But then I realized, “Ben, you’re being too ambitious. Start small—try fixing the Middle East or explaining gravity first. Also, stop talking to yourself.”
Some things are really just too big to fully grasp. Have you ever seen the "Double Rainbow Guy" on YouTube? That’s what happens when you over-think something. I mean, I’m certain there are some very self-actualized people out there that have it totally figured out; a logical path that starts with “Wow, my wife looks nice tonight” to “Wow, I’m a dad!” to “Wow, I’m a grandpa!” to “Wow, I’m dead!”. But I don’t want to wander around in the forest with a camcorder asking the Internet “what does it all mean????”. So, that leaves me in the precarious position of just not really knowing how this could all be possible.
OK, let’s take it from the top…
January’ish 2010:
“Wow honey, you look nice tonight…”
Fast forward 39 weeks:
“Sorry?”
“Well, I’m going to have another nurse take a look but I think the baby’s head is down!” That would have been nice to know before you went vein hunting with the IV and pumped my wife full of ephedrine when she passed out.
“Oh… Good… So now what?”
“Now you go home and wait! Congratulations!”
I’ll always remember this as my first experience being a parent--if you have a plan, expect something different to happen instead.
Fast forward another 10 days:
“Hello, this is Ben,’ I said answering my phone—an admittedly silly way to greet anyone who already likely knows who they’re calling.
“Hey, it’s me. I think my water broke.”
Fast forward another 14 hours:
“Ok Erica, it’s time push. Ben, grab her leg.”
“Her what? Do what?”
“I’m in some pain,” my wife chimed in below me while I tried to remember what a “leg” was.
“The epidural bag is empty. I’ll order a new one.” The nurse replied.
Fast forward 14 minutes:
“Where the f*ck is the Epidural bag!” my wife chimed in from below me.
“I got it!” said a new nurse entering the room. She did indeed have what appeared to be a fresh epidural IV bag in her hand which she confidently carried over to the locked plexi-glass wall container. “Oh! one of ya’ll got the key?” she questioned the room. The room did not respond.
I looked down at my wife now in obvious discomfort—my mind racing for something soothing to say and insanely the only thing my mind could generate was Patrick Swayze declaring ‘Pain don’t hurt!’ in his 1980’s classic, Roadhouse. I wisely kept the quote to myself though and in the intervening seconds which did their best to mimic hours, the “key situation” had been resolved. Painkiller was now once again flowing into Erica’s spine.
Fast forward 3 minutes:
“Here she is!” the resident announced. I had only looked away for a split second to see Erica’s face when all of the sudden, there she was--pregatron was no more.
To say doctors handle newborns with care would be a little overly generous: Ew?!?! Should you be....? Geez! Really?!?! my mind raced as two nurses held my freshly liberated daughter in what looked like a terribly unnatural position before quickly moving her over to the baby station.
“She’s ok,” I said to Erica. I was, in fact, not at all sure she was “ok”. Although, I had done a shameful lack of research about this particular phase of things, I was instinctively certain that a blue baby was not the preferred state of affairs. The nurses did a great job of not seeming concerned about it while using a tube to suck goo out of her lungs and whacking the bottoms of her feet to get her attention. I waited for what seemed like forever as my “She’s Ok” hung in the air and gradually dissipated. What would Patrick Swayze say, I thought...
And then we heard her cry.... it was actually more of a strangled squeak. It reminded me of a sound I made once when a friend of mine in the 1st grade decided it would be funny to punch me directly in the solo-plexus when I wasn’t looking. But whatever--Erica and I both let out a relieved breath as Etta Lin Davis let out the first few breaths of her new life.
Fast Forward 2 Months:
What!?!?!?! Come on!!!! I said to myself as I examined the contents of Etta’s most recent diaper. I really thought I was going to hate changing diapers. But as it turns out, it’s our bonding time. I’m the only person for whom she peacefully submits when the Etta McPooStank Express arrives every 2 hours... that train is never late.
There are, in fact, a host of things that you simply adapt to; most notably, the lack of uninterrupted sleep. I’ll will refrain from complaining about sleep or lack thereof as Erica is definitely absorbing the brunt of that particular adjustment. Regardless, we are now being rewarded with small but growing indications that Etta knows we exist; a tentative smile, a short giggle (typically followed by a wet diaper), a brief moment of eye contact...
As these fascinating changes increase in frequency, so do the questions in my own mind about her future and our new reality as parents. There are so many questions: Will we go private school or public? Will she play sports and/or play music? Will she like early Radiohead or late Radiohead? Will we raise her Atheist or Agnostic? There are so many forks in the road ahead of her and our time as parents for erecting signposts seems all the sudden very short. No doubt that for her, it will seem even shorter. In fact, not until she has her own kids will she understand how responsible we were for screwing her up or keeping her out of trouble long enough to be successful. No pressure.
So, YouTube-Double-Complete-Rainbow-Guy, a Double Rainbow arises from two internal reflections of light rays exiting rain droplets at an angle of 50 degrees° rather than the 42°degrees for the red primary bow...
I eagerly await your response the the meaning of birth, babies and life in general.
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