My computer took forever to start this morning, so I wrote it out old style, with a fountain pen and a lovely journal by decomposition books. I had a few erstwhile quiet moments, before life started happening all over me. This is as far as I got. (Something about The hubs’ spirit animal being the god of sarcasm, and mine being the moon. Who knows?)
After he came out of me
and the doctors looked him over,
all the way across the room,
they put him on my chest,
and, through tears, I said,
“There’s a tornado on the back of his head.”
This precious creature, with a full head of black hair,
covered in olive oil, had a swirl on the back of his head.
Thus, with joy, my son came into this world.
“Sweet Jesus! We’re at ten! You can start pushing!”
announced Renata, the midwife.
Twenty minutes later, she placed my daughter
on my chest. Her eyes were shut, and she was wiggly and sleepy.
“How is she?” I asked my husband.
“She’s perfect,” he answered.
Pretty soon, we were all calling her “Sissie Bear,”
but it might be too soon to tell.