As a Father
She's a week old, now. I can count the days she's been alive on both my hands, or both of hers, though with fingers so tiny I might need a magnifying glass.
It started last sunday morning, right when I woke up. The dogs had gotten me out of bed early, pressing their noses to my cheek to let me know that it was time to go and time to go now. I thought that they were just eager to get outside, but after I'd kissed Marc good morning, pulled on my sweats, and shuffled downstairs still fighting against the sleep in my eyes, I realized it was a lot more than that. When we reached the first floor I was stunned. First, because everything my eyes could see was immaculately clean. Second, because the living room had been completely rearranged, and all the pillows and blankets were on one of the couches with Jessie in the middle. Third, I could see every animal in the house all at once. And Fourth, they were all staring at her. I'm almost positive she saw my jaw drop, because she ordered me out of the house at once and told me not to worry. Now, first and foremost, commanding me not to worry is rather ridiculous. You are the mother of my daughter, you are due any day now, and suddenly you start nesting and all of my animals stare at you and you expect me not to worry?! Okay, fine. I realized it would probably be much more productive if I followed her orders. So I went outside, took the dogs out, bought fresh bread for breakfast, and came back after she swore she'd call me if she needed anything. As soon as I got back she found yet more ways to preoccupy me, but not before I saw her having a contraction.
So, cue Hayden panicking.
Jessie put Buffy into the DVD player and that managed to subdue me for quite some time while I put up ornaments and did other menial things to keep my mind off of the panic. I want to say that those hours between morning and afternoon were some of the longest of my life, but they really didn't compare to that night. Marc came back in the afternoon, and when I told him what was going on he was perhaps the most calming thing that anyone could have asked for. He had much more of a mind about him than I did. He sat sat next to Jessie the way I had, got her a cloth for her forehead, and held her hand with me whenever the contractions came, all the while keeping close track of how far apart they were, how long they lasted (Which we learned after the fact we'd been doing completely the wrong way). It felt like an impossible day, watching the craziest of movies, only remembering to eat when Marc brought us food, and helping Jessie down glass after glass of water.
Sometime in the middle of it I realized just how crazy I was getting and went out to do a round of tai chi. People either tend to respect that when I tell them I do tai chi or look at me like I'm crazy. The thing with martial arts is that they're sort of addictive. Ever since I did all the blade fighting for Star Wars I've tried to get my hand on as much of it as I can. And there's something irreplacable about having control and focus over your body. Just doing a single katta of a form relaxed me more than anything else that day, except perhaps Marc. It forced the panic part away and chipped at that knot in my stomach until I had the clarity to see the points that really mattered: this was my daughter, my child, and panicking her or her mother wouldn't do any good. I'd read the books a thousand times over. I was prepared for this, and I knew it. I'd spent the last nine months tumbling this moment over and over in my head. I just had to fall back on that, and I'd be fine.
And I was. I went back and Marc and I stayed with her the rest of the evening, up until near midnight when her contractions finally got close enough together and long enough to warrant the hospital. I drove because I had the route memorized, and Marc stayed in the back seat holding Jessie's hand even when she was rather close to breaking it straight off. Her water broke just as we arrived at the hospital (I have since gotten the car cleaned), and once we were inside, things seemed to just come to a stand still. The contractions kept coming, but there wasn't any progress, and when there was it was so slow Jessie was in tears over the pace. Marc sat outside most of the time, and I think he managed to sleep. I came out and sat with him several times over the course of the night, at the mundane hours of three and four when I was so tired and yet so pumped on adrenaline I couldn't keep my eyes open or closed.
Then around six AM everything finally started happening. I can't pretend I remember everything. Sleep pasted a gaussian blur on the night, but some memories stick out like glass shards, clear and so sharp they're almost painful for their intensity. I remember Jessie was shouting, and pushing, and trying to breathe, and the doctor reassured her and told her when to squeeze and had his hands where I don't want to think. My hand had lost circulation a long time ago in her grip but I didn't really notice. My eyes were glued to the doctor, and then at 7:00 on the dot there was a flourish of flushed skin, snipping scissors, and sharp cries. They folded her in a blanket almost before I could catch a glimpse of her, and did the initial tests while I was still staring speechless. I still couldn't comprehend what had happened when they came back with a pink blanket and a pink baby inside it.
They put her in my arms and.... there will never be enough words to do the moment justice. Some people spend all their lives looking for a point, searching out their purpose, trying to figure out what it is they need to think, or do, or believe in order for their existence to have meaning. They search out a justification for the breath they take and the food they eat day in and day out. They seek a set of ideals or deities that will let them accept their death with serenity. And yet I took this wrinkled, red creature into my arms, and in that single instant it was like the entirety of the world clicked into place. All of the threads connected, all of the arrows pointed to the same place. I looked down at my daughter, at this life that I had made, and realized that this is it. This is it. In the most primal, rewarding way, this is that purpose, that justification, that pinnacle. This is why we're put on earth. To experience the absolute miracle that was holding my own child in my arms. I stared at her, and even though I know scientifically she couldn't focus her eyes yet or probably make sense of anything around her, I stared at her and I swear she stared at me. Her eyes were enormous -- thick and the brightest blue just like mine. And at that moment I just knew. This tiny girl would be with me for the rest of my life. And as long as I lived, this tiny girl, from the soft crown of her head to the wrinkled bottoms of her feet, would be my life.
A week ago she changed my world and made my world, and I know there's no way that I'll ever be the same.
It started last sunday morning, right when I woke up. The dogs had gotten me out of bed early, pressing their noses to my cheek to let me know that it was time to go and time to go now. I thought that they were just eager to get outside, but after I'd kissed Marc good morning, pulled on my sweats, and shuffled downstairs still fighting against the sleep in my eyes, I realized it was a lot more than that. When we reached the first floor I was stunned. First, because everything my eyes could see was immaculately clean. Second, because the living room had been completely rearranged, and all the pillows and blankets were on one of the couches with Jessie in the middle. Third, I could see every animal in the house all at once. And Fourth, they were all staring at her. I'm almost positive she saw my jaw drop, because she ordered me out of the house at once and told me not to worry. Now, first and foremost, commanding me not to worry is rather ridiculous. You are the mother of my daughter, you are due any day now, and suddenly you start nesting and all of my animals stare at you and you expect me not to worry?! Okay, fine. I realized it would probably be much more productive if I followed her orders. So I went outside, took the dogs out, bought fresh bread for breakfast, and came back after she swore she'd call me if she needed anything. As soon as I got back she found yet more ways to preoccupy me, but not before I saw her having a contraction.
So, cue Hayden panicking.
Jessie put Buffy into the DVD player and that managed to subdue me for quite some time while I put up ornaments and did other menial things to keep my mind off of the panic. I want to say that those hours between morning and afternoon were some of the longest of my life, but they really didn't compare to that night. Marc came back in the afternoon, and when I told him what was going on he was perhaps the most calming thing that anyone could have asked for. He had much more of a mind about him than I did. He sat sat next to Jessie the way I had, got her a cloth for her forehead, and held her hand with me whenever the contractions came, all the while keeping close track of how far apart they were, how long they lasted (Which we learned after the fact we'd been doing completely the wrong way). It felt like an impossible day, watching the craziest of movies, only remembering to eat when Marc brought us food, and helping Jessie down glass after glass of water.
Sometime in the middle of it I realized just how crazy I was getting and went out to do a round of tai chi. People either tend to respect that when I tell them I do tai chi or look at me like I'm crazy. The thing with martial arts is that they're sort of addictive. Ever since I did all the blade fighting for Star Wars I've tried to get my hand on as much of it as I can. And there's something irreplacable about having control and focus over your body. Just doing a single katta of a form relaxed me more than anything else that day, except perhaps Marc. It forced the panic part away and chipped at that knot in my stomach until I had the clarity to see the points that really mattered: this was my daughter, my child, and panicking her or her mother wouldn't do any good. I'd read the books a thousand times over. I was prepared for this, and I knew it. I'd spent the last nine months tumbling this moment over and over in my head. I just had to fall back on that, and I'd be fine.
And I was. I went back and Marc and I stayed with her the rest of the evening, up until near midnight when her contractions finally got close enough together and long enough to warrant the hospital. I drove because I had the route memorized, and Marc stayed in the back seat holding Jessie's hand even when she was rather close to breaking it straight off. Her water broke just as we arrived at the hospital (I have since gotten the car cleaned), and once we were inside, things seemed to just come to a stand still. The contractions kept coming, but there wasn't any progress, and when there was it was so slow Jessie was in tears over the pace. Marc sat outside most of the time, and I think he managed to sleep. I came out and sat with him several times over the course of the night, at the mundane hours of three and four when I was so tired and yet so pumped on adrenaline I couldn't keep my eyes open or closed.
Then around six AM everything finally started happening. I can't pretend I remember everything. Sleep pasted a gaussian blur on the night, but some memories stick out like glass shards, clear and so sharp they're almost painful for their intensity. I remember Jessie was shouting, and pushing, and trying to breathe, and the doctor reassured her and told her when to squeeze and had his hands where I don't want to think. My hand had lost circulation a long time ago in her grip but I didn't really notice. My eyes were glued to the doctor, and then at 7:00 on the dot there was a flourish of flushed skin, snipping scissors, and sharp cries. They folded her in a blanket almost before I could catch a glimpse of her, and did the initial tests while I was still staring speechless. I still couldn't comprehend what had happened when they came back with a pink blanket and a pink baby inside it.
They put her in my arms and.... there will never be enough words to do the moment justice. Some people spend all their lives looking for a point, searching out their purpose, trying to figure out what it is they need to think, or do, or believe in order for their existence to have meaning. They search out a justification for the breath they take and the food they eat day in and day out. They seek a set of ideals or deities that will let them accept their death with serenity. And yet I took this wrinkled, red creature into my arms, and in that single instant it was like the entirety of the world clicked into place. All of the threads connected, all of the arrows pointed to the same place. I looked down at my daughter, at this life that I had made, and realized that this is it. This is it. In the most primal, rewarding way, this is that purpose, that justification, that pinnacle. This is why we're put on earth. To experience the absolute miracle that was holding my own child in my arms. I stared at her, and even though I know scientifically she couldn't focus her eyes yet or probably make sense of anything around her, I stared at her and I swear she stared at me. Her eyes were enormous -- thick and the brightest blue just like mine. And at that moment I just knew. This tiny girl would be with me for the rest of my life. And as long as I lived, this tiny girl, from the soft crown of her head to the wrinkled bottoms of her feet, would be my life.
A week ago she changed my world and made my world, and I know there's no way that I'll ever be the same.