Six times over

A Father's Day poem for my husband, who doesn't love the holiday but truly loves our children.

We hoped we would have a big family.
We were poor, so I gratefully borrowed or was given
a few bags of maternity clothes with personalities pre-attached.
From my boho fellow poet, a short black dress that clung
to every bit of my belly, a multi-colored striped sweater.
From a church acquaintance, bags of business casual.
We were managers in exchange for rent.
I showed apartments and tried to knit.

Second baby came after a long depression
and during a long depression, and lived in the shadow
of a long depression after. But not because of her. 
I was being pulled down by a deeper ocean 
than I had ever felt before. 
The current was too strong. She and I couldn’t fight it alone.
I finally weaned so I could take meds
pressing cabbage leaves against my breasts
trying to make the milk stop. 

Careening to the hospital with baby number three
you whipped onto the freeway and sped. 
I begged you to slow down. You did, of course. 
But later you said you loved the reason to speed.
It was an emergency, and we were in a movie.
I assume I played the wife who gives birth in the car
since this is also taking place during the zombie apocalypse.

Number four was born at home
in a room that was recently cleared of carpenter ants
their papery wings and long, juicy bodies littering the window sills.
The midwives argued over forgotten painkillers.
Once I knew he was safe, I was so glad to already be home.
I slept, a little, in our bed that night
taking photos of him in the morning light.

Our third girl and fifth child arrived with blue eyes.
The sixth, a boy with blue that turned dark hazel. 
They were the silly tagalongs, the longed-for extras
the ones who seemed to move backwards through time
and make us the family we were always meant to be.