It was December of 1941. It was a war time in Bosnia, as it was in all of Europe, and local fascists were murdering local villagers. My grandparents were fleeing through Bosnian woods. Grandma squatted in the snow and gave birth to her firstborn, my father, on December 26th. Someone slaughtered and skinned a lamb and she wrapped her baby in the skin. He was wrapped in it for 7 days, until they reached safety.
On December 28, 1954, my maternal grandma thought she felt some labor pains. She wanted to clean up before walking to the hospital so she squatted over a basin of warm water to wash herself. Without warning, a baby girl, her firstborn, slid out of her and fell into the water, together with the placenta. My great-grandmother had to tear the placenta to free the baby, cut the cord and tie it. (For years after that, great-grandmother would, should mom be naughty, threaten to untie her belly button. Magical realism, anyone?)
On February 9, 1974, around 6:30 am, my dad was getting ready to go to work. Mom saw him off, not mentioning that she had started feeling some belly pains. She didn’t think much of them for most of the morning, but when they didn’t stop by noon, she decided to get that checked (thinking she must have eaten something spoiled). She got ready and walked a kilometer or so to the town hospital and found her midwives. She was two fingers dilated and clearly in labor. That was at 1 pm. Three hours later, around 4pm, she gave birth to a baby girl, her firstborn. Me.