| Sunny Side Up! May 9, 2001 � 2001 by Kathleen Gibson On Birth and Rebirth There was no warning. The kick landed below and to the right of my belly button bump. If I wasn�t already seated, my lap full of unhatched offspring, I would have doubled over on the floor. �Stopthecar! STOPTHECAR. StopthecarNOW!� Gravel sprayed as the Chev veered off Old Island Highway. �What the�?� My husband�s knuckles were white on the blue circle of the wheel. �He came through.� I was unbuttoning my coat. �WHAAAAT?� �He�s out. I know it.� I lifted my loose flowered smock. Rick�s eyes were wide. �WHADDYA MEAN HE�S OUT? BABIES DON�T COME OUT LIKE THAT.� �You don�t have to yell.� Down went the elastic top of my black maternity slacks. My belly was as round and tight as a fresh melon - complete with stem, and no visible bruises. My fingertips explored the expanse, looking for an escape hatch, a hole, a miniature foot. Nothing. Even the stem was intact. �Well, you�re right. But that�s no baby, you know. There�s a jackrabbit in here.� I called the child Benjamin from that day forward. Benjamin Bunny. He rehearsed his kickboxing for another month, so furiously that one week before due date the doctor decided he was twins, panicked, and sent me for an X-ray. Benjamin later made a proper exit and lo, he was a single, tiny, exquisitely formed human girlchild. The kickboxing was forgiven (though never forgotten) the moment her azure eyes met mine. Gotcha. She�s had me ever since. Amanda was my last baby. Since then I�ve had the honor of being with several of my friends during their labor and deliveries - rubbing their backs, wincing as they squeezed my hand in the vice grip of their own, wiping sweat-beaded foreheads, sending out jelly-kneed fathers just before they toppled, and remembering, remembering� My children�s births line the walls of my memory like the hieroglyphs in ancient caves. Stark images, they are - thick strokes of blood and sweat, crosshatches of pain. They would be difficult to view, except for the luminous wash of sunshine that suffuses them. Life and joy. Unspeakable joy. My own, my husband�s, our elder child�s, our friends and families�a chorus of joy. �The baby�s here! He looks like his father! Doesn�t she look like her mother?� I remember nothing of my own birth. I do, though remember my spiritual rebirth. There was a gentle stirring within, an awareness that there was more to me than my fingers could touch, my eyes could see. A longing to find my spiritual parent. I was afraid. God would hang a light in my soul, show up my darkness. Make me sorry, take control of me. I kicked against the pain of it until I could kick no more. I kicked against God too, but when I was ready, he brought me to birth. �Look!� the angels whispered, rejoicing. �Who does she look like?� And God, with motherlove, everlove, smiled and held me close. �One day, she�ll look just like Jesus.� You can respond to this column at [email protected] |