The slippery, warm entrails are slapped onto my stomach. As
he cuts the cord I become two. My insides come outside became another. A pause
as we sense each other, we feel our breath. Our skins fused together with
warmth, blood and love. Her lips tasting
my skin, as I smell her hair. Cocooned in awe, we are floating.
Now I am a deflated balloon, my belly wrinkled, the air
passed into this new world before me. I am slipping into a warm sea of
oblivion. I want my spent body to be swallowed up. I feel finished.
Her movement brings me back as a wave lifts me, flops me
onto the shore, panting with exhaustion and relief. The warm sun rays of love
prick my skin until I am glowing with peace and purpose. I feel complete.
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I dont want to turn this blog into a motherhood and babies space, but that was my initial reaction to my daughter's arrival. Sylvia Plath describes this with more elegance:
Morning Song
Love set you going like a fat gold watch. The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry Took its place among the elements. Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue. In a drafty museum, your nakedness Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls. I'm no more your mother Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow Effacement at the wind's hand. All night your moth-breath Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen: A far sea moves in my ear. One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral In my Victorian nightgown. Your mouth opens clean as a cat's. The window square Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try Your handful of notes; The clear vowels rise like balloons.
