process.
"Push when you have the contractions, honey.
This way two forces, the contraction and your
pushing, combine to move the baby and saves you
some energy," she advised. I did as she said and soon
I began to feel the baby's movement.
My own grunts and cries filled my ears, so I
didn't hear the grunts and cries coming from Gladys
Tate, but I caught a glimpse of Octavious holding her
hand and continually trying to calm her. She had her
legs up and was actually pushing down on her
padding so that it slipped off her stomach and toward
her legs.
"He's coming!" Mama announced, and we all
knew it was a boy. The room was a cacophony of bedlam: Gladys's mad cries (louder than mine), Octavious trying to get her to stop, my own screams, Mama mumbling prayers and orders, and then that great sense of completion, that sweet feeling of
emptiness followed by my baby's first cry.
His tiny voice stopped my screams and
Gladys's as well. Mama held him up, the placenta still
attached and dangling.
"He's big," Mama exclaimed. "Big enough to
do well even though he's early."
I tried to catch my breath, my eyes fixed on the
wonder that had emerged from my body, the living
thing that had dwelled inside my stomach.
Mama cut and tied the cord and then began to
wash the baby, doing everything quickly and with an
expertise born of years and years of experience, while
I lay back trying to get my heart to slow, my breathing
regular. When I gazed at Gladys Tate, I saw she was
mesmerized by the sight of the baby. She didn't move.