I am looking at Mark–husband of 30 years—asleep on the leather couch. Soundscape plays “Amazonia” by Paul Lawler, a bluesy electric guitar piece overlaid with soft techno tones—a gentle adult lullaby with an undertone of bass that nearly syncs with Mark’s light snore.
Dolly, our sweet Golden, lay on the floor below him—the sun through the window makes a bar of light across her body. Her head tilted to one side and resting on one paw—the other tucked neatly under.
The room is littered with plastic party cups left where yesterday’s baby shower guests sat perched or settled in their seats to watch Cynthia, 8 months pregnant, open gifts. A few gifts too large to fit in the car still sit like sentries overlooking the den and Mark’s Sunday nap. We will pack them with us when we head down to see them again for the holidays.
I am thinking of the laughter and chatter that filled these rooms yesterday. Women wall-to-wall from all over the city—some from Dayton—to stand behind my baby girl as she begins her journey into the world of mothering. These are women who have raised their children well. All smile widely with open faces full of hope that this baby will be well loved and brought into our community of women to be a strong woman herself.
Cynthia is grateful, but a hint of uncertainty plays around her eyes—uncertainty about motherhood in the face of so much experience surrounding her. Bits of fear creep on the edges of her voice as she speaks of the labor, delivery and the myriad of decisions to be made for a newborn—and this, coming from a doctor trained in the ways of the body. But like generations before her and the ones to come—she will arrive on the other side of being delivered—stronger, with the new name of mother. The rest of her life will be different. She will never be the same. There will be—from that moment on—a love so large it will color her entire world.
