Going Natural

The sickness has traveled, relieving me somewhat of the fear I suppress when I feel any ache--the Big Fear: the Big Bad--and now it's Liam who's sick; he tossed and turned all night with a fever, talking crazy talk about clocks and tunnels, and slapping me in the face with what felt like determination right around the time he was due for another dose of meds. "Oh"--the sound of the slap woke him up--"I'm sorry," he said. "Is the baby here yet?" "No," I tell him. "I feel so much better," he says, though he was running 103.8 then and his eyes had that glittery brightness that comes with fever. "Is it time to get up?" "No." "Good," he says, and swallows the purple stuff and conks out again in 30 seconds. My friend Deirdre lets the fever burn itself out. I don't have the courage.

My mother is in Utah at my brother's house for the birth of his fifth child. Well, his fourth. Their fifth. Camille, my brother's wife, is an all-things-natural kind of chick, well beyond my own estimation of good sense: her kids have never been immunized; they breastfeed to the point that their teeth have to be capped because of rot; she treats their ailments with stuff from the natural foods store; she will not give them antibiotics. My brother boasts about it in his way--assumes her choices as his own moral high ground, and condemning my own in the process. Which doesn't exactly foster intimate connection. But it's OK.

Camille decided that she wanted to give birth at home this time. I think it's a fine idea; the hospital is five minutes away, and it's not like there's any question that she can handle a birth. They found a midwife, they bought supplies--all good to go. Alas, when Camille went into labor last night, so did one of the other midwife's clients--a first-time mother located three hours away from Camille. My mother set about packing the hospital bag.

Three hours later, my brother delivered his daughter, Aunia Rose--a strapping 9lb. 11oz. Viking child--at home, with the midwife on the phone. He rubbed the purple out of her body, cleaned the goop out of her throat and nose, cut the cord, saved the placenta; they'll plant it in the yard beneath a sapling. You've got to admit, it's pretty cool.

Happy birthday, Aunia Rose. You're one of us now, darling, and we'll love you forever.