Birth buoyancy

I wish I was something. Collected, resolute, strong-like-bear. Or uncollected, shaken, scared shitless. Either would point me towards a course of action. But I'm neither. I am blank. No matter what the mechanics, birth will be decided for me, on my behalf: because there are two.

I pause, wait to feel a sense of fight or flight.

But it is plain, ordinary quiet. Not peace, but quiet.

Birth mentors summon the spirits of goddess, eagle, owl: I summon Plastic Man from the Fantastic Four. Bendy brain, bendy belly, bendy heart. Able to twist and stretch, too slippery for the grip of panic, to the point where I am a mother of two babies.

Two babies that bring me twice as far from birth being subject to what I’d prefer.

I'll do whatever you need to keep you whole, to keep you nourished. Inside or outside, waited for or early-lifted. I'll stay light no matter what the flotsam and jetsam: tubes or boxes or surgical masks or machines that beep. Or perhaps nothing out of the ordinary but two.

I'll be light above it all, strong enough so that you feel the warmth of it and know that we’ll be alright.

You are two! I have to be fierce for you, but not fighting-fierce. Plastic Man fierce. Is stubbornly calm a contradiction in terms? I want to define it. I want to be buoyant, not merely joyous-buoyant but literally, unsinkably buoyant. So that all I need do is go limp, kick a little, so that currents and physics pull us up to the air, for you.

a c-section would be:

pulling and tugging
flat
restraints
straps
cut
immobile
I would be a subject, object, case

It is unnatural
(the body is not supposed to open there)

At least I am still pristine, unopened
I thought, having narrowly escaped.

…but did I? Evan’s birth was:

pulling and tugging
flat
restraints
straps
cut
immobile
I was a subject, object, case

It was under duress
(it wasn’t supposed to be that way)

but on the same day there was also

relief
laughter
unconditional love
surrender
lime popsicles
kindness
strawberries
the sensation of a hot shower and reams of blood, strangely pleasing to watch it swirl down the drain, washing away the spectacle, to be me again. Heaven to be standing on shaky, phantom legs in steam and wet heat and half-darkness.

and it was over
and a baby-burrito stirred
and onto other things.

where did all that come from?
me.