2 weeks

These 14 days have disappeared too quickly.
Almost back to blogging. Promise. But I was gifted with another birth story from a dear friend who was present, and it is just too beautifully written to not share some excerpts. (I'm hoping I get one from every person present. Too much to ask?) So before I share my own version, here is another perspective of a witness to our birth at home...

Hello, Daniel. I’m sure you’ll see me from time to time. A friend of your parents, a familiar stranger, a smiling face that you can trust and depend on. Maybe you will be shy like Morris, and hide with dimpled smiles, then warm up and say a word or two. I will smile and remember when you arrived.
I was far from home when I heard the news that you were coming. A brother to your brothers, for your brothers. A welcome and happy surprise.
Did you wonder how you’d be received? How could wounded hearts hold you close? Did you wonder if your body could house your spirit? What concerns lingered in your heart before that final transition? Or is it that you knew the course ahead, with loving hands guiding you to the veil of mortality? I bet you walked with confidence.
Prayers were repeated every time the thought of you came to mind. Hopes for happy endings. Clear minds, relief, joy.
When I came home to the desert, plans were made and I awaited the news. Time passed. Then one morning, not too early, your father called and sure enough, your time had come.
I loaded up a bag - not knowing how long I’d wait once I arrived at your home.
It wasn’t long before I parked in front of your home. I knocked and cracked the door, calling a quiet and tentative, “Hello?” I heard your mother moaning, and I walked quietly inside. Her moans were steady and controlled. She seemed to be bracing herself for that familiar labor. Not knowing my place, I waited in the living room and listened.
Another friend of your mother’s came out and greeted me with a smile and a hug. Soon I was brought into your parents’ room and into the bathroom. The translucent window over the tub let in the pleasant morning light. Your father comforted your mother and slowly climbed into the warm water. The midwife encouraged me to enter and be present. It was calm and quiet. Your father held a firm place in his support of your mother. Roles were performed in their turn. Complementary virtues serenely played out.
The apprentice took notes, brought the devices that were needed to monitor progress, and watched the time.
It wasn’t long before your grandfather was there. He was soon summoned into the small white space where you were to be welcomed. I watched from behind. The crouching helpers speaking in hushed tones. No rush, no fright, no impatience.
We heard a cry from another room. Morris had decided to get up. I walked into his bedroom. He peered at me with his big brown eyes under his tousled, curly blond hair. He gave his typical, subtle smile. I talked to him for a moment, letting him readjust. I had visited a few times in recent days to help prepare the house for your arrival. He knew me, but needed a few seconds to place his trust. He let me pick him up and I brought him through the short hallway and into the bedroom with the help of his more-familiar friends. His blond hair glowed in the morning sunshine and his spindly bare arms and legs were held taut as he scampered intently through the small crowd of towering adults. Something was happening in there, and he was just in time. Or were you just waiting for him to arrive?
Time was a vapor. Your grandfather, under the midwife’s direction, was the first to greet you on your birthday. I’d never heard of a delivery that was so mild, and so quick. Your mother held you close, wrapped in a towel, and all were glad to hear you respond to miraculous first breath with a hearty cry.
Your grandfather was so moved. He shared his feelings of elation and how special this delivery was. He related the story of the first birth he witnessed in a stilted hut in Viet Nam. How special it was for him to be there to help with the birth of his baby’s baby. He said he was almost crying.
Your grandfather held you as he sat on the bed. You were pink and perfect. I ran my finger along the soles of your feet. You responded with appropriate reflex; your tiny toes curling. You lay in the silver mist of half-sleep, not seeming to have noticed that you had permanently left your aqueous home.
The time arrived for the cord to be cut. Your father took his turn. You returned to your mother and she held you close as she now lay on the bed. Morris stood, peaking over from beside the bed. Her boys were close on either side and all around.
Be great, Daniel Jarvis. You were born to be.