#vimby

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Just a couple of days ago, soul singer Erykah Badu gave birth to her 3rd child, a healthy girl. It's her first with up and coming MC Jay Electronica. She chose to have it done naturally at home with no meds. Below is an article from MTV.com about the couple's documenting of the process on Twitter. Also attached is a video documenting Jay Electronica because I know alot of heads still ain't up on him.

Erykah Badu, Jay Electronica Blog Child's Birth In Real Time On Twitter

'Morning, I'm in labor,' soul singer tweets on Sunday.

By Jayson Rodriguez

Artists have always done strange things to win our attention, right? And lately, we've seen how musicians are using micro-blog site Twitter as an über-marketing tool. This weekend, one pair of artists took things further than we expected, as Erykah Badu and her beau, upstart rapper Jay Electronica, sent tweets of their daughter's birth in real time.

The ever enigmatic Badu kick-started the experience, telling the more than 4,500 followers of her Twitter blog, "Fatbellybella": "Morning, I'm in labor."

The Grammy-winning singer gave updates on the time between her contractions before going AWOL. Presumably Badu was, you know, giving birth when she disappeared. But Electronica kept sending updates throughout the birth on his page, "JayElectronica."

Badu and Electronica chose to forgo delivery in a hospital and instead opted for a home birth with a midwife. According to updates, it looked like the midwife may have been running a bit late.

"Labor has begun," Electronica wrote. "Everybody stand back. No hospitals. No doctors. No medicine. We're waiting for the midwife to show."

While waiting for the midwife, Electronica described the vibe and sent messages to rapper Talib Kweli ("I'm build for this sh--") and producer Just Blaze ("You should be here").

Electronica also compared the atmosphere to a scene from "The Color Purple." He wrote that only a few family members were present in Badu's Brooklyn home, including her daughter Puma. The rapper told followers he was sending the tweets between watching contractions and rubbing Badu's feet. He even blogged about Badu's water breaking, how far along she was dilated and when she started pushing.

"I see the head, full of hair," he wrote. Just over 20 minutes later, Badu gave birth.

"Feb. 1 2009 my first child, my daughter born at 130 PM exactly," the new father wrote. "It's the happiest day of my life."

Later, Badu, who has two children from previous relationships with rappers Andre 3000 and the D.O.C., popped back online with a message to fans.

"I can't believe it's over," she wrote. "Home birth, no painkillers, about five hours, she was a little past due date, but I didn't mind waiting. Breath."

“May I pet your pony, mister?”

“Eh?”  Vimby lets the top half of the map fall over, peering down from her perch on a low country wall to discover the source of the voice.  She spots the little Vaneer farm girl poised, ready to strike, at the front end of the wagon.  Vimby shrugs.  “Ask him, why don’t ya?”

The traveler goes back to her careful study of the map, trying to trace the route they’ve taken and also find out why it didn’t take them to a Siodair like it should have.  Her pipe tilts when she clenches her teeth on the stem, nearly spilling cinders onto her trousers.

The girl agreeably turns to the pony.  “May I pet you, miss?”

Honeymoon turns a deep, soulful eye to the girl, his blonde forelock falling gracefully over it.  “It’ll cost you.”

Vimby slaps the map down, pulling her pipe with one hand and stabbing an accusing finger at the girl with the other.  “Hang on a second, did you just call me ‘mister’?”

“Do you have any apples on you?” Honeymoon asks, nosing the air.  “Or perhaps a flask?”

The girl looks between the two questioning faces, but stands her ground.  “It was an honest mistake,” she tells Vimby, putting her small hands on her hips.  To Honeymoon, “I’ve a pocket full of clover, will that do?”

“So we Ddraig all look alike, do we?” Vimby grumbles, chewing her pipe and shaking out the map.  Unseen on the back side of the wall, her dragon’s tail flicks in irritation.

Meanwhile, Honeymoon is dropping his long face into reach.  “Better ‘an nothing,” he says.

The girl pets a hand down his nose while pulling the grass from her apron pocket for him to inspect.  She inspects Vimby’s patched trousers, her sleeveless tunic and hood.  “Are you traveling Druids?”

Now Vimby rolls her eyes.  Folding the map into a back pocket, she scoots off the wall to the rutted dirt road.  She tips the ahsen contents of the pipe into the dust and tucks the thing safely away.  She raps a set of scaly knuckles against the faded paint of the cart.  “They don’t teach you to read, out here in the middle of nowhere?  We’re honest working folk, trying meet the needs of poor, distraught, helpless royalty and the like.  What’s it say right here, eh?”

The girl scoots inches to the side to see, her hand scratching under Honeymoon’s chin.  “Vimby’s All-Purpose Services,” she recites.  “You do odd jobs?”

“For Kingdoms,” Vimby accentuates, slapping her hand flat against the cart.  “Anybody can help plow a field or plumb a well; we provide services on a grander scale.  A more royal scale, if you will.  No maiden need remain unrescued, no dragon left unslayed when we’re on the case.”

She unfurls her arms as she speaks, implying the wideness of their utility, and blinks down at the wee local.  The girl looks on, unimpressed.  Fine then, Vimby’s sold tougher audiences.

Vimby takes a hold of the driver’s hand rail and vaults up onto the footboard.  Honeymoon shifts his footing against the rocking of the cart.  “And our All-Purpose Services don’t stop there!  We’ll coordinate royal events like weddings and public executions!  We taste the food, we test the wine of course, we’ll pipe the wedding and/or funeral march and drive the rats from the walls while we’re at it.”

The little girl looks around them.  There’s the low country wall, the rutted dirt road, miles and miles of rolling emerald farmland as far as the eye can see.  She squints up at Vimby.  “Out here?”

Honeymoon flicks his tail against the front of the cart.  “We’ve pulled over for directions,” he drawls.

Vimby drops from the side of the cart with a huff.  She pulls the folded map out of her trousers’ back pocket.  “Since you evidently can read,” she tells the little girl, “mind pointing out exactly where we are?”

The girl pats Honeymoon’s cheek and reluctantly leaves him.  Vimby crouches, holding the map flat.  There’s a minute of silence as the girl looks it over.

“You’re trying to get to here, then?”  She points out the castle emblem on the map.

Vimby blinks for a long second or two so that the girl doesn’t see her roll her eyes.  She’ll start to think she has a medical issue.  “Yes, Siodair Amadan.  We’re about here, aren’t we?”  She lays the map over her digitigrade knees and taps a green patch, the type of patch she knows to have low country walls and rutted dirt roads.

The girl shakes her head.  “No ma’am.  That’s a map of County Amadan.”

This time Vimby does roll her eyes, rising to her feet.  “Yes, yes.  County Amadan.  We’re trying to get to Siodair Amadan.  The capital of County Amadan.  Ruled by the royal house of Amadan.”

“This is County Saonta, though.  You’ve got the wrong map.”  The girl tucks her hands into her apron and rolls on her heels, staring up at Vimby with a cool eye.

Honeymoon snorts and stamps a hoof into the dirt.  “I knew none of this looked right.  I told you we should have taken the pass instead of the bridge.”  He looks back at them over his rounded shoulder.

Vimby folds the map neatly into squares and throws it down into a tire rut.  Climbing aboard the driver’s seat, she adjusts her hood and crosses her arms.