl named Annie came over to visit him and did something that tickled his funny bone.

I went to Publix yesterday to buy ingredients for my middle-eastern feast and mostly to see Lily. She is still working. She finally and at last, looked tired. She's trying to work as long as possible because the more time she takes off now, the less time she can take off after her baby is born. I think this is so cruel. She should be able to finish up all her nesting, to lay on the couch and doze, to take little walks and gather her strength for what is about to happen. She's young and she's strong, but a woman needs that time, especially with her first, to prepare her mind as well as her body.

"You're on the exit ramp," I tell her. "I swear you are." I bought her a little stuffed turtle when I was in the store and gave it to her. She looked at me like, "What the fuck?"
"Slow and steady wins the race," I said.
"Mom, this is a dog toy," she said, squeaking it to demonstrate.
"Huh," I said. "I didn't notice. It was on the sale rack. Sorry."
"That's okay," she said.
She knows what I mean.

And so we wait. I hope we're allowed to wait. I hope they don't hook her up to Pitocin which is a mean drug and yes, it can get that uterus to contract but not in the way nature intended. I've written so many words about how we've taken something which has worked quite nicely for thousands and thousands and thousands of years and turned it into a medical event with beeping technology, invasive procedures and theories which remain untested but are used nonetheless. I don't need to say any more right now about all of that. I just pray we get to wait.

The chickens have finally come out of the hen house. Nope. Wait. They're walking back in. They are lazy birds, those chickens of mine. They like being inside where it's cozy on rainy days with the straw they've arranged all by themselves on the floor, the classical music, the tiny Christmas lights.

I think Owen likes being inside too. It's cozy in there, in his mama's belly with her heartbeat to listen to, his fingers and toes to count. I wonder what he's thinking about. It won't be long until it's not so cozy in there any more. There will be no more room to stretch and the little cramps that Lily is having now will become more serious, more urgent with purpose.

And then he'll be born.

If I could talk to him I would say this: "Owen, we are ready. We are so ready to see your pretty face, to see what the love your parents have for each other has made. You have a mama and a daddy and grandparents and an uncle and aunts and two great-grandmothers and you have a bed and diapers and clothes and butt paste and a swing and a sling and your mama's titties. They are all ready. So come on now. Don't be lazy. We have waited long enough."

I wonder what he would answer.
"Go away, I'm napping," perhaps.

But maybe he'd think about it.
"Hmmmm. Doesn't sound so bad."

Maybe he's dreaming of titties. Lily, I'm sorry to be speaking of your titties but really- it's okay. Just like you used to tell me. "It's okay, Mama. Really."

You were right then and I am right now.

It's okay, Owen. Really. Wake up. Time to be born. We can't hold this love in forever.

It's raining today but the sun is shining too.

Come on towards the light, little boy. It's shining for you.