Olivia

The room is dim; a small desk lamp gold-lights one corner. Midsummer in subtropical Brisbane, it's now about 2.00am. My daughter breathes. And sounds of courage, endurance, and utter in-the-void emerge from her. She's on the floor, on all fours; a lioness. The space is silent, bar her sounds. We have all been here.

Feet come under bulging belly, ancient aching effort; she rises. I bear witness to her. Our eyes meet. And in that moment I see the transformation of girl to Mother. Something seismic shifts. Our eyes one, I nod. Later she will recall this moment, recall my nod, and wonder aloud what I was witnessing. 

An hour and half passes. She's on the floor again, her husband at her head, myself and midwife at her feet. She expands. The sounds are different now. As is the energy in the room. Unfurl and re-furl, the head-crown of this being travels down. Nothing else exists in these moments. Spiral pathway etching into pelvic bones. 

Suddenly the wondrous face emerges, a puzzle wet and slippery. My breath has gone. Then a starfish; the body. And a new sound joins us. Turned and swirled and passed between my daughter's legs to her arms.

My granddaughter. My daughter's daughter. Olivia.

This post is part of Tara Mohr’s Grandmother Power blogging campaign