The Birth

She paced restlessly around her study, a hand to the small of her back. Why wouldn’t it come?
It felt like she’d been carrying this child forever. Well, when you counted all the years she’d dreamed, imagined, pondered the timing, and gathered her courage, it had been a very, very long time. She’d endured so many sideways glances, heard so much advice… Dear Lord, so very much advice. She could have choked on it. At this moment it was a cacophony in the back of her mind. Her feeble attempts to concentrate on anything else were laughable. For several days now, she’d been caught gazing off into space during conversations and events. People who’d had their own were kind and understanding as her mind ran through checklists, replayed her preparations, and sought for anything else that needed doing, improving, perfecting.
She’d seen the images on the screen. Surely it must be time. She was surely ready. Why wouldn’t it come?
She gripped the edge of her desk as pain hit her, and despite biting her lip, a groan burbled up from deep inside her.
Her husband had been passing in the hall, and stopped. Quietly he peeked through the small opening in the door where she hadn’t quite shut it this time. He saw the expression on her face and hurried on down the half. There were people to call and alert.
Some people, he knew, preferred giving birth in large, sterile settings, with people rushing around intent on tasks he didn’t quite understand. But not his wife. Oh no, she wanted to do it almost alone, out here in the middle of nowhere, with only one person to hold her hand – and of course, he’d be hovering in the wings, ready if she needed him, but not interfering until then. He didn’t know enough to interfere. This was, after all, her baby. His contribution had been small enough.
He heard her cry out, and began punching the numbers in the phone.
She sat for a moment at the desk, staring at the monitor without really seeing it, tears blurring her eyes. Then she turned away, stood again and resumed her pacing.
It went on for ages, the agony. She had brief moments when she could wipe her face and force her thoughts to something else. But the pain was always nearby, ready to rush in and consume her entire focus. She didn’t think of herself as given to cursing, but choice words escaped her lips that would have shocked those who knew her well.
The other woman had finally come, and spoke soothing, encouraging words to her. They helped a little. After all, how many births had this woman seen and attended? They said she was the best. So she knew she ought to trust her when the woman said it was time for her to quit pacing and begin pushing.
She hesitated for a moment. Did she really want to trust her child, a part of her, to this cold, unforgiving world? Maybe it was better if it never had a chance to experience pain, criticism, bullying, rejection.
Too late. She had to let things take their course. She bit her lip, then wailed as her child slipped the bondage of her self and slid out into the open. Her husband was there, waiting with the beautiful covering that he gently wrapped around her baby before laying it on her chest.
“Congratulations,” he whispered as he kissed her forehead. “You have a beautiful, perfect, 400 page novel.”
Her publisher, still holding her hand, smiled agreement. “Well done.”