My unborn baby

You have not yet started growing, and already I'm afraid
That when you are new-born, the decisions I have made
Will mean that I can't hold you, or that you're born too soon,
Or that, if ever you're conceived, you'll be hurt in the womb.

I fear the day you're born, my child, and the day I bring you home.
I fear the day I have to care for you all on my own.
I fear the pain of surgery, and that feeding will be sore
And I fear that you won't be quite done, that you'll need a little more.

I know already that you'll come in not quite the best way
And I know that's best for you and me, it's what all the experts say.
It seems unfair - it's not your fault - you never asked for this.
But I want you so, I selfishly intend to take the risk.

I can't explain it. I don't want to. It's not a logic thing.
It's made of things like butterflies and why the oceans sing.
It's a feeling down inside my skin where I keep the feel of rain
And I love you now so much that I could do it all again.

The Laughing Day

A long, long time ago, when you were very young
And all the world was unexplored and all our songs unsung
You lay nearby and looked at me - you'd only just begun
The day before had rained so hard. That day you brought the sun.

The day I cried the skies cried too -
The labour ward was grey
And the windows let no daylight in -
That was the crying day.

Your whole, long life ago, you lay and looked at me
And I woke up and your own face was the first thing I could see
And I looked into your blue eyes and saw the love to be
And a nurse came in and drew the blinds and the sun shone in on me.

The day I cried the skies cried too -
The labour ward was grey
And the windows let no daylight in -
That was the crying day.

The short, hard year has passed, and you still wake and play
And the days are long and full of joy and toys in disarray
You run and hide, then come to us, and without words you say
That from your waking to your rest, this is the laughing day.