I have never been any good at keeping up baby books. I have various cards, pictures and musings shoved in drawers and behind books. I always mean to get to it, but life keeps getting in the way.

I am a poet though, and I do write poems to my daughters regularly. I hope when they grow up they forgive me the half-empty baby books and treasure the words I wrote them in the wee hours as we nursed and cuddled.

This poem was to Victoria, born 5-1-98 (but due in early April!).



Birth Story

Ah, toots, you were a long wait.
All spring I grew watermelon-large
while you square-danced within
and told stories to my hands.
I thought I would have you forever.
I began to forget you could leave.
The morning you began to meet us
was wide-eyed and magical. By sunrise
we were old hat at wires and beeps.
We made movies and told jokes.
Someone brought balloons.
By afternoon I was feeling brave
as I impressed my doting entourage.
We were so lucky, toots, to be so loved.
Jen sat and watched your heartbeat
while Barb and Daryl rubbed my feet.
George hid, but we forgave him.
By evening I was the round martyr,
still brave. By midnight I suspected
you could be rather mean.
Barb went with us while we walked
and winced and whimpered.
Still I was strong. I was driven.
When things went bad, it was hours
before we knew the pain was wrong.
By morning, the doctors came
full of scary words and forms to sign.
In the end, they scooped you out of me
like ripe fruit.
I saw you were fine and closed my eyes.
The first hour your daddy owned you
and then you were mine.
Then you were ours.
Then
the three of us were born.
Oh toots, we drive through the country
and hoot and jabber like three fools.
We clap hands. We dance.
We make the monster face.
At night
we three curl up, into one another
and sleep in six arms.
It is past art, it is birth.
Oh toots,
you gave us life.


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All works on this site Alicia Bayer unless otherwise noted.
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