«Es-tu mal au ventre, maman?» Every year on her birthday, mom would ask her mother if her stomach hurt. Mémé, who produced a bakers dozen, never got the significance. But most of us remember birthing our babies. Twenty-two hours of labour took me from insisting I deliver in a salt-water bath, the air replete with the sounds of whales and patchouli-scented vegan candles to maniacally screaming “Get that fucker out!” By the time the catheter arrived, I saw yoga and sheep breathing for what they were: chimerical hippy hogwash. But I’d have done it again in a heartbeat.
Photo: Zebra Photography
Mei' Autozzhe' un' isch! - A week of vibrancy. The carousel was closed (who has ever heard of such a thing?!). A small boy and I pressed our noses up against the glass. We discussed ...
5 days ago