Yes, it includes a Doctor Who reference. But really, that’s almost superfluous to the awesome. (Almost.)

Watch:

(I’m typing this one-fingered, stretching to reach the keyboard, so I’m not doing a transcript, but if anyone does or finds one, please share!)

I’ll just let that sink in for a moment.

And repeat:

There’s no such thing as “healthy food”.

It’s true.

There is Health Food, as a cultural construct¹, but, as a cultural construct, it is ever changing; currently we are undergoing a cultural shift from low-fat to low-carbohydrate food earning the appellation. But, aside from the fact that we simply cannot agree on what qualifies, there is so such thing as “healthy food”.

One of the most frustrating things about being a fat woman is: everyone is convinced they have The Perfect Diet, and if I would just follow it, the fat would just walk away². Everyone. Everyone. The veg*ns. The Paleos. The Atkin adherents. The raw food peeps. Eat no fat; eat tons of fat. Eat no grains; eat soaked grains. Eat a fastfood turkey sandwich every day; eat nothing from a store. Everyone is convinced they have The Truth on what is Healthy Food, and what the other guy (or the fat chick) is eating ain’t it.

Or, maybe, for the super open minded and tolerant, they’ll say we’re not quite sure just what healthy food is (except you won’t find it at McDonald’s). But by all the saints and Starbucks, don’t question the idea that there is such a thing as Healthy Food, because surely, if we just apply Science/Prayer/Common Sense/Historical Analysis/Noble Savage Wisdom, we’ll figure it out. And no one will ever die.

What? That’s the logical conclusion to the idea of Healthy Food. If we eat right, we won’t get sick. If we eat right, we won’t get fat. If we eat right, we won’t become diabetic. If we eat right, our kids won’t get autism. (If we eat right, we won’t be infertile, and we’ll be able to have children, who will obviously be free of all illness and defect.) If we eat right, we won’t be crazy. If we eat right, we won’t die from heart attack or stroke or cancer or liver failure or kidney disease or AIDS — and, if we eat right when we’re pregnant, neither will our children.

These are all things believers in the myth of healthy food have said. Half of them to me.

Ok, but let’s say that’s a hyperbolic misrepresentation of the position of Healthy Food’s believers³. Let’s say that when you say “she got diabetes because she ate like crap” you don’t actually mean “she wouldn’t have gotten diabetes if she’d eaten right” which itself could only be true if “no one who eats right gets diabetes”, which is utter bollocks. Let’s say that, instead, you have amazing powers of sight into alternate dimensions and a perfect ability to predict outcomes of statistical likelihoods⁴ — because that what it comes down to, risk, with some eating patterns carrying, on a population scale, different risk profiles than other eating patterns. You’re just saying healthy food improves your odds, not actually calling healthy food a panacea. But there’s still healthy food and unhealthy food, right?

No.

If we are not claiming there is a food, or a way of eating, that brings perfect health (which is assuming we can even meaningfully define “perfect health” in the first place), then the best we can do with food is risk management. “Healthy” can only exist as a comparative, not absolute, value.

So, compared to what? Which is healthier, raw cultured butter from pastured cows, or cold-pressed organic olive oil? That depends on whether you’re vegan, or lactose intolerant, or live in a dessert without a means of keeping food chilled⁵, I’d say. Which is healthier, a plate of brown rice spaghetti in fat-free sauce made from tomatoes from your own garden, or a protein shake with artificial sugar substitutes — to a diabetic? Which is healthier, the home cooked meal a growth-delayed, sensory-averse child absolutely won’t touch, or the McDonald’s chicken nuggets they’ll scarf?

Food — all food — brings things that are “good” for us, and things that are “bad”; or, more accurately, things that we need in that moment and things that we can store for later and things we don’t need (right then or at all) and things that we have too much of and things that actively harm us. All foods have all of these — only the specifics and amounts of each change. And the specifics are variable depending on our needs, which not only are different from person to person but each person’s needs change all the damn time.

Given that no food can fill all needs simultaneously⁶, and eating is a practice in good enough balance over time, how can we call a food “healthy” as an absolute?⁷ Food is meant to meet our needs⁸, and can only be evaluated on its ability to do so. Even a Twinkie is “healthy” for a person starved for caloric energy.

So there it is. There absolutely are foods that have a better need-filling to harm ratio in any given situation⁹. There absolutely are reasons to aim for eating foods that better meet more of your nutritional needs more of the time (though you have no moral obligation to do so). There so absolutely are reasons to call for large corporations to take out unnecessary harmful components from the food they sell and for, at the least, factual labeling about those additives. I disagree with not a piece of that, nor with helping people, should they wish, learn how to feed themselves in a way that meets more of their needs more of the time with less harm. Please, if that’s your calling, keep at it.

But the fact remains: there is no such thing as “healthy food”.

Stuffed squash and
Sausage stew and
Spiced muffins and
Sweet potato popovers and
Creamy corn chowder and
Risotto from scratch and
Stock from scraps
  because I am able
  and they are there

Chop, stir, spoon, cook,
dash of this because it smells right,
measure of that to rise it well

Each meal might last as long as leftovers, built into the menu
  or
  a frozen portion put up for who knows when
(more likely gone tonight)

and

this is how
I feed
my family
  self
    soul

***

I’ve been cooking more, lately. We’re back to weekly meal plans (and their requisite weekly shopping trips), a chore that creates more work, yet (done well) makes our lives easier. There is mindfulness to be found in the movement of food from pot to plate, to be sure, but sometimes it’s more a struggle to eke out the time, trade off the babe, fend off the child (or, harder, invite him in to help). Yet when it is done: I have done it. We, more likely, but for all the effort is communal, my pride is personal. I was taught some skills in each discrete kitchen task, but never shown, in instruction or by model, the how of putting it all together in putting a meal on the table. This is learned. This is mine.

There are so few areas of my life I feel unreservedly, realistically competent. Not confident — a wager on oneself, a boast of one’s abilities — but competent: to know a job has been done well, and I have done it, not by fluke or luck or Herculean effort, but by showing up and simply doing. A repeatable act.

I have skills as a parent. Contrary to the trolls taken to haunting my comment box, I am not a bad parent. I have skills, and creativity, and a vast, emphatic love for my children. I have a metaphorical toolbox full of skills and tricks and guiding ideas — but its latch sticks. Its hinge is squeaky sometimes, and I’m not sure there’s enough oil in the world to make it open smoothly when I most need it. I do not feel competent as a parent, not past infancy. I cannot stir lovingly and spice well and bake children with brilliantly balanced flavors, nor whip up a smooth and full and just-right-sweet relationship with them. I know how to hold and I know how to hold firm, and I even have an idea of when each is needed, but the synthesis (the putting into practice when three burners are full and the oven needs emptying), the ownership and overarching knowledge of this parenting gig, is lacking. My snuggle soufflés, like my similes, fall flat.

But in the kitchen: this I can do. There’s no cookbook I follow (though I always have Joy at hand, a metaphor too obvious to pursue), no single philosophy beyond “food as much like food as seems appropriate” (because sometimes there’s only time for canned beans, or a craving only boxed mac’n'cheese will fill). I use what I have, clean out the fridge when things get funky, mix beloved dishes with new recipes with spontaneous inspirations, and feed us, and feed us, and feed us — knowing none of it will last, knowing failures and fiascoes are blessedly fleeting, knowing with each meal I am building something worthy, knowing tomorrow’s drivethru cannot uneat today’s homemade fare.

This is competence, and I did not know its lack until I first tasted its elixir. I find myself craving more.

I’m a horrible mother. I’m a horrible person. I’ve let so many people down. I should step away and hide away and go away. I’m bad. I’m bad. I’m bad.

What would happen if I said no? No to the thoughts, no to the recriminations, no to the hateful, hateful hate.

No: you yelled at your child, and I love you anyway.

No: you have a messy house, and I love you anyway.

No: you start projects you haven’t had time to finish, and I love you anyway.

No: you keep thinking these thoughts, and I love you anyway.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

How painful. To be seen, to be known, to be loved despite it all, because of it all. The fire sweeping through the diseased prairie, terrifying to behold.

Let it burn through me.

No.
and
I love you.

Yes.

Trigger Warning: There is a trigger warning on this post for rape and withdrawn consent.

The author sent it with this note: “I’m tempted to title it “A big fucking mistake,” simply because that’s literally what happened and I find that title humorous, except it doesn’t fit the tone of the post. Name it what you want.” I happen to have a similar black humor, a dearth of title ideas, and want to name it what the author wants, so:

A Big Fucking Mistake

I don’t even know how to start. So I’ll start with the hard part.

My husband raped me. But he’s not a rapist. Well, he is since that’s the definition of the word, but that’s not how I see him. To me, he’s very loving, soft-spoken, kind, respectful. Everything wonderful. Except one time, I wanted to stop, and he didn’t.

It was early in our relationship. We weren’t the adventurous kind, so needing a safe word never crossed our minds. Sometimes you get into positions that aren’t comfortable for both people and while I originally thought I couldn’t handle it, at some point, I wanted to change positions and so I told him to stop. But he didn’t. Because he was so close. But that shouldn’t even matter. Because I said stop and he didn’t and so he raped me.

Afterwards, he knew he shouldn’t have kept going. I felt betrayed, violated. I did not want to cuddle with him or talk to him. He apologized. He knew he crossed a line he shouldn’t. And he’s never done it again. And in the years since, we’ve become more open about communication and discussing sex. We’ve come up with a safe word because neither of us want that to happen again. I know it haunts him. He takes full responsibility, but he doesn’t know how to make up for it. I don’t know how to “fix” it either. He really is a good person who is gentle in every way. Except for that one time.

It makes my life as a feminist complicated. Because “no” means “no”. And we want to paint all rapists as bad and deserving to be on the sex offenders list. We want justice, we want it to never happen again. But then, there’s my husband. And he’s a rapist. But I’m not going to call the cops on him because it’s been years, we’ve remedied the issues that led to it, and he never ever wants that to happen again. I think our relationship has grown and moved on and we are in a better and safer place. And I don’t worry for the safety of me or other women and children he is with. He has no temper or violent tendencies. The one time I’ve seen him upset beyond what he could handle, he left the room until he calmed down. And that was once in 7 years of being with him. He doesn’t deserve the title “rapist,” except he does. Or did. That one time.

What do you do with something like this? “He raped me once, but he’ll never do it again,” can sound so enabling, so apologetic. Except that it’s true. And sometimes people make mistakes, even big mistakes.

——————————

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- Miriam Webster Dictionary

Around this time in the Gregorian calendar, many people pick a word — a single word — they wish to invoke, experience, or focus on for the coming year. I’m normally not a meme sort of person, but today, for this year, a word came to me. It’s a word that came up for me again and again in 2011.

I have a strong body, capable of birthing 8 and 10lb babies, of carrying my children in my arms and on my back, of giving massage as deep or as light as needed, of lifting and bending and dancing and loving. And I have a strong mind, capable of surviving infancy and toddlerhood and (as my friends call it) The Fucking Fours, of crafting words into shapes beautiful, touching, and persuasive in turn, of thinking deeply and broadly, of feeling deeper and acutely, of dreaming and laughing and dancing and loving.

But what I lack — no, what I have capacity and the desire to develop further — is the ability to move between these states. My mind is capable of so much focus, on a single feeling or an idea, and of so much breadth, so many feelings and ideas, but is not yet skilled at taking each in turn in a way that leaves me with tangible accomplishments (posts, submissions, lists, emails and obligations responded to promptly). My body is capable of so much strength, in a single feat and a long day’s endurance, and of so much relaxing, the deep, heavy stillness of sleep and meditation and doneness, but is not yet skilled at living in the vibrant space of readiness for each moment’s task, at organized and sensible transitions from relaxation to effort and back again.

Tone is the middle path, the ability to dance from one path to another as called for, the function of all muscles (in body and mind) working in harmony so no one bears excessive strain, the state of neither clinging too tightly nor allowing unbalancing slack. Tone is the goal and the way one gets there. Tone is harmonious, joyful, pleasant to experience — and with its efficiency can move mountains, change minds, and fix so many ills.

I long for so many things — excellence in parenting, in writing, in activism and intellect and academics, in body and music and my many professions, in housekeeping and homesteading, community and family — and I want them all right now, no waiting or work required. 2012 will not be the year all my dreams become real, not with an infant and a (soon to be) five year old, for this is the year of surviving, of thriving in small ways, of gummy grins and growing teeth and scooting-crawling-walking, of milk and foods and beginning of sibling boundaries, of fully living in each moment and then letting it go to allow for living in and loving the next. 2012 will not bring me “balance”, that elusive perfect mix (as if life were a recipe: 1/3 work and 1/3 family and 1/3 fun, stir and bake and eat a slice a day); but, I hope, I will dance and rest and live this year in vibrancy, moving ever more easily between this moment, and this, and this.

“I am cleaning, when I am DONE cleaning, we can have a dessert.”

“But I want it NOWWWWWAAAAHHHHH!”

“The baby is sleeping: for the last time, be quiet!“

I close my eyes, close out the bickering, bring the infant in my lap just a bit closer. Behind my lids, I picture a single flame, sparking and sputtering before settling to a steady, bright burn. No time to sit in the dark, no hands free to light a candle, no chance in this darkest night to commemorate the birth of light. My lips quirk; think, is there a more perfect metaphor for the first months of parenting?

The baby in my lap startles as my first baby slams a door, and I snap my eyes wide, imaginary light displaced by the artificial, neither one the quiet fire I’d hoped for. I bring my newest child back to the breast she is blindly rooting for, whisper “Happy Solstice” in her incomprehending ear, and wait for the sun to return.

A friend and I were talking today about pregnancy, and the “making” of babies (that is not so much making as allowing to make themselves out of and using one’s self and substance), and the devaluing of the work of pregnancy, and it occurred to me that I couldn’t think of a word for the type of work it is.

Because it is work — perhaps the most elemental form of production around. It is draining, exhausting, and oh so challenging. It pervades (invades) every moment of one’s life for months, whether we are aware of its effects or not. Everyone who goes through it, every time, feels differently, but none are unaffected, and at the end the world is changed. A new person is born, or there is a gaping, grieving hole where a baby belonged. Either way, work has been done.

But it’s not the sort of work you clock into (though obstetricians are far too amenable to helping us clock out early), or set your mind to (though bookstores have shelves upon shelves dedicated to the idea that we can), or in any active, willful way do. And yet, forced pregnancies aside (by which I include any pregnancy without full and authentic choice, if not in the conception than in the continuation), it is chosen work, not work without agency. Not involuntary, not undirected (though that too), not passive (to the contrary!). Not unimportant, not insignificant, and not necessarily easy. Undervalued (though over-sentimentalized), unnamed, and thus unrecognized.

Grow gets closer, but it is the fetus who grows in us, and our bodies stretch to accommodate. To grow as in garden ascribes too much control of the result to the manure-applier (both in pregnancy and in gardening) — and besides, it is our bodies that passes the raw materials to the being inside; we only feed ourselves, and trust our bodies to feed the fetus. (And feed it they will, near regardless of what we eat; not enough dietary calcium? No problem, we walk around with a skeleton full; we’ll scrape some off there to pass to our parasites.)

Pregnancy is, in the imperfect language of metaphor, parachuting (and how strange that the most ready comparable activity is one utterly frivolous, to the inescapable seriousness of reproduction). We jump (or are pushed, and oh does that first moment determine the entire experience), and then, simply by continuing to be, we do. It is so very active, voluntary and willed into beginning at the best of times, and once begun, merely (as merely as can be, heading to an inevitable impact) a matter of survival, of daily, inescapable grind. It is not like anything else, yet not dissimilar to so many other endeavors — but without the right word, making those connections is so much harder.

I need this word.

A Beautiful Birth

“I have to push, NOW!” I screamed to my husband as I refused the wheelchair he wanted me to sit in.  There I was standing in the hospital lobby in my husband’s shorts, a nursing bra and the only shirt I could fit over my very pregnant belly.  I stopped leaned against a pole and began to bear down.

“Go ahead and push if you have to.”  My completely supportive husband and partner figured there was no way I could really be in the final stage of childbirth already so he figured it would just help our baby along.

“Don’t you dare push!  Stop, take a deep breath, sit down.”  A male nurse who had been talking to the security guard when we came in came up behind me and made me sit down in a wheelchair.  A woman who was about six months pregnant grabbed her partner’s hand as they waited with us for the elevator.

We got in the elevator, and again, I felt an intense need to push the baby out.
“I’m pushing!  I feel like I need to go to the bathroom, I NEED to push her out NOW!”
The couple clung to each other.

We arrived on the labor and delivery floor and someone said to me, “You’ll need to triage.”
“No, you have my information, I was here two hours ago!  I NEED TO PUSH RIGHT NOW!  Someone needs to help me!”

“Wait, you’re the woman they sent home?”

A few seconds later, I was in one of the labor and delivery rooms, and one of the nurses took my shorts off.

“I swear to God if you tell me I’m still four centimeters…”

I could see by the look on the nurse’s face, the baby must have been crowning.  There were about six nurses helping out and someone ran to get our midwife.

“You’re going to meet your daughter very soon.”

The look on her face said she was wondering how it is that we ended up here like this.

Two nights before, I had thought I was in labor but it had fizzled out when I realized I hadn’t yet packed a bag for the birth center where we had planned to deliver our daughter.  We had originally planned to have a homebirth with one of the most respected midwives in Maryland, but our plans were derailed when at 33 weeks pregnant, I found out our midwife had received a letter of suspension from the Maryland Board of Nursing while they reviewed five complaints that had been filed against her since 2008. According to a website set up by her supporters: “[N]one of these complaints came from one of Evelyn’s clients or a client’s family.”

The Maryland Board of Nursing left us providerless, and so somewhere around 35 weeks after an exhausting search we settled on having a birth center birth.  It would allow us some of the flexibility and some of the must-haves I’d wanted for this birth.  Access to water to labor in and/or deliver in was key for me.  After my labor had fizzled out, I’d had to finally come to terms with the fact that my birth plan had changed and we were not going to have a chance to birth at home.

I spent Saturday walking through the woods near our house, talking to the baby and myself about why our birth could still be amazing and why the birth center was going to be a great experience for us.  I cried one last hearty cry over losing the ability to choose where I would have our baby.

Luckily, my parents had been in town for Thanksgiving when I had the false alarm on Friday so my mom extended her trip by four more days just in case so she’d be able to stay with our two-year-old if labor happened to kick off.

Sunday, earlier in the day before I was in the hospital lobby, I’d spent the day shopping and then chasing my two year old at the park.  Feeling contractions throughout the day but not timing them because they weren’t intense or close enough together.

By nighttime, I’d started to notice some blood while realizing that the baby wasn’t moving around anymore.  Concerned, I made a call to our midwives.  The midwife on call suggested we head to the hospital (that is, the backup hospital for the birth center) so they could verify that the baby was still moving around and healthy.

That night, I struggled as I cuddled my toddler to bed while managing through contractions.  My husband had tried putting him down, but he wanted Mommy.  I was nervous about the bleeding but luckily he fell asleep fast and my mom came over from her hotel to be with him.  We left our house around 9:15pm and headed out on the 40 minute drive to the hospital, chatting, blasting Big Pun’s “Capital Punishment” album.  The contractions were five minutes apart.
When we arrived at Labor and Delivery, we chatted with some of the nurses, noting to ourselves that the hospital was nicer than we expected. Up until that point, we hadn’t thought much about the hospital since the plan had been to birth at the birth center.  Our midwife examined the baby and the three of us listened to her heart rate increase and decrease in rhythm with the contractions.  She determined the blood had been bloody show and then she checked my cervix.  It was 4 cm dilated but still posterior and the baby was in -1 station in my pelvis which meant she’d have to work through 0,1,2,3 to be born.

Since the contractions weren’t yet “taking my breath away,” the midwife determined that I was likely experiencing false labor.  I let her know that the contractions were about three minutes apart at that point and they were feeling stronger and stronger.  Knowing that home was 40 minutes away, she’d told us that we should go to a hotel for the night.  That way we’d be in shouting distance from the birth center if “real labor” began.

We debated whether we should actually go to a hotel if they were sending us away from the hospital.  I mean, they clearly didn’t think I was in labor so why be away from our two-year-old for the night if we didn’t have to?  But something inside of me knew we should get the hotel room, so we did.

We headed to the Doubletree hotel that was about five minutes away and asked for the “hospital discount.”  Ash came back to the car offering one of the warm chocolate chip cookies that the Doubletree is known for, but I had no stomach for it.

By the time we got in the room, my contractions had increased in intensity and were two minutes apart.  Ash set up our iPod and the iPod speakers and put on some Norah Jones, then he dimmed the lights.  I went to the bathroom then I came out, instinctively getting in the all-fours position.  I’d decided to wing this birth. The Bradley class we’d taken to help with our son’s birth, had given us tons of useful information, much of which had stuck with us through this second birth.  However, I discovered in labor that the visualization approach to pain management wasn’t for me.  This time around I’d listened to a few hypnobabies tracks.  In fact, I had actually laid down to listen on three separate occasions and had fallen asleep each time.  I remembered from one of their affirmations something about childbirth not having to be pain-filled, and I remembered reading something about pressure waves or rushes and opening like a lotus flower in Ina May Gaskin’s Guide to childbirth.  So I got on all fours, and began the cat-cow yoga pose (or at least, my best attempt at it).  The baby had been in a weird position for some time so I thought it might help.  Though the process, Ash gave me support I needed which varied between applying counter-pressure to my lower back and staying clear when I didn’t want to be touched anymore.  The clip from the hypnobabies CD became my mantra: “Pain doesn’t have to be a part of childbirth.”  I remembered to try not to clench my jaw, my shoulders or my pelvic floor.  I pictured a flower opening up, and for a little while this helped me tremendously.  Until it didn’t and then I found myself wondering what to do next.

Ash suggested we fill the tub so I could change positions and get in the water for a while.  For some reason, because I was not allowed to labor in water during my son’s birth, I had built up water to be the end-all for managing pain during an unmedicated birth.  The drain on the tub didn’t fit snugly so we had to keep the water running in order for the tub to stay full.  I sat in the water, feeling a sense of completion after having been denied it during our first birth.  For a few moments it felt great, but the pain seared through the comforting heat of the water.

“If this is not labor, then there is something very very wrong with my body!”  I sat there frustrated, wanting to cry.  If my body was not in labor why was the pain so constant?  Why did it hurt so much?  I sent Ash away and then I cried for him to come back.  I kept urgently repeating that I wanted to change the plan – I wanted an epidural at the hospital, now.  Because if this is what 4 cm of false labor felt like, there was no way I would ever survive 10 of “real labor.”  Then I felt like I had to go to the bathroom so I sent him away.  As soon as I sat down, I realized I felt the urge to push.  It was time to push the baby out.

I insisted to him that I was about to have the baby and jumped back in the water.  Feeling more than a little confused, the urges to push kept coming.  Ash grabbed my phone to call the midwife.  He got the answering service.  About 15 minutes later we still hadn’t heard back. We’d learned later that the midwife had been catching another baby during those frantic moments.  I told him to call again, but that we had to get to the hospital.  Although the birth center had been the plan, the hospital was still fresh in our minds and, given the circumstances, the birth center seemed impossibly far away.  I screamed at Ash to call an ambulance.  Although he was playing along, I could tell that he didn’t really understand how far things had progressed.  To my request for an ambulance he replied, “I can get you there faster.”  Since it was the middle of the night with no traffic and we’d have had to wait for an ambulance to arrive, he was probably right as long as he didn’t take a wrong turn.  He told me to put his shorts on and I remember thinking he was the most ridiculous person in the world for suggesting I needed clothes right now. We were halfway out the hotel room door when the midwife finally called back.  Ash let her know that I’d requested to go to the hospital to which she responded, “it’s her choice.”

I pulled a pair of Ash’s gray athletic shorts on and we hobbled together through the lobby.  He told me he’d pull the car around, but I insisted on walking though the parking lot with him.  The whole ride there I held the bar above my seat and I stuck my head out the window. There was a chill in the air.  I looked at the lights from nearby restaurants and businesses pass by, feeling the pressure of my baby girl pushing against the birth canal.  Those few moments felt like a lifetime as I said “this is beautiful” over and over in my head.  Then I screamed out loud, “I’m about to have this baby in this car!”  Before I knew it, we were at the hospital and I was in the lobby threatening to bear down.

Somehow I’d made it into a hospital bed, my husband’s gray athletic shorts thrown aside.  I found myself face to face with the nurse whose expression told me that I had the baby had, in fact, already crowning when we’d arrived at the hospital.  “You have a kind face,” I told her.  My focus expanded as the midwife burst into the room, and I realized that I was surrounded by 6 or 7 women and my loving husband.  Every single person there was providing encouragement and guidance.  I asked if it was too late for get an epidural and the nurse with the kind face told me to focus on her.  The baby’s head was halfway out.  I yelled that I had to go to the bathroom and then apologized for yelling and then thanked everyone for being there.  My husband smiled from ear to ear as he watched me pushing our daughter out into the bright, crowded hospital room.  He leaned in close and said, “Amanda, you are doing this.  You are having the unmedicated birth you dreamed of.  You did all of this!”  A few seconds later, our daughter was laying on top of me.  I was still in the only shirt that had fit over my pregnant belly just a few moments ago.  I held our daughter and kept repeating to whoever was listening, “This is beautiful, she is beautiful.”

"...she is beautiful."

Kitchen rags, full of holes and fraying edges

Twenty year old shirt, now nearly see-through

Easy chair, stuffing exposed and lever missing

Dishes chipped from careless washings

And me