Carrying precious bundles of life

Holding a slippery new life

Ruth was born in the shower just one minute and 23 seconds after I was admitted to the Davis birthing center.  She slid into the world more easily than either of my two boys.  It was Greg who caught her after my last push.  He handed me our baby and I fumbled to hold onto the slippery new life.  Our midwife, Susan, arrived sometime in those early moments and helped me look to see that we had a baby girl. 

Walking with her

Then Greg and Susan guided me from the shower to the bed.  It was a red-carpet walk, me holding our new baby girl, still attached from the inside, her face so smooth and perfect as she looked up into my eyes.  And there was Greg by my side—dripping wet from his hair and his clothes and the corners of his eyes.  I felt like a queen.

And all the mothers who cradled new babies

I felt connected to all the women of the world who had given birth and had cradled their new babies, their precious new bundles, close, dear, miraculous.  It was probably less that 20 feet, but the level of importance of that walk made it feel like long one.  I was a super hero who had pushed my baby out, squatting, without medication or medical intervention.  I was strong and confident.  I was capable.  Most of all, I was a mother to a new baby girl and I got to carry her in a grand procession, in all of my nakedness and hers, to the place where we could rest and admire one another. 

I became a goddess

I remember my sons’ births vividly.  And I’ve told their birth stories many times.  Each had some difficulties and each had moments that I will hold completely dear forever.  But there is something about walking with a precious bundle 3 minutes after she came into the world that continues to embody something other worldly for me.  It was never in the birth plan—to have her come out in the shower. That walk from the shower to the bed was never in the imagined scenarios of what would happen after I gave birth.  When I did arrive at the birthing center bed and climbed in, Ruth in my arms, umbilical cord still intact, easing into the sheets and the pillows, Greg smiled at me and said a bit breathlessly, “You are a goddess.”  And I suppose that’s what that moment was.  I walked into a shower stall, gave birth, and emerged as Isis.  And I loved it.

And then there was a baby guanaco

5 days ago, I did another one of those red-carpet walks.  Except this time I ran.  And it wasn’t only 20 ft. It was about 100 yards of green pasture.  And I wasn’t guided by the loving arms of my husband and midwife. I was chased by three angry female guanacos while my husband attempted to hold them off long enough for me to make it safely to the barn.

He slid into the world quickly

Andes slid into the world and flopped onto the ground head first.  It was surprisingly fast.  Only 35 minutes from when Georgia’s water broke to the time the others sniffed him and welcomed him to the herd.  I would have caught him, except guanaco mamas don’t want any help.  They are tough and protective—especially Georgia—and she was not going to let anyone near her new baby. 

It was cold and we needed to warm him up

It was a cold morning after lots of rain that night and we needed to get the baby dried and into a coat for warmth.  That meant picking him up and carrying him to the barn.  I swooped in while Greg held onto Georgia’s powerful neck.  The other two females lunged at me.  I retreated out of fear of being stomped.  Greg re-positioned himself so that all three guanaco females were blocked from the baby and I reached down and snatched him up.  He was wet and floppy.  He was long extremities that moved in spastic bursts—all leg and neck and more leg.  I started to walk.  Like I was going to do a proud mama walk and then Greg yelled, “Run”.  So then I went faster, just a bit, until I turned and glanced back. 

I picked him up and ran

Greg’s arms were around Georgia’s neck and it looked as though she was about to carry him like a heavy necklace.   I decided to sprint.  I ran so fast and so hard.  I had flashes of thinking that I was way too out of shape.  That I should have trained for this moment.  That this was crazy, running for my life with a precious bundle of new life in my arms.  I made it to the barn and tried to put his spidery limbs down except he face planted because I forgot his legs didn’t work yet. And anyway, Georgia was so close behind that I had to act fast to get the gate closed.

At the barn we reunited them

Quick moves with iodine for the umbilical cord and a sweet baby blue plaid fleece coat to keep him warm.  And then another walk, this time a bit calmer, with a warmer baby Andes from one side of the barn to the other where he could be reunited with his protective mama.  Again, I splatted him down a bit because I didn’t want to get too close to the ground for fear of Georgia’s hooves finding their way to my skull.  And Greg and I backed away, new proud guanaco “grandparents”—out of breath and amazed.

Carrying precious bundles of life

There are other moments of pure grace, when I’ve had the experience of carrying or witnessing someone carrying a precious bundle of life.  There was the time Mitch carried Ruth to me after she crashed her bike when she was 3.  Her mouth was bleeding badly and he gently passed her to me with a worried look—like I was the recipient of his most cherished possession. 

There was the time that I handed a new puppy to Sam on Christmas morning.  He was sleepy eyed and Max was so tiny and cute.  Sam tucked the puppy under his chin and without a word said the biggest thank you. 

When Mitch was a week old I laid him in his great grandmother’s arms and she said, “This is the best one yet.”  She died soon after, but I like to imagine that she’d stayed alive just for that moment of meeting her first great grandchild.

I remember a bright green frog in Costa Rica, a baby bird in a shoebox when I was in high school, a white cat from a sewer ditch when I was in college, countless sand crabs in Tomales Bay, a half dead wormy and Ruth’s plea, “Mommy I think he’s sick, kiss him to make him better”, kitties, pet rats, I guess there’s quite a list. 

Life cradled in our arms

When we have the opportunity to carry life in our arms it changes us.  We are no longer walking alone or side by side with people we love.  We are literally delivering life—from one place to another—with our very own hands and feet.  I think when we hold a life in this way, we tap into a primal instinct that tells us to pay attention and not to miss a thing.  For when we cradle another being and walk, whether it’s the birthing center red carpet or the 100 yard dash, it’s like nothing else matters in the world.