Gift Of Life
Wow
I wasn’t quite expecting to be woken up at three in the morning on a rare day off. But when she shook me and said, “Babe… I think it’s time”, I got up so fast my high school PE teacher would’ve been proud. I grab the bags we’ve had packed and ready by the door since April and throw them in the trunk of the Honda CR-V we’d just bought, since the Mustang was “inappropriate”.
I’m not in my right mind; remember I was just woken up in the middle of a deep sleep. I didn’t realize I left her on the porch step until I was halfway down the street. I backed up until I was in front of our mailbox, jumping out of the driver’s seat to her side, grinning sheepishly as I led her to the car. She didn’t say a word, but I felt like an idiot.
I’m speeding. I can’t help it. She’s telling me to slow down, but then a wave of pain hits her and I press the pedal down further as she double over. Finally we’re in the hospital parking lot, but I can’t find a space to park the damn car. I’m freaking out and a string of curse words leave my mouth. She slaps my arm, chastising my choice of language. I apologize but let’s face it, I’m not really sorry. Not right now.
I finally park and lead her to the entrance of the ER and right away there’s a nurse asking us questions. I let her field most of them because, well, I have no clue how she’s feeling. We’re whisked away down the hall; left turn at the restrooms, right at the nurses’ station, and into room 269. I snort to myself, 69. The nurse doesn’t hear me, but my wife turns to me sharply giving me the look my mom used to when I was misbehaving. I stop snickering immediately and follow behind like a lost puppy.
Now we wait.
And oh how we wait.
Three hours turn into five, five to seven, seven to nine, and then it’s show time.
I’m standing to the right of the hospital bed, my hand in hers. She’s breaking my fingers in her vice grip, cursing at me, telling me she hates me. My hand’s going numb, but all I can think is, My god, she’s beautiful. I tell her so and she looks up at me, and spits through gritted teeth, Screw you!
I rub circles on her back with my good hand in an attempt to get her to focus on breathing and pushing. All she can focus on is that I’m not in half the pain she is and I need to shut the fuck up. Noted; mouth closed.
Maybe.
I try, one last time, just to encourage her.
If you don’t shut the fuck up, I’m seriously going to punch you! she yells. She’s never been quite this vocal, at least not outside of the bedroom. I bite my tongue instead of sharing my thought and just do as I’m told.
Ten seconds and an awkward me with crushed fingers later, I hear it. I hear the shrill cry as a little person takes in their first breath. Not just any little person, but my little person; my baby.
Correction: our baby.
Half her DNA and mine, bound together perfectly to create the tiny bundle of joy that’s being handed over to me.
Eww, okay, this bundle of joy is slimy and covered in something I really don’t want to actually identify, but I guess that’s not what matters.
My little person’s heavy for a baby; almost a ten pounder with a head even bigger than mine when I was a baby. And my mom complained about my head. But, that’s what makes my wife even more amazing, she’s strong enough to bare my kid and still manage to stay classy, with a few choice words here and there.
I get to cut the umbilical cord. I personally think it’s gross, but at the same time I’m anxious to do it. Most fathers are, they say. The nurses help me, keeping the baby still on a table and, once its cut, my little person is whisked away. I have to fight the urge to punch out the nurse who took my pride and joy, reminding myself that they’re bringing her right back.
Sure enough, two minutes later I’m handed a clean baby swaddled in a pink blanket. I should’ve brought the blanket I had chosen. My little person may be a girl, but I’d prefer her favorite color to be something other than pink.
I glance over at my wife once the baby’s safely tucked into my arms, crying against the fabric of the paper gown I’m wearing. She’s got this tired smile, but it’s a smile nonetheless. Gone is the crazy woman who was yelling and threatening to castrate me five minutes ago. I walk over and hand her our creation, telling her I’ll be back in one minute. She gives me this confused look, but I’m already walking out, almost running to the lobby.
“It’s a girl!” I announce to the waiting room filled with family and friends. My band mates all clap me on the back and a line forms to give out congratulatory hugs.
After saying thank you hundreds of times and assuring that I would keep them posted, I return to the room and find both my girls passed out on the bed.
I laugh to myself as I join them, gently settling in.
I’m a dad.
A fucking dad.
I’m not in my right mind; remember I was just woken up in the middle of a deep sleep. I didn’t realize I left her on the porch step until I was halfway down the street. I backed up until I was in front of our mailbox, jumping out of the driver’s seat to her side, grinning sheepishly as I led her to the car. She didn’t say a word, but I felt like an idiot.
I’m speeding. I can’t help it. She’s telling me to slow down, but then a wave of pain hits her and I press the pedal down further as she double over. Finally we’re in the hospital parking lot, but I can’t find a space to park the damn car. I’m freaking out and a string of curse words leave my mouth. She slaps my arm, chastising my choice of language. I apologize but let’s face it, I’m not really sorry. Not right now.
I finally park and lead her to the entrance of the ER and right away there’s a nurse asking us questions. I let her field most of them because, well, I have no clue how she’s feeling. We’re whisked away down the hall; left turn at the restrooms, right at the nurses’ station, and into room 269. I snort to myself, 69. The nurse doesn’t hear me, but my wife turns to me sharply giving me the look my mom used to when I was misbehaving. I stop snickering immediately and follow behind like a lost puppy.
Now we wait.
And oh how we wait.
Three hours turn into five, five to seven, seven to nine, and then it’s show time.
I’m standing to the right of the hospital bed, my hand in hers. She’s breaking my fingers in her vice grip, cursing at me, telling me she hates me. My hand’s going numb, but all I can think is, My god, she’s beautiful. I tell her so and she looks up at me, and spits through gritted teeth, Screw you!
I rub circles on her back with my good hand in an attempt to get her to focus on breathing and pushing. All she can focus on is that I’m not in half the pain she is and I need to shut the fuck up. Noted; mouth closed.
Maybe.
I try, one last time, just to encourage her.
If you don’t shut the fuck up, I’m seriously going to punch you! she yells. She’s never been quite this vocal, at least not outside of the bedroom. I bite my tongue instead of sharing my thought and just do as I’m told.
Ten seconds and an awkward me with crushed fingers later, I hear it. I hear the shrill cry as a little person takes in their first breath. Not just any little person, but my little person; my baby.
Correction: our baby.
Half her DNA and mine, bound together perfectly to create the tiny bundle of joy that’s being handed over to me.
Eww, okay, this bundle of joy is slimy and covered in something I really don’t want to actually identify, but I guess that’s not what matters.
My little person’s heavy for a baby; almost a ten pounder with a head even bigger than mine when I was a baby. And my mom complained about my head. But, that’s what makes my wife even more amazing, she’s strong enough to bare my kid and still manage to stay classy, with a few choice words here and there.
I get to cut the umbilical cord. I personally think it’s gross, but at the same time I’m anxious to do it. Most fathers are, they say. The nurses help me, keeping the baby still on a table and, once its cut, my little person is whisked away. I have to fight the urge to punch out the nurse who took my pride and joy, reminding myself that they’re bringing her right back.
Sure enough, two minutes later I’m handed a clean baby swaddled in a pink blanket. I should’ve brought the blanket I had chosen. My little person may be a girl, but I’d prefer her favorite color to be something other than pink.
I glance over at my wife once the baby’s safely tucked into my arms, crying against the fabric of the paper gown I’m wearing. She’s got this tired smile, but it’s a smile nonetheless. Gone is the crazy woman who was yelling and threatening to castrate me five minutes ago. I walk over and hand her our creation, telling her I’ll be back in one minute. She gives me this confused look, but I’m already walking out, almost running to the lobby.
“It’s a girl!” I announce to the waiting room filled with family and friends. My band mates all clap me on the back and a line forms to give out congratulatory hugs.
After saying thank you hundreds of times and assuring that I would keep them posted, I return to the room and find both my girls passed out on the bed.
I laugh to myself as I join them, gently settling in.
I’m a dad.
A fucking dad.
Notes
So this was just something kinda fluffy I wanted to post. There are no definite characters, so you can imagine whoever you'd like. Personally, this feels like a Jack story. I dunno why. I can't picture anyone else.Hope you liked it. Please comment. It means the world to me.
