Page 23 of Barbells, Broomsticks & A Baby

“It doesn’t feel nice.” I gasp as the contraction subsides. “It feels like I’m being torn in half.”

“The pain has purpose,” says my mother, unexpectedly taking my hand. “It brings your baby closer to us with each wave.”

Her rare gesture of physical comfort surprises me so much that I momentarily forget my discomfort. “Mom?”

“I was in labor with you for twenty-six hours,” she says, her voice softer than I’ve ever heard it. “The longest and most worthwhile day of my life.”

This glimpse into my mother’s experience—this connection between us as women and mothers—moves me deeply. Before I can respond, another contraction claims my attention, this one so powerful that my magic explodes outward, turning everything in the room temporarily purple.

“Transition phase,” says Minerva calmly, seemingly unfazed by her newly violet appearance. “Things will move quickly now.”

She’s right. The next hour is the most intense experience of my life, with pain beyond what I thought possible, magical surges that defy all attempts at control, and a growing urge to push that becomes impossible to resist.

Atlas remains at my side throughout, his solid presence staunch despite the magical chaos swirling around us. He supports my back when I need to sit up, cools my brow when I’m burning with exertion, and whispers encouragement that somehow rises above the din of my magical misfires, all without one utterance of philosophy.

“You’re doing brilliantly,” he assures me. “Our child is almost here.”

“I can’t.” I gasp after a particularly overwhelming contraction. “It’s too much.”

“You can,” says my mother firmly. “Grizelda Greenwarth does not give up.”

“As Seneca said,” Atlas begins, and despite my earlier threat, I find myself listening eagerly for whatever philosophical wisdom he’s about to impart, “‘Sometimes even to live is an act of courage.’”

A laugh bubbles up unexpectedly, breaking through the pain. “You and your philosophers,” I manage to say before another contraction builds.

“The head is crowning.” Minerva gives me an approving smile. “With the next contraction, I need you to push with everything you have, Grizelda.”

The next wave of pain comes with an irresistible urge. I bear down with all my strength, feeling an impossible stretching and burning. My magic surges uncontrollably, causing the entire house to shudder on its foundation. Outside, I vaguely register the sounds of magical chaos—wind howling, objects clattering, and what might be the distant whinny of a conjured spectral horse.

“One more,” encourages Minerva. “One more big push.”

Gathering my remaining strength, I push with every ounce of determination I possess. There’s a sudden release, a sliding sensation, and then the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard—my baby’s first indignant cry.

“She’s here,” Atlas whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “A girl, Zelda, and she’s perfect.”

Minerva places the squirming, wet bundle on my chest, and time seems to stop. She’s tiny and red-faced, with a dusting of silver-white hair like her father’s and eyes that, when they briefly blink open, show hints of amber like his but mixed with my purple color. Her skin is the same shade of green as mine, but it has the rippling water effect of living stone like his. She’s larger than most witch or human babies, due to being part mountain troll, but I like the substantial weight of her in my arms. It feels right.

“Hello, little one,” I whisper as tears flow freely down my face. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

Atlas leans in, his massive face comically gentle as he gazes at our daughter. A single tear traces a path down his stone cheek, crystallizing into a tiny diamond as it falls. “She’s miraculous,” he says simply.

My mother approaches, and I’m shocked to see moisture in her eyes as well. She touches the baby’s head with uncharacteristic gentleness. “She has powerful magic. I can sense it already.”

As if in confirmation, the baby gives a tiny sneeze, and all the magical chaos that has been swirling around the room suddenly settles, returning objects to their proper places, colors normalize, and a profound peace descends over the birthing space.

“Already showing her talent for bringing order to chaos,” says Atlas proudly. “A valuable skill in this family.”

The three of us laugh, united in this perfect moment of new life and new beginnings. The long journey of pregnancy, with all its discomforts, unexpected turns, and maternal invasions, fades into insignificance. All that matters is this tiny being in my arms, the devoted father beside me, and the surprising softness in my mother’s eyes as she welcomes the newest witch into our family’s long and complicated lineage.

Our daughter yawns, her tiny face scrunching up in an expression so like Atlas’s thoughtful frown that I smile. The pain is already a fading memory as I stare down at my daughter, sensing the magic my mother mentioned. She’s powerful, but she’s also hungry and starts opening her mouth a moment later, clearly looking for food.

“Definitely my child,” says Atlas with approval that makes me laugh.

---