Theirs was my first experience at a home-birth.
The sun was setting and the house was calm as I walked through the front door.
A pink, tin tea set was sitting on the mantle.
Their wonderful midwife was resting in the recliner, fresh from another birth.
I walked up the stairs past tiny untied shoes and followed the dim light beaming from their bedroom lamp.
She was beautiful.
Laying in her own space next to her beloved.
He had his fingers interlaced with hers and they were riding the waves of labor together on their rust colored sheets.
There was a Facetime-ing iPhone propped on the top of the dresser and oil diffusing into the air.
It smelled so good-so peaceful-so relaxing.
She decided a shower was her next order of business, and so, naturally, he accompanied her. When the shower doors proved too intrusive, he removed them and handed them to me. Putting himself under the stream of warm drops too.
He held her through a few surges-I could tell they were getting intense-and then lathered a sponge and ran it over her every curve. The soap spiraled down the drain as she took a seat in the corner of the shower and worked through another.
She made her way back to her bed, feeling the time was near-- and slowly, she allowed her body to labor. She allowed her body to surge while she laid breathing, warring, goddess-ing.
Sweet darling daughter arrived into the hands of her daddy.
The rest, well?
The rest is happily ever after.