A willowy blonde labors in a rustic bedroom. Her hair is gathered in a single braid that drapes over one shoulder, long enough that the end of it grazes, paintbrush-like, over the swell of her distended belly. She paces to the rhythm of her contractions, hips swaying, hands pressed to her lower back. This isn't her first time giving birth—her other six children dance in and out of frame, blonde like their mother, their feet as bare as the wooden floor—and maybe this is why she's so calm, so smiling, even as her forehead creases with effort and sweat starts to bead on her brow. After 15 seconds, the video cuts: she's squatting in an old-fashioned bathtub now, naked from the waist down, and even with the lights turned low you can see that the water around her is already beginning to turn pink.
"The head's out," says a voice from off camera, and the blonde woman shudders with the effort of her final push. Blood blooms from between her legs, and a wail fills the room: the sound of a newborn infant releasing its first breath.
