“
Now reading
Early Labor
Down the hospital hall a minutes-old baby sounds like a cat, or the raccoons I've heard in the small hours, prowling street trees and storm drains. Then again, like a baby, yes, but crying in the foreign language of untried cords. The one inside shoves against me, casting off. The monitor taps out throaty heartbeats, timing, charting, each contraction a jagged peak. I think of my first child- all tempests and slippery giggles, the way he loves firefighters and backhoes-and try to welcome this faceless pain. In faith we've already named its source. Who knows how this passage will alter our very weather? In the mystery of the body he strains and pushes-all portent for now, unseen omen, a shift in the wind: the future inexorably coming. When he kicks, a clap of thunder rattles the monitor.