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Christine GladeOctober 4, 2014. In the quotidian essays. The labor was no more or less difficult than any other. It might have come a day early or been a day late, there was little science in due dates. Breathing and pushing. Groaning. The same old story. A painful moan. A worn out grunt. The mother, you could see, was growing understandably weary. How long had she been at this? And had she expected to do it alone? She watched the man cart away her son. She stood alone dolefully crooning in a rich baritone.
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