Birth Day Remembrance Comes of Age

At four a.m. a dream and strange sensations. Bright morning. Nervous, steady husband. Phonecalls. “You would do this Christmas Day. Meet you at the hopsital.”

Birthing room. Monitors, cords. Parents bearing gifts. Merry nurses. Not so bad, yet.

Dad in waiting room plays Atari games. Tim teaches doctor with pregnant wife how to hook it up.

Mom helps me walk. Waters gush. Pain, in earnest, begins.

Laughter, excitement surround my bed. Strange new form of consciousness while climbing (riding?) a contraction to its peak, its crest. Beginning to flag. Wave a white flag. Tim’s hand constricted by my strife.

On his three-inch TV screen, Barney Miller. Somehow I don’t follow the plot. Evening labors into night. A very great need to PUSH.

Decision to move to delivery. Intense pain as moment nears. Doctor, nurse, my cheering section: Mom, my brother, a good friend, Tim. The audience breathlessly waits.

A moment like no other, sending small person out from my body. Giant relief. Silence.

Time frozen as doctor, there, grasps baby, my baby, clears passages. She cries.

Indecision over name evaporates. Victoria. She’s Victoria. Gripping her daddy’s finger.

Three minutes past midnight. I’m a mom.


Milton said…
Oh so very small back then...
... Look how she has grown.
Deanna said…
Thanks, Milton. You knew Victoria before she was born!

Also, I checked out your friend's music on myspace. It sounds good.