And, in ten more weeks,
you’ll get to see your mom.
You’ll find out who she’ll be.
I’ll get to say hello,
and maybe say good-” No.
Don’t go there, Mister. Not now.
“Where was I? Oh!
You’ll get to play outside.
Till then, enjoy the ride.”
In a way,
it feels like any other
summer Saturday afternoon,
the usual New York swelter
chasing a gang of us kids
out to the edge of the ocean.
But this trip to Coney Island
with Seth and friends
is blah.
Sure, I can block out the stares
of nosey passengers
on the long subway ride to Brooklyn,
and there’s still the flutter
in the pit of my belly
as the park rushes into view
through the train window.
But that’s all the excitement
I’m gonna get for the day
‘cause once I get there,
strolling the boardwalk broadway,
munching a cheesy slice of pizza
or one of Nathan’s juicy hot dogs,
and digging my toes in the sand
is all I’m good for.
There’s no strapping myself in
for a slow round ride
skimming the sky on
the Wonder Wheel,
or enjoying the screaming drop
of Astroland
or the Cyclone rollercoaster.
No sir.
No female whales allowed.
Maybe next summer.
If I can find a cheap
babysitter, that is.
“No” used to be
two squiggles on a page
that mostly meant nothing to me.
Now, suddenly,
those letters together
are like prison guards
telling me where to go,
what to do,
who to be.
Or not.
I keep asking myself
where did all my freedom go?
Then I remember:
I forgot to say no
when it counted.
“My sweet boy.” I coo
and cuddle him,
swaddled in white
and smelling of sweet oil,
thanks to the royal rubbing
Joseph gave him
after his birth.
Joseph was amazing,
holding my hand
through every piercing pang,
even though I squeezed his hand
till it was bloodless.
He caught the little one
as if he had done the same
a hundred times.
“Joseph the Midwife,”
I called him,
and he filled this barn
with laughter, startling
the cows and goats, I think.
I might sniff the hay and offal,
and look round this stall
meant for animals, and wonder
what it all means, that there
was no spare room for us
at the inn,
that we were forced to spend
the night in a barn.
But at this moment,
I only have eyes
for the bundle of love
who now lies
in my arms.
Lord,
here is your son,
the one you shared with me.
May he grow strong
in my care, and Joseph’s.
Thank you for this good man,
and this beautiful boy.
Help us, Jehovah-Jirah,
to build a sturdy frame
for his future.
I’m so glad
breakfast is my friend again.
I sit at the kitchen table
dividing my attention
between bites of toasted waffle
and the beginning
of Mary, Mary.
Why stop at the end
when you can read it
all over again?
“I loved that book,”
says Mom,
peeking over my shoulder.
“I know. You said.”
A thousand times before.
“It helped me when
I was carrying you.”
Food still in my mouth
(who cares?)
I tell her,
“Me too.”
Our trip to the Laundromat
interrupted.
The pool at my feet says
those dirty sheets
will have to wait awhile.
“Mom!”
“I’m right here, baby.
Let’s get this show
on the road.
My grandchild’s about
to make an appearance.”
My knees buckle,
a single thought threatening
to lay me flat:
You’re almost out of time.
Make up your mind
to keep your baby
or not.
I start to pant.
I can’t! I can’t!
I can’t decide.
Not yet.
I waddle into the ER,
my heartbeat
the only sound I hear.
Is this really happening?
I look around,
see the slow ballet
of nurses, doctors, and orderlies
pushing beds and wheelchairs
with patients pale as ghosts.
Are they as scared as me?
Abruptly, a rude noise breaks in,
some tinny voice
squawking from a loudspeaker,
paging Dr. so and so,
and saying STAT
but flatter than they do on TV.
Palms sweaty, knees wobbling,
I wish this were a show
I was watching.
My thoughts bounce off
the cold white walls:
I’m not ready.
I’m not ready.
I’m not ready.
I tug on Mom’s sleeve.
“Mommy, let’s get out of here. Please.
I don’t want to be-”
OH, GOD!
What was that?
“Looks like labor,”
says a nurse.
“Come this way.”
Not bad,
I thought at first.
A minute of crazy pain,
then several minutes to recover.
I can do this.
I can-
Oh, God!
It’s okay. It’s okay.
Just so long as
it doesn’t get worse.
I lie in a room
with other screaming ladies,
their cries setting
my nerves on edge.
I wish they’d all go away.
Instead, there’s Mom and Seth-
when did she get here?-
plus a parade of nurses
and the social worker
asking every ten seconds,
“Are you okay? Are you okay?”
No! What do you expect me to say?
I’m scared to death.
And by the way,
there’s an alien in my body
bent on ripping me apart!
When will it end?
I float in a river of sweat,
this baby too stubborn
to come out.
Don’t know
how much more of this
I can take.
I’d keep crying, but
I just don’t have
the energy.
Oh, God!
Here comes another
CONTRACTION!