There's a picture of my midwife weighing one of my babies that has been on my mind lately. Actually, I think we have the same picture from each birth. She's holding a stork-shaped sling as high over her head as she can—I'm not sure she's 5' tall—& you can barely see her face behind the bag.
There's a baby in the bag, & she's weighing it. No easy task, since my children have averaged 9lb at birth. All you can see of the baby is little toes sticking out of the weighing-sack. All you can see of my midwife is her arms holding up the sling.
It's her arms that I've been thinking about. She's a tiny lady with a lovely figure, a warm British accent, & happy, happy curls. She calls me "Obrey" with a long O instead of "Aubrey," & she's held every one of my children in her arms.
In these pictures, you really notice those arms, disproportionately large, surprisingly strong. The strength in those two arms stood out to me suddenly, & for the first time, I thought about the work of her job.
I love these photos. I love those arms.