Now Crying Baby In My Mother's Arms example essay topic

Cinnamon Stained Dawn By: Topaz Dixon Mrs. Lightfoot English 1 A Sec: 15 April 19, 2005 Topaz Dixon English 1 A Essay #1 April 13, 2005 Cinnamon Stained Dawn Mom: "I have been working really hard " Joyce: "I know, I know " Mom: "Where is my baby?" Joyce: "Maybe you should try using the restroom " Mom: "That is impossible, I'm in labor Joyce: "Just try, the pressure from your bladder might be the reason the baby is not coming out " Mom: "Alright if you say so, I'll try " It was December 8, 1990 at 6 o'clock in the morning. My mother was in labor. She had suffered 9 months of morning sickness. The family was so accustomed to her bouts of regurgitating whatever meal she had just eaten that we formed the "Oh no" brigade. As soon as Mom felt the warm saliva in the back of her throat she'd say "OH NO! We snapped into action; Mom would run to the kitchen sink and start splashing cold water on her face.

My sister and I would grab ice from the freezer and rub it on her toes, her calves, her arms, and any spot we could find, while my dad rubbed ice on the back of her neck. This lasted 'til the nausea passed. Her sickness and pain would be worth it. After all "no pain no gain". Within the next 15 minutes my younger sister would be born. Her birth was unusual, spectacular, and strange.

She would be born, not into a world of machines, drugs, nurses, and doctors, but into a world rare and comfortable. She, like my older sister and I, would be born at home. Her first breath would open the gates of a whole new world. With that one tiny gasp of fresh air my new born sister would carve my destiny into stone.

We lived in a four bedroom home with a painter's studio, right on the edge of Costa Mesa, and Newport Beach. We were so close to the sea that the smell of salt caressed the air. The city was like an ant hill, workers everywhere trying to build a mall, Triangle Square. My parents, Frank and Jocelyn, were and still are very talented artists.

My older sister Jaspre was then seven years old. We were a happy little family that would soon be blessed with a pleasant surprise. It all started before the 8th but those events were just a fury of excitement and are impossible to remember. By the time the 8th did roll around my mother had been in and out of labor for over 30 hours and the labor had not even hinted on reaching its final stage. My father was instructed to mix her a cocktail consisting of orange juice, baking-soda, mustard powder, and vinegar. Mom drank it through a straw while soaking in a bath.

Presto! The convulsions that ensued were so violent they thrust my mother in to her final, tedious stages of labor around 8 o' clock on the morning of the 7th. My mother sat in the birthing nest which had been neatly crafted by my father. The nest, carefully constructed with blankets, sleeping bags, futon mats, and water proof pads, was on the living room floor right in front of the black leather couch.

There was light coming in through the two diagonal windows behind the couch. The comfort of the nest was assured by the new cream colored Berber carpet that had just been installed. There was also a toasty warm fire crackling in the fire place. The midwife, Joyce Moo maw, arrived around 3 o'clock in the afternoon.

My mother, thereafter, proceeded to vomit 4 times, use about 3 pounds of ice, and then pass out on the floor. Her young energetic body was exhausted. I stood there watching her from the corner of the room, taking in all of my surroundings while eagerly anticipating the arrival of new life. My father was crouched on the floor behind her trying to sooth her, as contraction pains crashed in and out like the waves of the sea. Time inched forward like a snail clinging to the trail that it has left behind. My mother's best friend, Robin, with her niece in tow, had come to welcome my little sister into the world.

We were all there to tend to my expectant mother's needs. Jobs were assigned: My father was there to hold hands and comfort; Robin was in charge of changing out vomit buckets and the wet towels for mother's face, and I was in charge of getting the ice. I darted back and forth between the kitchen and the living room so that I could supply my mother with the refreshing, cold pleasure of crushed ice. I loved this job because every time I went to retrieve ice I smelled the lingering aroma, (which had stuck to the wooden counters and cabinets), of freshly baked oatmeal cookies. It was 3: 30 am on Dec 8th. Joyce, the midwife, had been at my mother's side for over 12 hours and yet my mother was still in agonizing labor.

My father and I were watching from a short distance. We could feel the sweat and heat emanating from my mother's body. She was breathing in patterns, pushing in patterns, and groaning in patterns, but this rhythmic flow was not enough to move the child within. My father, Robin, Jaspre, Robin's niece, and I were nodding in and out of sleep. My older sister Jaspre and Robin's niece couldn't stand it any longer and collapsed on my parent's bed. The others wouldn't give up hope.

We watched, waited, helped, cleaned, and tried to make my mother as comfortable as possible The clock struck 5: 15 am. Mom couldn't take it any longer. "WHERE IS MY BABY?" she screamed. I jumped at the unexpected breech of silence. My mother had gone stark raving mad. Now she was tossing and turning trying to adjust her weight and the weight of the stubborn baby.

We calmed her down for about 10 minutes and then she began crying. The words "I want my baby" were dripping out of her mouth; simultaneously tears plunged from hear fiery eyes. "It's o. k. mommy", I said. Was this baby going to come out? The slow hand of time kept ticking as my mother repeated her plea, "Where is my baby?" This time she was answered by the midwife who trying hard to coax her patient said, "Your baby will come".

My mother fidgeted and whimpered in reply "but, I have been working really hard. I keep pushing but my baby won't come."I know, I know", repeated the midwife, who seemed to know something we didn't. "So then where is my baby?" My mother cried. Stroking my mothers burning forehead the midwife replied, "Maybe you should try using the restroom. My mother trying not to laugh spit out, "That is impossible, I'm in labor".

Trying to calm my mother down the midwife said in the sweet voice, "Just try, the pressure from your bladder might be the reason the baby is not coming out". This was too much for my mother to understand at a time like this so she acquiesced. "Alright if you say so, I'll try" she said in a defeated voice. We all rushed to lift my mother from her nest and slowly eased her into the hallway bathroom. The rising sun was cutting the long thin bathroom with light as it seeped through the rectangle window on the wall adjacent to the toilet.

The room glowed deep cinnamon red as the light of the sun touch every surface. As I stood watching my mother's sweaty flush body crouching on the toilet, the sound of dripping water from the shower filled my ears. "Nothing is happening", my mother called out in a taunting, sarcastic voice. The midwife with a smirk on her face said "just wait". Then it happened. The gravity grabbed hold of the baby.

My mom didn't even need to push. Time was now ticking at 60 miles an hour. All I could do was turn and watch as the midwife slid into position. My father jumped into midair and quickly flew to my mother's side. The baby was on its way out. I was holding my breath as my mother was letting all of hers out.

Then she emerged. A small very reddish head popped out and sucked in fresh air. When I heard her breath I immediately understood why mothers so look forward to giving birth. My mother was releasing another life into our world. After the head, came the shoulders, then... Oh My Goodness!

Something was not right, my mother was still on the toilet and the baby was inching closer and closer to the water that sat in the toilet bowl. I stood gaping, my mouth hung wide open. Was the baby going to hit the water? No. The midwife, with all of her skill, gently tilted the baby out of harm's way. After the head, came the shoulders, then a butt, and legs.

The baby was red and raw, like a ring finger that has been chocked by a ring that was too tight. The midwife placed the now crying baby in my mother's arms. I stared in wonder. There she was. The anticipation was over. There would be no more waiting.

Joyce took the baby and gently cleaned her. My father cut the umbilical cord and placed her back on my mom's belly: Skin touching skin. As I looked at the beautiful new being I knew that this beauty was rare. I touched her soft baby fresh epidermal layer. I thought about a gift that I could give others. That brand new skin had to be available to everyone.

I had seen older people whose skin hung from their bones like laundry hung out to dry. I then knew that I would be able to fix the maladies of old age. I had seen birth, smelled birth, heard birth, and through my mother, I had given birth. My mother never gave up. She brought forth life, which was something I knew no man could simulate.

How could I retain the perfection of youth that the moment held? I would replicate that perfection so that I could give people, "born again" skin and young bodies that they yearned for. At four years of age it's hard to put these thoughts into words, so I chose the first words that came to mind. I announced out loud, "I am going to be a doctor so I can make people new like this". My parents laughed but I knew that was what I was destined to do. My father looked down at his new infant and said, "What we should name her".

Her skin still glowed with a deep red color that reflected the color of the rising sun just outside the window. My dad looked around and said, "We will name her Cinnamon like the spice, because she was born with skin the color of cinnamon. I closed my eyes and let the memory of her first breath of air and her gorgeous new skin play over and over again in my mind. I knew that there would be road blocks ahead but that this memory would keep away anything that would kill my dream of being a doctor.

Cinnamon's birth would be what kept me in motion. That morning lit by the cinnamon dawn, there were two births: the birth of a human being and the birth of my calling.