ust unbelievable.
That's all I can say. Simply unbelievable.
For somebody who spends an awful lot of time grousing and griping, I
can honestly say that I have nothing to complain about right now.
My wife woke up at 8 AM that morning -- a rarity, so I knew something
was wrong already. She was complaining that her stomach hurt, or
she had to go to the bathroom, or something -- but she wasn't sure
what. I promptly fell back asleep.
She was still upset around 9 -- not really in pain, but uncomfortable.
12 minutes later, she was complaining again.
Guess what she was in!...
By noon, we were on our way to the hospital, and none too soon.
By the time we got there, the contractions were about three minutes apart,
and not very pleasant (she could hardly get from the car into the hospital
by herself).
For any of you who may ever be having a baby anytime in the future --
and I know that probably rules our half of my audience -- I want you to
remember two words -- Epi Dural. After one IV to prepare,
and an injection in her back (not a pleasant thought, but my wife insists
it didn't feel as bad as it sounds), my wife went from writhing in pain
and groaning and dreading the sight of each contraction on the monitor,
to actually smiling and enjoying the hospital experience.
She couldn't even tell when she was having contractions, except that there
would be a little bit of pressure on her stomach. She even felt good
enough to watch her soap opera, just hours before giving birth. No
offense to anyone who prefers the Lamaze method, but I think you're crazy.
Everything went remarkably fast. By 4:30, the doctor was giving
her the go-ahead to push. I got to see the baby's head before it
was actually born -- a lot of hair, just like both of us -- and that was
as close as I wanted to be to the receiving end, if you will, of the birth.
A little after 5, he arrived. Now I was expecting the worst, just
because that's something I regularly do anyway, and because I was recalling
Bill Cosby's comedy routine where he recalls saying to his wife, "Honey,
I love you. You just gave birth -- to a lizard." But even at
first glance, our son was beautiful -- even without color and covered in
things I don't really want to think about. I even cut the cord --
something I wasn't planning on doing, but at that moment, I wasn't about
to argue.
The only problem was that his temperature was too low at birth, which
makes sense because I swear my wife is cold-blooded. Her temperature
never seems to go above 96ºF. That was all fine, except it delayed
being able to hold our son for over an hour, while he basked under a warming
lamp.
But soon he was ours, and all of the nurses and doctors and everyone else
who stopped in to say "hi" had left, and it was just the three of us.
Well, by then, I was starving, so I ran to McDonald's and came back, and
then it was the three of us (I know, it's an awfully gauche things
to do, to run out on your newborn child and exhausted wife to go get food,
but I couldn't explain that to my stomach.)
I wanted to come up with some name to call our baby by in this journal.
I've never been too fond of calling my wife "my wife", although after three
and a half years, I'm kind of stuck now. I happened to think of the
title of an obscure Chicago song that would be perfect for the occasion,
so, apologies to Chicago, but I've decided to use it.
Welcome home, Little One.
