Mood:
lyricalTopic: Pregnancy
My friend Lisa predicted this baby: the time of her conception, her gender and the date of her birth. My daughter Erika predicted the circumstances: At three in the morning, with a great big flurry and commotion. And John Irving, apparently, wrote the birth story. At least that's what the L&D nurse said.I awoke in the dead of night, as usual, to pee, and peevishly (ha!) made a mental note of the time: 2:55 a.m. I made a selection from the bathroom mini-library and lingered for a while over Southern California Curiosities by Saul Rubin, and in particular the entry on Caioti Pizza Cafe in Studio City, the place that serves the legendary Salad, the one notorious in So Cal for bringing on labor with absolute certainty. I pondered a trip to Studio City in the morning: whether I could persuade Ben to make the trip, and whether I wanted to subject myself to Los Angeles County for any reason whatsoever. Then I stood up.
Blood. Oh shit. That's not meant to be there. No contractions, but after a call to the Coochie Doc, we threw the last few items into the Doomsday Duffel and started dressing the kids.
They hustled us into an L&D suite and it soon became clear we were down for the count. The kids quickly got restless and started acting like bored little boys in a hospital room studded with machines that go ping and other fascinating gear -- in other words, like sleep-deprived bulls in an obstetrical china shop. I shouted out instructions and admonitions from the bed, including a request that Ben haul the new John Irving novel from my bag. The nurse turned around and looked at me for a long moment. You guys ARE a John Irving novel, she said.
Well, yeah. But we like it like that.
There's not much to tell. We couldn't raise Erika, who was apparently off doing what any self-respecting 21-year-old should be off doing on a Saturday night, so Ben ended up herding the boys home to bed and missing the actual birth. That's okay; I saw it in a mirror brought in for the occasion. When I caught sight of my femininity spread agape, I gasped out loud. You have to look up THOSE all day? I asked the Coochie Doc. No wonder they pay you the big bucks. I cut the cord myself. Hell, I'll try anything once. And Julia is a petite baby with a nice small head, for which I can't thank her enough, and that head is wreathed with a thick thatch of dark dark hair and a worried Hobbity expression.
She's what people call a good baby. (Which always slays us. As opposed to what? A BAD, EVIL baby?) Meaning that she is fairly quiet, and nurses like she was born to it (which of course she was), and is already hip to the idea of Mommy and Daddy's arms and voices as sources of comfort and general reasons to feel good. We're home from the hospital already; she is not 30 hours old yet. This pleases me. I missed my family. We all need each other to sleep. If there are missing members, no one sleeps right; I've slept about two hours between reading about Caioti's Pizza and right this minute.
We're safe together at home and it's time to rest. She? Is perfect. Worth the wait, and then some. The birth was perfect -- for us, anyway. A John Irving sort of birth into a John Irving sort of life. Lots of slapstick, big armloads of love. Welcome inside, Julia. Our circle is complete.
Posted by Gretchen
at 3:14 PM PDT
Updated: Monday, August 8, 2005 7:27 PM PDT
