Short Prose what mother knows Colleen R. Little I can't take it anymore. For five hours now, this pain has torn through me. But my mother told me I had to keep going. She said it was better to go natural. No drugs, no epidurals. She didn't have any painkillers when she labored with me and she's still alive.           "Oh man, oh man. Mother, it hurts."           "I know it does. It's supposed to."           She knows, she knows. I should have listened to the things she knows nine months ago. It's hard to breathe. The pains are rolling on top of each other.           "You need to stay focused. The baby will come soon. You shouldn't have done the things you did."           "I'm sorry. I didn't know, I didn't know. I should have listened."           "That's right. I knew what was best. I always told you never to treat your body like it was a free night at the 40 Winks Motel. God only knows what you let crawl in. Now look at you. Was it worth it? Was it? Fifteen years old and look what you're about to do."           I can't speak. I won't tell her of things I've done. This pain is going to swallow me. Something feels wrong inside of me. My mother is patting my hand, wiping my brow, telling me through her anger that I can do this. I can do this. She won't let the nurse give me anything for the pain. Mothers always know what is best. Right? Seven hours now. There is no point to this. The baby won't come. The baby doesn't want to come out and know things I know.           The nurse stands at the end of the bed. She's been begging mother for hours now to let me have medication. This pain is splitting me in half.           "This is torture to me. Let your daughter have pain medicine." The nice, nice nurse is on my side.           "This is what my daughter wants. She told me she doesn't need anything to help her. Just God and me." Mother's mouth is tight.           I watch as the nurse's expression changes. Panic. She knows what I know, what my mother cannot know: There is something wrong with the baby.           "I'm sorry, the heartbeat has dropped too low. I'm getting the doctor." The nurse runs out the door.           "We're taking the baby. It has to come out now. It will die if we don't." The doctor smiles for my benefit.           "No." Mother puts her hand out. The doctor brushes it aside.           "I don't want her drugged. She's fine. The baby will be fine."           "The cord may be wrapped around its neck. Your daughter needs surgery now."           Sleep, I'm falling asleep. No more pain. No more mother. Mother tells me it was the will of God. It's better this way. I'm still young enough to have more babies when I'm older. Until then, keep my legs closed. She continues to talk to me as if she knows about things.           Mother knows nothing. © 2002 Colleen Little (Colleen R. Little is a stay-at-home mom and writer. She resides in Michigan's Lower Peninsula with her family. "What Mother Knows" originally appeared in illustrated version in Insolent Rudder and is reprinted here by permission. This is Little's first appearance on Big City Lit. Other work has appeared in Beginnings and in Encore.)