In a matter of weeks my oldest daughter will be in labor. She and her husband attended one of those classes that prepare you. Not that talking is the same as experience but it's a place to start.  I expect that the presenters went over the idea of resting between contractions. Having given birth nine times I had my share. More than. If I were to condense those hours together, which would be ridiculous and might well have been the death of me, it totals one hundred and twenty hours. Five days. But it was in fact spread out over two decades, and looking back is a blink of time. 

Contractions are intense. One of my midwives confided in me that if a woman calls to say she is in labor, and does not stop talking when a contraction comes, she tells her to go back to bed. It is not the real deal. Contractions cannot be ignored. They demand attention much like the baby about to make his or her entrance. But the merciful thing about contractions is.... they stop. Not for a long time, but for a minute. Five, even. Which is just long enough to catch your breath, talk to your husband, change your position, and get a few ice chips. Then comes another one. Like the waves of the ocean, they keep rolling. But there is that sweet reprieve in between. 

It would be a mistake to spend the gaps worrying about the next one, or rehashing the last. Yes they are hard. Agreed, there are lots of them. Unequivocally it hurts. But coasting through the reprieve can get you to the other side. 

The other day Benjamin was having a difficult time being Benjamin. While it is perhaps impossible for him to articulate the sensations that swirl like contractions inside him, they are clearly painful. Which makes those of us who love him suffer too. But the next day, after he left for school, I noticed that I was reliving it. He was gone, and was probably baking cupcakes, yet I was embroiled in the memory of the night before. 

Maybe if I can learn to breathe through the struggles, we will all find ourselves birthed into a new way of being.