F I R S T H O U R
by Sharon Olds
That hour, I was most myself. I had shrugged
my mother slowly off, I lay there
taking my first breaths, as if
the air of the room was blowing me
like a bubble. All I had to do
was go out along the line of my gaze and back,
out and back, on gravity's silk, the
pressure of the air a caress, smelling on my
self her creamy blood. The air
was softly touching my skin and tongue,
entering me and drawing forth the little
sighs I did not know as mine.
I was not afraid. I lay in the quiet
and looked, and did the wordless thought,
my mind was getting its oxygen
direct, the rich mix by mouth.
I hated no one. I gazed and gazed,
and everything was interesting, I was
free, not yet in love, I did not
belong to anyone, I had drunk
no milk, yet– no one had
my heart. I was not very human. I did not
know there was anyone else. I lay
like a god, for an hour, then they came for me,
and took me to my mother.
* * *
Genevieve is a little over a month old. She sleeps a lot and well–six and a half full hours last night. She nurses easily and less often than her big brother did at her age. She smiles often, usually when falling asleep. My only real difficulties with her being her need to be nursed every hour between 7pm and midnight and a complete refusal to sleep alone in her bassinet. She likes being held, and wants to sleep close to her father and me.
I wanted a daughter. I knew my second child was a girl in my first month of pregnancy– I woke up from a unexpected afternoon nap having dreamt of hot buttered bread, steam rising off the freshly baked loaf. I knew then I was having a girl. And yet since she was born I've found myself captive to a host of unexpected fears. When Ike was a baby I was not anxious about whether he'd be handsome man someday. And, of course, he is a very cute little boy. But he was a ugly newborn: his head was cone shaped and his face was squished; he had big creases under his eyes and he looked extremely grumpy most the time. I thought all this was very funny and adorable. But since Genevieve's birth I've found myself surprisingly anxious about her appearance. She has my pale, sensitive skin and her baby acne is much worse than Ike's was. She has what looks like a birth mark on the back of half of her left hand and I fear it will cause her embarrassment in junior high. I have watched the growing of her eyelashes, hoping they grow long and curly, unlike my short, straight lashes. I scan family photos on both sides of the family, wondering whose facial structure she has inherited. I did none of this with her brother.
It's ridiculous. I am abashed that I am so concerned about Genevieve's appearance when I was so disinterested in Isaiah's. And it places the struggle women have with their bodies, or rather–the love-hate relationship I have with my own–directly in my lap. I want to model confidence and self-acceptance for my daughter; to be beautiful by being at home in my body, not obsessed with its flaws or shortcomings. Which is just the kind of thing I can pencil in on the to-do list for tomorrow.
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p o e t r y w e d n e s d a y }
