I have given birth nine times. And yet even those words seem false. I did not merely hand Birth over to my newborn, as one would pass the potatoes at dinner. It happened to both of us, or in the case of twins to all three of us. 

This week I brought home four tiny Bantam chicks. They slid under the downy breasts of our Silkie mamas, and called it home. The Silkies are still waiting expectantly on a dozen eggs, unfailingly committed to the life hidden inside a seamless shell. 

Tomorrow is Easter, and the pinnacle of new life in the Christian world. Many of the eggs that show up today are stuffed with chocolate and jelly beans. While I am a fan of such things, it hardly compares with vivacity.  The sensation of cupping wings and feathers in my hand is extraordinary. I can scarcely confine it to syllables. If you have never experienced it, you might want to  meander down to your local feed store and pick up a day old chick. It is good for what ails you.  

The message I tire easily of when I jump into the mainstream illusion of romantic bliss, is like an overdose of jelly beans.  Bodies crafted as eye candy, and days stripped of responsibility are the norm. There is no margin for inconvenience, like sitting for weeks on a maybe, or diving into parenthood with all of its messiness. Self actualization is king, and if your partner gets stale, you bail. 

But Easter reminds me that things are not always what they seem. Something, or Someone, can die, and come back to Life. It is even more miraculous than being born nine times.