pomes

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.

There is a hippie in my head
With wind-chimes in her hair
Who warns "A section means you're weak -
It shows you do not care."
She peers from out her beaded fringe
To mock my "green" credentials;
"It's not enough," she coldly says,
"To honestly like lentils.
You must suffer for your love,
To prove your worth as Mother.
The bath of child-bed blood's the way;
Earth-Mothers know no other."

But I have chosen to accept
That I am not a Goddess
And it is, for me, enough to have
My babies judge my prowess.
I want to give my children all -
The born, the planned, the dreams -
A healthy, strong and loving mum
In ways within my means.
That means I must agree to choose
The uncool "science" route
And learn to bear superior glares
From those with young like fruit.

[Ed. Have had amusing image of babies dropping off like apples from stems, painless and natural - whole orchards full of pregnant woman/baby-trees, and white-coated obs wandering around with trugs and stethoscopes. OK, amusing and grotesque.]