Cinnamon Stained Dawn

Cinnamon Stained Dawn

By: Topaz Dixon

Mrs. Lightfoot

English 1A

Sec: 15

April 19, 2005

Topaz Dixon

English 1A

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 Joycelyn, 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 Moomaw, arrived around 3o'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. momma," I said. Was this baby going to come out? The slow hand of time kept ticking as my mother