Rushes. Contractions. Sensations. Pain. It’s a perspective thing, I guess.

At least that’s what they say. Last night, sitting at our childbirth class watching three different births left me feeling uneasy, not empowered. My reaction surprised me actually. I have witnessed my mom give birth, one time the whole process, the other time I was in and out. Those experiences exist in my memory as exciting not scary or “gross.” But I was just an observer not the laborer.

Everytime my baby wiggles, kicks and prods inside of me, I want to see “her” with a passion I can’t describe. The realization of a life within, under that tight layer of skin, is almost ridiculous. Could it really be true? A living, hiccupping child in there? (That’s what the books say is happening when I feel the soft rhythmic thumps near my pubic bone.) I want to see her, to hold her, to love her.

But to do that I will have to surrender to incredible…discomfort, a more middle of the road term. I think it is the unknown that is unnerving. I may piddle along for 20 hours and then explode into intensity for two, or I may start out in agony but only have to live through it for six. The discomfort could center in my back, the water could soothe away all my tension or I could experience an orgasmic birth (These natural people are amazing!). In the end, it doesn’t matter. It’s the only way. I just have to surrender to my body and the process and let it happen. The reward is unfathomable.

Someday this constant circle of thoughts will spin off into other directions. It will all be over. But for now, this is where I am, two steps forward, one step back. Full of passion and apprehension.