Perspective is a powerful thing.
On the one hand, I could feel like my body is failing me. That it doesn’t know how to give birth (or even get the birthing process started). That it’s stalling right before it gets to the last part of the race. It’s been doing fine for 9 months, making a beautiful baby with no complications whatsoever. And yet, now that the manufacturing process is complete, it doesn’t seem to want to release its creation.
Or, I could think that my baby is just so comfortable in there, so attached to his mummy that he doesn’t want to leave. All his needs are provided for, after all. He doesn’t even know he has needs. Whatever it is that he needs is so automatically provided for that he’s probably not even aware of it. He doesn’t know hunger or cold or what it’s like to have a wet diaper. And the world he’s living in is the only one that he knows.
I think being born is a lot like dying.
This is the world that we know. We don’t know what comes next, even if we have faith and reassurance that the after-life is a good thing and somewhere we’ll like being. I firmly believe that physical death is no more (or less or worse) than being born into a new life. Yet I’m quite content to stay here in the physical for as long as I possibly can.
Maybe being in the womb is like that, too. Even though being born will bring him an expanded awareness and ability to learn and grow, where he is right now is what he knows and probably brings him a whole lot of contentment. It’s got to be cramped, though.
On the third hand, maybe it’s all about Duncan. Some research points to it being the baby’s decision when to be born. Something in him has to set off the reactions in me that bring about labor and birth. We’re still waiting for that to happen.