I had been cloaked in guilt and fear ever since I discovered I was pregnant. Society told me I was the worst of what a mother-to-be could be - I was very young, quite unmarried, and carrying a baby nobody wanted. Not even me.

Like so many girls and women before me, ashamed of the product of their sensuality and fertility, I hid my pregnancy, and hid it well. Although, I confess, I was deeply embarrassed by my predicament, I cared enough about the life growing within me to nurture myself, thus nurturing it. Throughout my pregnancy, I ate nourishing foods, rested, and sought fresh air. The baby lived. And so did I. I apologized to it, hoping the unborn child would understand why I had to keep its existence a secret. I was not married; the father of the child was a child himself, a boy I had a brief but intense relationship with (I broke it off upon learning I was expecting). I was still in school - just 16 years old, an ordinary high school junior by anyone's standards.

An ordinary high school junior that took the schoolbus to and from school every day.

December 22, 1985, was much like any other day. I woke in the morning, attended classes - and worried about the scarlet stains in my panties. I knew my time had come - the baby was overdue by my account. I had been waiting, frozen half in fear and half in anxiousness to get the whole affair done with, for some time now.

I felt mild cramping throughout the day and tried to ignore it. By the time the bell rang to dismiss us from school, the pains were stronger, more powerful (though not excrutiating) and rather regular, like a clock beating within me. I felt a rush of excitement and power.

The other teenagers chattered and laughed, thrilled about the upcoming Christmas vacation, as I stood apart from them and intensely felt my labor increase. I felt a sweet rush as my water broke as I waited for the bus, alone. The wetness trickling out of me was exhilirating; I felt I was opening up, flowering, growing. Carefully I climbed on the steps of the bus; it was difficult to walk...not painful; I merely felt like the baby's head was directly between my legs. Nobody noticed my wet pants. At that point I did not care if anyone noticed.

I had a baby to give birth to.

I sat by myself on the bus - all the way in back. The seats were very high. My birthing arena was private (though not quiet; the other teenagers were extremely raucous). I rocked back and forth in the seat, enveloped by each contraction, willing my body to obey what the baby was commanding I do.

In an instant, I felt an overwhelming desire to bear down. I panted and gasped; it was sexual and intense. I made small, anxious sounds as I swayed to and fro. I pushed when my body demanded I push, pausing to take deep, healthy breaths, and to strip off my soaked pants and underwear. I sat, nude from the waist down, rocking with every contraction. Come, baby, come, I chanted. Come. Come!

My body told me to squat, so I did. I hunkered down on two feet, concentrating, knowing without being told that millions of females before me had brought their babies into the world in this ordained position. It felt so deliciously comfortable to squat; I felt the baby move down...come...COME...COMMMMME!

The others on the bus suddenly realized a peer in their midst was about to give birth. Things became completely quiet except for my cries. I was not embarrassed.

I was exhilirated.

It was then I began to scream, but not with pain - with joy. With release. I felt an enormous all-body orgasm as I bore down, again, and again, and again, crying out with lust and happiness. The baby was coming, and so was I.

I pushed an enormous last push with every fiber of my being; the head and shoulders appeared. By then I was sobbing. I reached under the baby's armpits and pulled out...a child.

A living, breathing infant...born perfect. Perfectly beautiful.

My daughter.