Ray's poem of
Sarah's birth, 1981
Deliverance
When I feel the need
to push
I pant.
Staccato breaths
arrest (temporarily)
the head
butting the dark,
ease the incumbent
flesh, allay the little
agonies of labour
until the quick,
complete surrender
to the weight of
rushing water. And
like water
like fire
the baby comes –
brutal, cruel,
and simply beautiful.
Then the flames
about the flesh
expire, and the body
bruised and bloodied
lies wasted on the bed,
broken like the husk
of some exotic fruit.
And after being blind
at birth
my mind now wakes
and leaps around the room
yet cannot rest or settle
until it holds the child
like vacuum a void
or fire a fever –
a void
only joy can fill,
a fever
only love assuages.
“Tired is my middle name.”*
Back when my second child was a baby I’d never have thought that, almost six years on, I’d still be sleep deprived. There are at least four big differences now – my resilience is worn down, I’m working and not on maternity leave, my son can walk, and he can struggle and argue about why he won’t go back to sleep. For about two years now we have lived with the likely prospect that every night, somewhere around 3.00am, we will be woken by a little voice saying ‘I’m scared’, or some variation thereof. Last night was the clincher – I haven’t been back to sleep since 3.30am – and it’s time to seek help. We’ve tried everything – the usual reassurance and cuddles, soft music, a nightlight, dream catcher, crystals, meditation CD – and I’m horrified to say that nothing has worked! I’m heading for a helpline right now!
* © from Being Mummy by Anne‑marie Taplin published April 2007