misplaced mama

It’s a boy.  You are totally having a boy.  I am never wrong. E claims across the table which is covered with bowls of buttery chanterelle mushrooms, tossed field greens, roasted delicate squashes slightly caramelized with deep brown sugar and butter, all-spice rubbed pheasants and loafs of warm fresh bread.  The candles flicker between us.  Her bright blue eyes sparkle and dance, long black curls cascade down her wood-fire flushed checks. A boy.

Well, you’re not never wrong. Her husband sits next to her, a gentle reminder.

No, it’s a boy. E insists.

It’s always fun for me to hear the predictions of my baby’s sex.  I try not to jump too far into it, ignoring duality for right now.  Neither boy nor girl at this point for me, I like living in the oneness of it all. But I play with the conversation, sincerely enjoying why someone thinks inside is a boy.  Or not.

You know, this is the first time the thought of a having a boy doesn’t freak me out.  With the girls if someone insisted they were a boy I would get a lump in my throat and feel dread.  Now I am actually okay with it.  Nothing against boys…I smile.  Why do you think boy?

I can see him.  She gives me a beautiful, supportive grin.  In this moment I can feel this twirl of karma and connection.  After only an hour together, she is my friend.

Now this is the first time I have met E.  But I have heard stories of her for over seven years.  She is the oldest friend A, one of my dearest sisters, a woman I hold in the highest regard and on the most jeweled adorned pedestal. A has shared E’s adventures and journeys with me, telling stories of their time together from grade school on.  A always ends her stories with, God, you gotta meet her someday. Little did we know we’d end up living less than 2 miles from each other.  And although our paths have never crossed until this glistening forest night surrounded by a new Washington family and devouring this lovingly cooked feast, I feel like I have known her forever.  Outside the window I can almost see the shimmer of the beaver ponds that scatter around the house.  Astrud Gilberto sounds the air. Something beautiful is taking place.  Something always is.

Not just anybody can tell me they see my baby and I believe them.  But there is something, from spark to a fire, E ignites.  Regardless if Baby Dove is a boy or a girl, E feels him/her.  She sees baby’s light.   At this moment I am almost tempted to ask E if she will be at Baby’s birth.  Childless, yet I know she has begun thinking about the motherhood journey, I decide to wait to ask her.  My birth circle will form organically.

You should think of a name that starts with L. E looks are me dead on.

L?  Funny, I tried to convince B into Lennon for a stint.  Lion? Lyric? Ludicris? Liev? Leo?

Just as I was about to share my brainstorm of L names, I am overcome by pain.  Deep and inside, below the belly.  Tight.  Cramping pain.  It is so intense I breathe through it.  I slowly fade out of the conversation, petrified.  I am sliding down the leather dining chair,  my legs spreading toward the floor, holding my belly.  I breathe more and it fades, yet the lingering sensation of pain is apparent

Are you okay?

Yeah, Yeah. I smile. Gas.

I sit and pretend to listen for a bit, talks about having babies, raising babies, teaching children, growing local strains of mushrooms, and wine tasting all rush around me and stupidly I pretend to listen yet inside I am freaking out.  I experience at least three more of what seems to me like contractions in the next 15 minutes or so. These were not Braxton Hicks.  These hurt, cut like a knife, crushed like a vice.  Finally I spoke.

You know.  I might be having contractions.

K immediately went and grabbed me some water and asked me if I had been drinking enough today.