My granddaughter was born on July 30, the night of the blue moon. I was there, I saw her emerging, sputtering and coughing, turning from pale to pink in a minute or two. She was put on her mother’s breast before the cord was cut; in fact, the cord was not cut for a good 20 or so minutes, so that all the blood that was rightly hers would flow into her body. When the cord is cut too soon, up to a third of the baby’s blood volume may be left in it, thereby cheating the child from having all its red blood cells and oxygen.
It was a home birth, as may seem obvious; there were two midwives in attendance, my son-in-law, and me, the gofer (go for this, go for that). In fact, it was when I was asked to go for the birthing stool from the car, that I went out and got to see that enormous full moon. “What a night to be born,” I said to myself, and it was. But the birthing stool was superfluous, as upon my return I was just in time to see the baby sliding out and her father catching her (as had been agreed upon by all the interested parties). Second birth for Shana, and, as she said, “Labor was quick and relatively easy (as far as labor goes).”