Part 2 of scrubin and cuttin, home version

Needless to say, at home, it is different.

You birth your baby, and you or your partner help lift the baby up to your arms. You sit there and cry tears of joy and relief. Gratitude washes over you like a waterfall--you ARE the pebbles at the bottom of Niagara Falls. You did it. It is here. It is over. It is beginning. It is out of you. Its alive. Here it is. No more pain. No more labor that very second! No more bones crunching, stretching pushing pulling exploding. We did it. The Climax. The biggest big bang. The greatest hero. Survivor. Warrior. Conqueror. The Stanley cup. The Superbowl. You did not die. Ecstacy. Hold your prize. Dare to look at it. See if you have a boy or a girl. Marvel at the fat cheeks, the little face, the wise eyes. Disbelief. So much music. Too much to behold. Too sweet to comprehend. Too precious to behold.
There is no Johnson+Johnson scrub at this moment.
There is nobody doin a damn thing with any knives, scissors or digital paraphenalia.

Later, the placenta will come. Later, you will tidy up. Later, you will get dressed. For these are Earthly trappings, and right now is as far from Earth as there is. Hold your naked slippery baby in your naked slippery arms.

Hush hush whisper who dares.