... makes three
Wednesday, December 24 2008 @ 04:30 PM PST
Contributed by: Joe
It was late on a June afternoon, the sun shining through my apartment’s front windows, heating up my hotbox one-bedroom. The phone rang.
“Mmmyellow.”
“Hey,” she said.
A little more than a week before then, we had said goodbye, Miss L for a new job five states away, me for an unexpectedly unemployed summer that I figured to spend drinking and sleeping late and plotting the next stage of my life – or just being lazy until forced to get off my ass before I starved to death.
“Hey,” I said. “What’s up?”
“Did you get the e-mail I sent today?”
“Yeah. That’s weird about the toothpaste. Did you get some Pepto?” In her e-mail, Miss L mentioned that she tried some new toothpaste that morning and promptly got sick, as in puking sick. She said she was going to pick something up at the drug store.
“Um, no,” she said.
“Well, why not, silly?”
“Um,” she said.
Silence from her end. A beat. Two. Three. Four.
“What?” I said.
“Um … yeah. … Um … yeah.”
She has this way of hesitating sometimes when she’s trying to get to the heart of the matter. I have this way of being impatient.
“What?” I said again.
“Um … yeah. Ah … yeah. Ah. … It. … Yeah. … Um, ah …” More silence.
“Would you just spit it out already?” I said.
“Um, I’m pregnant.” We had gotten together nearly two years before. Our first night out together, she met me at the bar. We stayed out way too late that hot summer school night, drinking too much without a drop of water to save us. Three hours after we said goodbye that night, we both straggled into work, looking and feeling like death warmed over. After making deadline, I went home and collapsed on my futon for an hour before I had to go back for the rest of my afternoon shift. I felt like shit. Miss L fared no better.
Thus began our on- and off- and on-again relationship.
******
It was a Friday, June 17, and my little hotbox room suddenly got hotter. My pulse trip-hammered in my temples, in my chest. I’m sure my pupils dilated, fight or flight, fight or flight, fight or flight.
“Wow,” I said. “Holy shit.”
“Yeah,” Miss L said.
“Are you sure?”
“The test came back positive.”
“The test?”
“After I got sick this morning. I got a pregnancy test.”
“Shit, I just thought it was the toothpaste,” I said.
I was, you might say, a bit slow on the uptake: sickness, morning, puking. Yeah, that didn’t compute. Hell, I was still hung over from my trip to Seattle that concluded Monday. Or at least hung over from the hair of the dog drinking I had been doing.
Flight was winning.
“How the hell can you be pregnant? I thought that wasn’t even a possibility.”
“Well, I did, too.” She was getting a little pissed. Or maybe already was. Like I said, I’m a little slow sometimes.
A couple of years earlier, the doctors discovered she had a prolactinoma tumor in her pituitary gland. As I understood it, the tumor makes her body think she’s always pregnant, slowing or even ending menstrual cycles. At best, she had a one in four chance of getting pregnant – you know, slightly better odds than hitting the fucking lottery – but we did nothing to prevent the possibility.
“You need to get another test,” I said. Despite the overwhelming accuracy of those over-the-counter tests, I still wasn’t totally convinced. Or, more accurately, I didn’t WANT to be convinced, even though I knew, deep down, that it was true.
Miss L was pregnant.
The baby was mine.
******
When we got together, we drank – a lot. A Wednesday was as good of an excuse as any.
Hot summer turned into cool fall, turned into playoff baseball. Miss L frequented my apartment as we watched St. Louis start its improbable run to the World Series title. She was there when Adam Wainwright froze Carlos Beltran with an unhittable curve to end Game 7 and give the Cardinals the National League pennant. She was there when the Detroit Tigers’ pitchers went brain dead, helping St. Louis win the World Series.
She also was there too many times when I was drinking or drunk and wallowing in self-pity for my five-year relationship that had ended in December of the previous year. She was there too many times when I refused to let her in – not physically, but emotionally. She kept trying to break through my barriers, and I kept building the walls higher and thicker.
On and off we went. Two weeks together was a rare long stretch. Then I would be casually cruel and say something assholish or do something to push her away, and we were broken up again. After many of these episodes, she would write long, eloquent, heartfelt e-mails in which she said she knew we were through, that it was for the best, that she was ready to let me go and move on.
And a week later, we would be back together again. Hitting the bars, especially on the weekends. Going to the little hole-in-the-wall redneck joint out in the country where we drank Bud longnecks and played old-time country on the jukebox. Going down to the river landing where we drank PBR and Stag cans and shot the shit with the locals and the folks camping there.
But, finally, Miss L had had enough. Enough of my bullshit, enough of my excuses, enough of my self-pity and my pushing her away. She walked. For good.
******
After her bombshell, she went out the next day and got three more pregnancy tests. Of course, all came back positive.
And still I tried to deny the reality of our situation, if not to Miss L, then to myself. Rapidly approaching 40, I figured my days of becoming a father had passed, not because I was too old, but because I simply couldn’t see myself having a teenager as I approached my 60s. It wasn’t the life I had planned. It wasn’t the life I wanted. I’ve always had that rambling bone, and that doesn’t equate with a child. Selfish? Of course. It’s my one constant trait.
She was 30, and children were very much part of her plans.
Five days into her new job, she barely had begun to meet her co-workers. Five days into her new job, and she had to tell her boss she was – surprise! – pregnant. Five days into her new job, and she wasn’t eligible to be on the company’s insurance plan for another 85 days. Five days into her new job, and she wanted me to be there with her, for her.
Five days into her new job, and I was scared shitless about the prospect of becoming a dad, so I resisted. I put off committing to a date on which to come see her. I got drunk daily. But finally I agreed to fly to see her, spend a week and decide what we were going to do.
******
We were broken up for the better part of the next year. She dated several men during that time, and I dipped a toe into the match.com pool. I had two dates. Eventually, she began seeing someone exclusively. Miss L and I talked once in a while, but, for obvious reasons, we rarely hung out together.
I found myself missing her. I missed our conversations and interests in music and the way we could make each other laugh (and especially the way it made me feel to make her laugh). I missed my friend, the only real friend I made at work; I’m good with acquaintances, less adept at making friends. I missed HER, her curls and bright blue eyes, her fine ass and the way she looked at me when we were in public – or especially alone.
In September, Miss L’s friend from Chicago came down to see her. Fast friends since their days in college, Miss L talked often about wanting me to meet her friend. And despite her still seeing this other guy, Miss L , her friend and I met in the twilight gloaming that weekend at the river landing, the kind of place where you could see a guy dancing with a fish. I mean, the fish was dead, so the guy had to lead and everything, but dance with it he did. His shirt got more than a little slimy. Anyway, we met down there, drank canned beer and shot the shit. Miss L’s friend was as advertised: funny, a little crazy and whip-smart.
They were supposed to go out to eat with Miss L’s guy, so we said goodbye and parted ways. I went home. About an hour after I got back to my place, Miss L called. Hey, you want to come over and watch a movie? I thought you were going to eat with your dude. Yeah, we did, but my friend and I decided to hang out at the house instead of staying out.
So I went over. Miss L’s friend had commandeered the couch, so Miss L and I sat on the love seat. As we watched the Wilco documentary, it seemed, not like old times, but like new times, new possibilities were opening up. After the movie, Miss L’s friend shoved off to bed. I figured it was time for me to go, but Miss L invited me to stay. We slept close that night and made love twice, slow and sweet and quiet, in the morning. I called Miss L the next day as she was on her way back from taking her friend to the airport. She called me back, surprised and happy to hear from me.
Scant days later, she had broken up with the other guy, and we were back together. Again.
******
I flew down after the July 4 weekend, and we went to the doctor for a sonogram. There our baby was, little heart pounding away, head and arms and legs and hands and feet – and big lips, which proved without a doubt that it was mine. Our baby was healthy and perfect – and about four and a half months along, which was more than a little shocking. We figured the little one had been conceived during our spur-of-the-moment trip to Colorado in May. (She called one night while on the way back from her parents’ house, and we decided, Hey, why don’t we take off for Colorado tonight? So we loaded up her car and took off, Boulder or bust. Hell, I was out of a job and her Knight fellowship had ended, which was a perfect recipe for spontaneity. And I was a little drunk, so it seemed like the thing to do.)
We were going to be parents. And still, my selfishness and fright made me hold back. It helped precipitate a fight we had about three days into my visit, and that night I told Miss L I wasn’t moving down to be with her. We just couldn’t get along long enough to make it work, I argued, bringing up all the times that we had been on and off and on again. That flimsy excuse shames me to this day. In bed that night she wept, and her hot tears spilled on my chest as I held her long into the night with what must have been the coldest embrace she ever felt. The next night brought more of the same.
Sure, I said, I’d support the baby and try to be in its life. My words rang hollow to her – and to me.
A few days later, I flew home, my decision made: I’d stay where I was, pay child support and see my baby when I could. I felt like the world’s biggest asshole, and I threw back four double vodkas at the airport bar that day, trying to drown the shame. I slept on the flight, drove two hours to my apartment and got good and drunk. I passed out, and the next morning the past week had taken on a surreal quality, as if the whole trip had been a half-bubble from level.
For three – four? – days I got drunk. Daily trips to the local grocery store liquor department were my only times outside my apartment. I let my little garden go to weed. I’m not sure if I showered. My sister and a couple friends knew I had gone to see Miss L. I avoided answering the phone when they called, and I didn’t respond to their e-mails. But a few days into my descent, I realized why I felt like shit, why I felt the need to get drunk, why my head and heart hurt: Despite our uneven past, I did love Miss L, and I wanted to be there with her, to be a part of her life and a part of our baby’s life, and denying that was eating away at me.
I called her. Told her. She was happy, but understandably cautious. She made me write a letter telling her why I wanted to give us a chance, a letter that I worked on until I thought I had it just right. She and I talked daily after that. I went to see her father to begin repairing the damage I had wrought with my visit to Miss L’s. We sat under the shade tree in his front yard and drank and talked, and he gave – if not his blessing, then his acceptance of me in her life.
So it was decided.
To pay for my move down, I cashed in part of my 401(k) from a previous job (and lord only knows what kind of IRS raping I’m in for by doing that, but, what the fuck?). And in late September, I loaded up my shit and moved down. I went back once, to be the best man in my brother’s wedding, and if you want to know what this Scotch-Irish man wears under his kilt – which was my wedding attire there at the K.C. Renaissance Festival – let’s just say that boxer briefs never felt so good as they did late that afternoon.
******
Miss L’s due date was Nov. 30, but her blood pressure became high during the pregnancy, and her doctor was concerned about slight preeclampsia turning into full-blown eclampsia, which can cause seizures in pregnant women and worse. Like, death worse. I was hopeful that Miss L could hold out until Nov. 27, my late dad’s birthday, but the doctor was pretty much certain he would induce her early. As she got bigger, Miss L became a big fan of that early induction idea, as in let’s get this shit over with, like, yesterday already. And during the first week of November, the doctor decided that the 11th was just right.
(We had taken the childbirth classes and thought we were prepared. But the thing about those classes is, they tell you what to expect before the kid is born; they don’t tell you shit about what to do after the birth. For that, you’re on your own, or, as in our case, you’re left to sort through the conflicting advice given by various medical professionals about how to take care of your baby. And I’m thinking, Hey, folks, you might want to get your fucking stories straight here ‘cause we got no IDEA what the hell we’re doing.)
After spending the night in the hospital, they broke her water at a little after 7 a.m. on Nov. 11 and drugged her up with Demerol. “It’s like having a 12-pack of beer,” she said. A 12-pack that quickly wore off, bringing back the pain that lasted for hours, pain that just kicked the ever-living shit out of the Demerol. I wiped her forehead with a damp cloth and held her hand when the contractions came. After one particularly finger-crushing contraction, she said, “Come on, epidural.” The anesthesiologist got on the stick, and soon the Fentanyl was flowing, and Miss L was in a much better mood. At about 7 p.m., with the nurses leading the way, we (and I say “we” like it was my ass in the birthing bed and my knees shoved somewhere in the vicinity of my ears) started trying to bring our baby into the world. The contractions were stacked up on top of one another like planes trying to land during an O’Hare snowstorm, and with each one, Miss L pushed for a 10-count. Our baby’s head crowned, and I could see hair. “You’re doing great,” I kept telling her. She might even have heard me.
The doctor came in, scrubbed, gowned and said Let’s have a baby. I wish I hadn’t looked when he did the episiotomy, because lord, that just wasn’t right. But it was just right to get the baby out. One more push, and at 7:42 p.m. we welcomed Amelia Sue officially into our lives.
As I cut the umbilical cord, I damn near cried, she was so beautiful. The nurse weighed her (6 pounds on the nose; I have the photo to prove it), measured her (19.25 inches), cleaned that nasty-looking gray shit off of her, suctioned out her nose, swaddled her and handed her to me. I couldn’t stop smiling as I held our baby. I handed Amelia to Miss L, and she looked radiant with her against her chest.
After everything was cleaned up, I went to the waiting room and got Miss L’s parents, and they fell just as hard for her as we did.
******
We brought Amelia home on Nov. 13, which seems like a lifetime ago. We nursed her through a bout with jaundice, keeping her on the, uh, anti-jaundice light for three – four? – days. Almost immediately time became a fluid element, one day blending into the next until when we talk about something with Amelia, it might have happened yesterday or last week – or maybe we only imagined it. And if it happened during the night, all bets are off.
At night, after she’s swaddled for bed, Amelia grunts and groans, coughs and coos, snorts and snuffles, wheezes and whimpers. And sometimes she seems to cry for a second in her sleep, just a little hitch or two, a sound so forlorn and sad that it breaks our hearts.
When the crying starts in earnest, we immediately try to answer three questions: Are you hungry? Do you need a new diaper? Do you need to burp? If it’s not one of those three, we’re kind of lost. Unless she just wants to be held. Yeah, we had grand designs of not spoiling the kid by picking her up all the time. I had ideas about pacifiers, too, as in I didn’t want to use that easy crutch, but lord, I’m nominating the pacifier inventor for the Nobel Peace Prize, household division. Shit, yeah, she’s already got us trained. Pavlov had nothing on this baby.
Six weeks old, and Amelia’s eyes are bright and wide. Although I don’t think she can see things in sharp focus yet, she recognizes our voices and knows our touch. Miss L just went back to work, so my unemployed self is playing Mr. Mom. With the way Amelia looks at me, I could get used to this.
We’ve had Amelia out of the house and in public countless times, sometimes in the stroller, sometimes Miss L packing her in a sling. And Amelia is a fucking rock star out in public, people drawn to look at her and tell us how beautiful she is, which is only right because she’s the most beautiful baby in the world, and I’ve got the (hundreds) of pictures to prove it. Once, when Miss L was packing Amelia in the sling, a woman stopped her car on a busy street, leaned out the window and went “Awwwww.”
I never wanted to change a kid’s diaper, but I don’t mind changing Amelia, and I find myself sing-songing as we head to the table to do the deed:
Let’s go change that diaper,
Let’s go change it, do
Let’s go change that diiiiperrrrr,
That diaper for Amelia Sue.
I’ve gone a little nuts, I think.
Miss L is great with our daughter, who is a big fan of breast feeding. (Yes. Slightly sweet.) Everyone who has kids told me my life would change the moment our daughter made her grand entrance. I knew it intellectually, but I didn’t KNOW it, you know? Didn’t know my capacity for love, didn’t know it, wide and deep.
I love holding my baby against my chest, her little hands clutching my chest hair, her little arms wrapped around my heart.
I didn’t want to be a dad. And now I can’t imagine my life without her.
Joe
Dec. 24, 2008
Joes North by NorthWest
http://www.joesnxnw.com/article.php?story=20081224163044246