The Birth House

No matter what you do, someone always knew you would.

If women lose the right to say where and how they birth their children, then they will have lost something that's as dear to life as breathing.

How a mother comes to love her child, her caring at all for this thing that's made her heavy, lopsided and slow, this thing that made her wish she were dead ... that's the miracle.

Miss B. says, "It's a mama's faith what keeps her children right. I'm not talkin' 'bout the churchgoin' kind, neither. Miss Mabel's got faith in goodness. Tell me you can't help but believe in it too just by lookin' at her.

It’s a disgusting mess we come through to be born, the sticky-wet of blood and afterbirth, mother wailing, child crying … the helpless soft spot at the top of its head pulsing, waiting to be kissed. Our parents and teachers say it’s a miracle, but it’s not. It’s going to happen no matter what, there’s no choice in the matter. To my mind, a miracle is something that could go one way or another. The fact that something happens, when by all rights it shouldn’t, is what makes us take notice, it’s what saints are made of, it takes the breath away. How a mother comes to love her child, her caring at all for this thing that’s made her heavy, lopsided and slow, this thing that made her wish she were dead … that’s the miracle.

If women lose the right to say where and how they birth their children, then they will have lost something that’s as dear to life as breathing.

Aunt Fran lowered her voice. "Her cold is just the start of a greater sickness. These 'stories,' as you call them, will only lead her to more pain." "Fran, talk plain, will you?" "I'm talking about derangement." "Don't be silly!" She wispered. "And deviant behaviours.

No matter what you do—somebody, somewheres, knew that you would.

Sin has many tools, but a lie has a handle to fit them all.

Kissin’ the dirt’s the only way you’ll see heaven.

Each morning you set your sights on the tasks ahead and hope that when the day is done you’re farther along than when you started.

I ask myself, is it just a wild flight of imagination to conceive of a world without war … but someone must try … ” Julia Grace Wales

How a mother comes to love her child, her caring at all for this thing that’s made her heavy, lopsided and slow, this thing that made her wish she were dead … that’s the miracle.