Chapter 5 - A Biker's Song...

     They arrived on motorcycles, including the woman in labor. They were part of a loving and boisterous sub-culture of families who lived in one of the more remote parts of our county—Harleys being the glue that bound them together.

     The labor support team swept in…Three guys, dressed in leather vests over tattooed arms, wore hats with feathers protruding from the bands. They brought in a cooler of beer and gathered around the father-to-be. Three women encircled the mother—bangles dangling from their wrists, laughter and maternal cooing filling the room. They all knew their roles and confidently went to work. They had helped to bring a lot of children into this community.

     I alternately moved from hunkering down with the men, discussing how things were progressing, offering commentary as needed…to penetrating the clouds of patchouli that surrounded the mother so I could monitor the well being of the baby. I had delivered many of their babies, and we all worked well together.

     “This woman of yours is getting down now, Buck. You got yourself a good one. Listen to her. This baby’s gonna pop any minute,” they reassured the father, giving him another beer. The women swirled around the mother with constant, devoted attention—cooling her face with a wet rag, massaging her back and hips. “There, there…you’re doing great… Yes. Yes. You’re so beautiful. A magnificent goddess if there ever was one,” they burbled…”We’re right here. We won’t leave your side... OK, here it comes. Here’s another one. Ride baby baby…”

     Hours passed…the energy stayed strong and unwavering. At last it was time to push. She wanted to deliver standing up, so two strong guys on either side held her up. Her husband sat on the floor with me, ready to help receive the baby.

     Now—during her prenatal care—I had persuaded the two of them to participate in an experiment with me. I had been studying how babies in the womb, when exposed to the voices of their parents singing, will demonstrate an astonishing recognition of those songs once they are born. I thought this was so cool, and found them to be willing subjects. The father was, perhaps, overly eager. Throughout her pregnancy he drove his wife crazy because he would put his lips to her belly and sing a folk song with his soft Oklahoma twang, a song that his mother used to sing to him when he was a child.

     So, when the baby was delivered, and the mom had sat down on a pad on the floor with the baby held close to her chest, Buck broke into song. The baby stared straight into his father’s face, listening almost as if mesmerized. At that moment Buck was moved to scoop the baby up in his arms. I quickly intervened. “No, wait! The cord. We have to cut the cord first…”

     When the mom was cleaned up and back in bed, she put the baby to breast where he nursed with vigor. Unable to contain himself, Buck crawled up on the bed, and with unbridled enthusiasm, began to sing again. The baby popped off the nipple, spun his head around and locked eyes with his father. “Buck…this may not be the time.”  “Right. Time to suck titty. Right,” he agreed, as he continued to hover. Finally, with marked reluctance, he moved away to sit in the midst of his mates. Popping open another beer, and beaming with moist, proud eyes, he said. “Guess that boy knows his father alright!”