TL/DR- We had a baby. Exactly 4 months, 12 hours, and 44 years after your dad was born on April 25th, at 5:53pm
My wife, the steady rock, was amazing. The care team was amazing. By the end, there were a lot of tears and a considerable amount of laughter that wasn't a direct result of my terrible sense of humor. (I only managed one joke, as the 1st name of one of the doctor's was "Brock" so I asked if anyone had ever referred to him as "Doc Brock". I was quickly shooshed by my wife, which could've been a shoosh or possibly her push-breathing during contractions.) It was a pretty normal birth on the perfect day, however it's forever skewed my relationship with TV birth's since it was only a month ago I was watching a TV program at the gym on Netflix that was showing a woman giving birth at home, with only her husband and a midwife while she glistened, sort of grimaced, and out popped a rubber baby with ZERO effort and I shouted "BULLLLLLLSHIT*" while on the treadmill. I'm surprised my membership wasn't suspended.
She was teeny tiny- not premature, mind you...she was fully formed, just pocket sized. Five pounds, fourteen ounces of blonde, curly-haired perfection**. Nurse Rachel got her wish and was able to meet her before the end of her shift, and from beginning of the show until baby made their debut was a whopping 45 minutes- an impressive feat we've been chalking up to really good luck, and my wife being fortunate enough to be active and ambulatory during the majority of her pregnancy. Afterwards, we welcomed family, checked the overwhelming number of voice messages when we finally turned our phones on, became accustomed to the few days of post-birth hospital life (You're surprise how few fucks you give walking into a gift shop or cafe' in naught but your sleep shorts and unkempt hair to get your wife some ginger ale.)
We welcomed few visitors outside of family before leaving, with one friend staring at the overnight nurse who left as she was visiting before commenting: "Jesus...they are beautiful". We were given the final departure instructions our last day-in the form of body healing and self care for my wife, which included no nookie for a few weeks. (Our nurse, somewhat aghast and conspiratorial, confided to us: "I have WALKED IN on people having sex the day after childbirth. And I have HEARD of women going in for their 3 month Ob/Gyn follow-up and learning they're PREGNANT!"...so if, uh...you know the depth of exhaustion and physical "don't even think-about-it"-ness post-childbirth, then to hear those two stories'd make your butt-hair cringe.)
When we left, our daughter was...impossibly...delicate seeming. In a car seat that seemed entirely too big for her, as she slept soundly the whole way home. It was a sunny day, Spring, I had just over a week left of time away from work, and I was still processing the fact that this was one of those days I'd remember as being the first of it's kind, and I'd never forget, until the literal day I shuffle off to the sweet unknown. A dad. A family. A crowd. And at the time as the billboards and exits on 94Westbound whipped by, I still wasn't 100% in my right head-space about the ordeal or what was to come
*"Arrow" season 7 finale. Oliver Queen and Felicity give birth to their daughter, Mia and it was hot soap opera garbage it was FINE OKAY? IT'S JUST A GODDAMN CW SUPERHERO SHOW WHAT DID I WANT AN EPISODE OF NOVA?
**Me. I had white blonde curly hair for the 1st ten years of my life that I hated until I discovered Aussie Sprunch Hairspray to paste it down. I worry that she'll hate it to, and be resentful of people who go out of their way to curl or perm their hair.
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Post-Partum Post-Mortem
So that, my daughter, is the story of you. I'll probably fill you in on the hairier details should you someday ask, or care. I don't know what kind of person you'll be, or if you'll wind up the kind of megalomaniacal evil genius that doffs their previous persona in the interest of growth, and has no love or sentiment toward their past. Mom and Dad will always remind each other of the details and the in-between, as we just did tonight filling in the 2020 Yoga Cats calendar (we give each other every year) with important dates and flip through 2019 to copy over birthday's. 4/25, the perfect day, will always be yours, and for mom and dad to remember the events that took place to get you here.
So far, 8 months in, I'm clearly no better a writer than I was when I started- much less when I started blogging 16 years ago. We had, and still have, those sleepless nights where we blink and through the fug of exhaustion wonder what we've gotten ourselves into. I changed my first diaper...a grown, 44 year old man rubbing his eyes at 2am and putting down a puppy pee pad on your changing table so he doesn't have to throw the towel-pad in the wash because he's lazy. Just tucking his hair back and doing it. We've taken professional pictures, shown you off to family and friends, celebrated birthdays and public outings to the park, to the mall. Made it through the Summer, the too-short Fall and Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas (daddy's birthday!) and into the new year. Your hairy brother- your first good boy- our doggo Blu has adopted you, giving you kisses and bringing you his stuffed pig. Our cat...has largely ignored you after you took over his sleeping cage in the nursery. (Aka- your crib) You're in day care, with all the other infant gnip-gnorks, being social and making your teachers smile when we drop you off and being sent home with smeary art work we love and lovingly stick on the fridge.
And though we laugh now at the thought of embarrassing you, mom and dad were antsy when it came to intimacy and learned (early on) how to navigate that in the brief moments when you were sleeping mere feet away and when your cries would make us laugh and stop and awkwardly stumble to check on your sweet self.
I want to give you the sun and stars, but I don't want to blind you to the world, my love. Even we have cloudy and dark days that come as a surprise. You were born into an uneasy and divisive time in the world as it is- but here at home mom and dad are human and so are you. We've been exhausted to the point of tears, sometimes unable to speak clearly or in the honest and steady way that used to define who we were. The early days of attention and audiences dwindle, and you suddenly find yourself back in a routine that makes you feel isolated, and very alone. Even when your house feels very full. The hubris of your dad thinking that there isn't too much he cannot handle and that nothing will really change will sink him, mentally, when things upturn like things always do when there's a newborn at home. And when you get older, changes can be very very hard.
There are dark days when your dad is tired of socializing with family, and the obligations become overwhelming. When he gets down because his mom and dad- your gramma and grampa- aren't here any more to see you grow up. Because his extended family is spread pretty far and is hard to visit all the time. Because his friends who are his framily have their own families and obligations, and it can make you feel like you've done something wrong, even if you haven't.
We've been sick, together, with you, and unable to have the other be the strong and healthy partner who steers while the other convalesces, and even experienced the fear and panic that happens when you find your infant daughter in the ICU with tubes and monitors and and a viral sickness that robs her of her little breath.
But from those moments, little love, mom and dad have grown as well. We imagined we'd be parents who wouldn't blindly panic at the first sniffle, and now are much more cautious in how delicate your health can be. We've both adopted healthier habits at home as well- we're both resuming our physical health routines (you laugh and stare as daddy does his silly stretches and kicks in the morning, and giggle when he sing-song counts the reps lifting weights while you're in your swing.) Daddy is teetotalling, maybe for good, and this is a word you'll understand better when you get older, but it's something your gramma had to do when he was a baby, and something your dad decided to do in order to adopt better habits and (hopefully) live to be 100. Or at least be the foxy 62 year old dad in the audience when you graduate high school.
And you've grown, my little peanut. I remember telling friends when you were this tiny, pink potato that couldn't hold up it's neck that I couldn't wait to see your personality, and it didn't disappoint. The first smiles, laughs, giggles, and articulating "da-da-da-da-da-da" over and over again put us over the moon. Even the moods, the fits, the thoughtful looks when we know you're crapping your pants are all things to wonder about. And like my wife is always reminding me- for as many things you're experiencing that are new and for the first time? We are, too.
And as much as I don't like conforming to the normal, I can't wait to see the kind of person you'll become. Mommy and daddy love you very much, my loving joy.
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