Today is my youngest daughters 38th birthday. We had a tradition that on every birthday I would recount the crazy events of that day to her. This year I decided to write it down. Sarah is not on Facebook (I really admire that). She has already read it. I wanted to share it with you all. Its long, so I understand if you dont bother reading it. But if you do you might see how a lot of us men feel about our daughters. And So It Began The 253rd day of the year 1976, a Thursday, would be a day that changed the lives of at least three people by that afternoon, your Mother, myself, and of course, you. It began normally enough. I woke up around 6 AM to get ready to go to work. Your Mom was already awake next to me. I believe she was sitting up. I thought you were probably kicking her again and she couldn’t get comfortable. I said something like, “Are you okay?” Her usual response would have been, “This child won’t let me sleep.” But that morning her response made my heart beat a little faster than normal. She said, “Today is the day.” “Excuse me”, I stammered. “I’m having contractions” she said. After a brief back and forth exchange, in which I attempted to negotiate our way out of contractions, dilation, and the need to pack a bag, I accepted the inevitable. Today was the day. I called work and got ready to leave. We were going to the brand spanking new Meadowlands Hospital located in Secaucus, N.J. right next to the formerly habitable Hackensack River. We were going to have this child, this new life. Here we were a young couple of 23 and 24 years old with our whole lives ahead of us, on this great adventure. I was ready to go, filled with anticipation. “Come on Pamela, let’s go.” Much to my surprise, she was mopping the kitchen floor. “Really? You’re going to mop the kitchen floor”, I thought. What I said was, “What are you doing? We have to go!” But your Mother explained to me that she felt fine. She didn’t want to go to hospital right away, in case it was a false alarm. What the heck was I supposed to do? Well the answer to that came pretty quickly. My job was to get more nervous by the minute, annoy your Mother with attempts to time the contractions, and basically lose my mind. I couldn’t even smoke a cigarette. I had quit in January of that year. I was ready to go! She cannot have this baby here! Finally, after she had pretty much cleaned the entire house, including the windows. (I am not making that up.) She finally agreed to call the doctor. That conversation went something like this. “Hello Doctor, I’m having contractions. (pause) Since about 6 this morning. (it was afternoon now) I guess the contractions are about 3 or 4 minutes apart. (long pause) Okay. Goodbye.” “What did he say,” I asked? “He said we should get to the hospital as soon as possible,” was her casual reply. I immediately went into full escaped mental patient, Marx Brothers on cocaine, where the hell are my car keys, mode. All I could think was that the hospital was 10 miles away, it was afternoon and traffic would be bad, and I don’t want my daughter/son (in those days we didn’t know which you would be) born in my car, in traffic, with me as the midwife. The legend of that car ride is true. I went through every single red light in New Milford, Hackensack, Moonachie, and Secaucus. The emergency flashers were on and I was ready to punch any cop in the face that tried to stop me. That ticket was going to be issued in the maternity ward. We made it, over all of your Mother’s protests that I slow down, obey the law, yadda, yadda, yadda. I was determined to be in control of one part of that day. At that point, I was calm. Your Mom was in good hands. Now all I had to do was get into my hospital gown, hat, and mask, and experience my child’s birth. Wrong again! The doctor came into the room and informed me that my child had decided to come out feet first and would have to be delivered via C-section. I would not be allowed in the delivery room. I did not protest. Now I have no empirical proof, but I have always had a strong suspicion that had we gone to the hospital that morning, when I wanted to leave, you wouldnt have come out feet first, and I would have experienced seeing your head emerge from the birth canal. But, on the other hand, it wouldn’t have been the great and humorous experience it was, and your head wouldn’t have been perfectly round. Who wants a pointy head? But come you did, and by about 4:15, on the afternoon of September 9, 1976, a young man of 24 years, with dark brown hair, euphorically held his 6 pound 1 ounce daughter for the first time. And, as she slept, her perfectly round head rested, nestled in the crook of his arm, and her tiny, perfectly formed feet touched the palm of his hand, and he was amazed, and in love. Your Mother and you both fell asleep. I walked out into the early evening air. The sun was still up. It was beautiful and warm. An evening full of joy. I lit a cigar and watched the smoke disappear into the day’s end. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SARAH. LOVE, DAD
Posted on: Tue, 09 Sep 2014 14:18:56 +0000
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