Kate Burton Marple
Kate Burton Marple was born yesterday, April 18th, at 10:44AM, weighing 7 lbs. 1 oz. Mother and daughter are healthy, home now, and feeling fine.
While all of that is true, this standard announcement doesn't begin to reflect the incredible experience of her birth.
It's 6 in the morning, and Yin gently shakes me awake, wide-eyed. "I think it's time," she says. At that moment, adrenaline kicks into action. My mind snaps into hyper-awareness, thoughts racing at a mile a minute. Even eyesight is heightened, and details like threads in fabric pop with extreme clarity. This state lasts throughout the experience.
We call the doctor to let him know we're coming, get ready, grab our packed bags, and jump into the car. Yin's in a good mood, not too worried, except for every 6 minutes or so when she has a contraction. She kids me about still obeying the traffic signals when there's nobody around and we're rushing to the hospital. The thought had crossed my mind, but I take it as a sign of good character that I decided against it.
It's 7, and we're checked in to an exam room at Mt. Auburn Hospital, and Yin's hooked up to the heart rate and contraction monitors. Nurses and docs going through a shift change. Nothing to do at this point but wait. It's here that I begin to reflect on the significance of the baby. For some reason, this birth makes me much more aware of our mortality. I find myself looking at Yin's teeth and gums when she smiles and thinking of her skull hidden underneath, the brief wink of our time on earth, and the incomprehensible beauty of the human soul, that spark of life. In another hospital bed 1000 miles away, my last remaining grandparent lies insensible, medications hallucinating away the pain of a broken hip. Unbeknownst to her, the family she created is about to get a little larger.
I shouldn't give the impression that during this time I am morose or remote. In fact, the anxiety and weightiness gives me an irrepressible "gallows" humor, an almost inability to stop making jokes. Yin's cracking up, and eventually begs me to stop when the laughs are making her contractions more painful.
It's 9, and we're moved into a birthing suite. Roomy, lots of red oak, views of suburban Cambridge. Trying to take Yin's mind off the pain, we compare it to the other hospitals she's given birth in. Nurse Leesha and Dr. Yun check in occasionally, remaining compassionate but utterly calm. Yin's contractions are increasing in frequency and severity.
It's 10, and the contractions are so severe now that Yin doesn't want to speak so she can conserve her energy. While Yin isn't one of those mothers who screams and curses at their partner at this stage of labor, I know that she doesn't like to talk or be asked any questions. Any words of encouragement feel hollow and condescending. All I can do to express my concern at this point is to be present, to hold her hand, and occasionally whisper "I love you." In fact, my feelings of love for her are overwhelming; as I watch her suffer mightily for our family, I feel that I've never loved her more than in this moment.
And maybe that's because my heart is expanding to make room.
It's 10:44, and after 3 quick, breath-held pushes that have the clinicians commenting about Yin's strength, baby has arrived, looking vibrant and beautiful and new. Her cries are soon comforted by her mother's warmth, and Leesha and Dr Yun are leaving the room spotless as I hold back tears of joy. She's so tiny, and yet she fills the room with her incredible potential. I want to hold and love her, to protect her, and to share with her this flawed and yet miraculous world.
Kate Burton Marple was born yesterday, April 18th, at 10:44AM, weighing 7 lbs. 1 oz. Mother and daughter are healthy, home now, and feeling fine.












