A few years ago a friend who has four young children came over to meet the chickens. As the baby needed to nurse she swung him down from the back carrier, and when the two year old begged to check for eggs she lifted her up. Again. Deftly she fed them snacks and answered their questions while we wedged a conversation in like cheese between the crackers. Clearly, she was stretched.
I asked about her last birth and she told about how transition had struck at midnight. It was her first homebirth and it felt like a long time until she held him in her arms. Four hours by the clock. Since he was the fourth she expected it to be faster, or easier.
The girls chased Silkies and I gently placed one in each of their chubby hands. It was a sweet moment, though my friend almost missed it. The baby had crawled away and she was after him before he ate some rocks.
"Who laid this blue egg? Can we keep it?"
"Probably Dora, and yes you may."
"Who laid this brown one?" her sister asked.
"Piper, and isn't it beautiful? Let's put that in a box for you to take home."
We filled half a carton with a palette of browns and blues, and their quick mother saved them from a fall.
"Mommy will carry it. Remember what happens when an egg drops?"
They paused as if the memory was fresh. She explained kindly, without blame.
As we walked to the car I tried to affirm what a wonderful job she is doing. But she seemed too aware of her shortcomings to allow such a comment to be plausible.
"I am so tired, and I yell. I don't want to. I take them on nature walks, and read to them. My oldest doesn't want to read, and I worry. Homeschooling is intense." She settled on the word as if it fit.
My history of those years reemerged, many people crammed into a 1000 square feet, an endless stream of dirty dishes. It was intense. It seemed out of balance, that she was so desperate for a quiet moment, and I have more than enough to spare. Just today I lavished a hundred of them in the sewing room. Why does God lump life into such uneven doses?
Then I remembered what she described about her last birth. If someone had stopped the story at half past midnight, it would have looked like a wasted effort. All that pain, and uncertainty, for Who knows how long? But no midwife worth her salt would give up just because it is hard. She has seen enough babies crown to know that a miracle is on the way.
