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it makes sense.

I mean there was water in there.

It took approximately 2 hours for my little gondolier to sing his way right out of that canal to the accompaniment of an accordion, no doubt. All of those weeks and months of anticipation had finally reached the pinnacle - I had given birth.

Was it everything I had imagined? No. Did it occur in the fashion that I had prepared myself for? No.

In fact, as I lay on that table while the doctor and nurses hummed around in a post-partum flurry of activity, I felt betrayed, misled and lied to.

It had hurt like hell first of all. Whoever said that labor and delivery felt like pressure needed to have their head examined. And they sure didn't need to be writing any books.

The only "P" word that should be associated with labor and deliver is p-a-i-n.

And this notion that I was going to be an active participant in the birth of this child? Pure and utter nonsense. Anyone who preached this half-baked piece of hooey had clearly never seen a uterus in action.

Rising and falling in perfect rhythm with the 100 ton force of a pile driver, it was clear that no help was needed from me. My body was in charge and the baby was going to be born. I was just along for the ride.

But, when they lay that little guy in my arms and our eyes met for the first time, there was one truth that was undeniable. God had brought us together perfectly. At the right place. At the right moment. At the right time.

I was his and he was mine. In a way that only the deepest wisdom of the universe could comprehend, two hearts had been inexplicably woven together. Forever.

He was a son. I was a mother.

Learn more about this author, Magnolia Miller.
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