The labour room gleamed spotless, sterile.
Two nurses, a gynaecologist.
Then us—my wife and I.
She lay in lithotomy,
I at her side, hands clasped tight.
Culmination of our journey, sparked 44 weeks prior.
Married two years—she 24, I 27.
On our second anniversary, we chose a child.
We tried—love bare, unguarded.
A hundred times before, yet this felt sacred,
noble ritual under starlit purpose.
Three weeks on, she whispered: pregnant.
Clouds parted; we soared in bliss,
hugging wild, joy uncontained.
Parents, friends—ripples of delight.
Weeks blurred. First trimester bucked—
morning sickness, novice mother’s trials.
Love steered us through, deepening.
Rhythm settled; only her belly swelled,
a drum of life.
Our gynaecologist, kind beacon.
Hospital classes, checklists heeded—no shortcuts.
Walks at dawn and dusk, exercises entwined,
sleep in embraces, prayers for smooth sails.
Second, third trimesters hummed serene.
Appetite doubled—”eating for two!”
Scans revealed him: heartbeat thrum,
image flickering like a secret film.
“It’s a boy,” she said; thrill ignited.
He danced calisthenics in her womb—
kisses on her great curve felt his kicks.
Fortieth week: pains gripped, waters burst.
Hospital dash, room to labour ward.
Doctor’s warning rang true—agony raw.
She cried; I held, mopped sweat, urged: push.
Then, crowning head, slick body through the canal.
First cry pierced; I snipped the cord.
Nurses handed the squalling bundle, cloth-wrapped.
Our son—eyes meeting mine at last.
Nestled to her breast, our co-creation gazed.
Tears mingled; we kissed him, each other—our world.
Nurse coaxed: feed. Mouth latched, milk flowed.
Pride lit her face; pains dissolved in mother’s glow.
God favored me—pain hers alone.
Wish we’d shared that forge-fire.
My love swelled; she’d borne our son,
sacrificed depths I’d witnessed.
From spark of love, womb’s nine-month vigil,
birth’s fierce throes, newborn’s wail,
breast’s first bond, skin-to-skin symphony—
all orchestrated perfection.
Oh God, your design astounds: creation’s grace!
