Birth

There's no way to properly give justice to a homebirth.  I was privileged to attend my second one last week (other than my own).  Although there is beauty in every birth, no matter what the setting, there is something special to a birth at home.  Something different.  Something...

It might be the decor.  The open flame of the candles (definetly a no-no at a hospital), the family pictures on the wall, the coloured towels and blankets to match the woman's personality.  The smell of supper in the air, fresh laundry, the absence of bleach.

It might be the people present.  The children eating cereal at the table, while they wait for the sitter to pick them up.  The quick visits of good friends as they deliver a meal and pop in "just to check".  The friendly neighbours who sit vigil on their porches, hoping to be the firsts to get the news that the baby has been born. 

It might be the staff.  The midwife's apprentice who quietly sets up their equipment around the room, nodding and murmuring encouragement as the mother moans and rocks.  The midwife who asks permission before taking vitals or checking dilation, always respectful of the family's privacy, and never assumes she has first dibs to the mother's body.

It might be the father.  The way he kisses and holds his wife, freely, unhindered.  A man in his own home, where he is comfortable, where he is on his own turf is a powerful thing to behold.  There is no questionning look at the doula to ask if it's okay to join his wife in the shower.  He knows, and he does. 

It might be the mother.  She wanders her home, she wears her husband's t-shirt, or nothing at all and it's okay.  And she knows it.  She doesn't seek permission to eat, or to kneel on the floor, or to walk around her yard.  She has built a comfortable home, the perfect home for herself and her family, and she takes full advantage.

It might be the baby.  The calm, wise expression as he gazes into his mother's eyes.  The cry, then the quiet of a baby who's first touch was from a woman he recognizes from the massages he received in the womb.  Or, perhaps, his first touch was from his father, or mother, who lifted him directly from womb to heart.

There's something about a homebirth.  There's something about a new family in bed together, counting toes and stealing kisses. 

There's just something about homebirth.