The History of Great Things

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You’re late. Two weeks, forty-one hours late, nine pounds, ten ounces. That’s a lot. That’s like a bowling ball coming out of me.

— I’ve heard this part before, Mom.

— Just let me have my say and then you can have yours.

— Fine.

So you’re a giant bowling ball coming out of me. If bowling balls were square. It hurts like a bitch. Honestly. No one mentioned this detail to me in advance. I may as well be pushing out a full-grown adult. Wearing a tweed pantsuit. Think about that. That’s what they should tell kids in sex ed. Not that sex ed exists now, because it doesn’t. Sex exists. Not ed.

It’s 1961. Your father is in the waiting room, of course, because that’s the way it is at this time. No dads, no home video, no breathing techniques. All fine by me, though I wouldn’t hate for someone to mention to me that Pampers exist now. Your father is escorted in as soon as they’ve cleaned you up (god forbid the father should have to see that?) and handed you over to me all wrapped in a pink striped bunting, and when Fred comes over it’s very dear, actually. He peeks down into the bunting, and I see a pleased look on his face that’s different from any I’ve seen him have before. He’s not usually terribly expressive, as you know. But I can see how he feels about you already. I hand you over and realize he’s never held a baby before, that maybe we should have practiced with your cousin or something, because you’re a little unsteady passing between us, but once he’s got you he’s got you.

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