Meesh And The Baby

I thought the dogs, August and Thursday, were protective of the belly, well, you best mind your reach when going in for Evvy (I know those two Vs sandwiched between the E and the Y look like a W but to answer your question "person who shall remain nameless" NO, we did not name our daughter Ewy...it is E V V Y -  by the way, my mom suggested I now spell her name out with spaces E V V Y so as not to cause confusion...I, on the other baby daddy hand, think I needn't space my daughter's name out for the sake of people who could think I would name my kid EWY)

Meesh was laboring at home until midnight.  She had been laboring since the midnight before.  In between contractions (which apparently feel like a cross between a broken washing machine inside of your stomach and a little people wrestling match) Meesh would gaze into my eyes lovingly and soft as a baby's butt say "you okay, Matty.  How you doin?  How's it goin?"  As I was about to answer the little people would start to wrestle and Meesh would grab a table, a couch, a dog, my head and yelp "Where the fuck is the hospital, Matt.  What the fuck?  I mean, seriously, THE FUCK!"  So it is my friends, the contraction cliches are cliches because they are, well, totally cliche.

Our doula (oblongata) told us to get in the shower around 10 p.m. (two hours before the clock struck midnight, before princesses turn into pumpkins and queens into witches) and on that Meesh started bawling..."Why the fuck does she want me to get in the shower.  She should get in the shower.  A shower??  The hell is this game she's playing?"  I turned on the shower, came back to Meesh who was squatting between a nook and a cranny and I said "I'm just going to leave the shower running and if you want to get in, it might feel warm and good and..."  She said "Ohhh, you're on her side?"  I didn't know who's side I was on at this point to be quite honest.  My pained, warrior wife or the doula Meesh loved (until this point) who wanted only to help Meesh have the birth she dreamed of...all the while I am thinking about the water I am wasting,  Earth Guilt as if being Jewish wasn't enough.

We got in the shower.  The tears stopped.  Meesh rested her body against mine.  She was at peace.  Got out of the shower.  Got dressed.  Then those rascally little people were like, fuck it, we want to have Wrestlemania in her belllllyyyy.  Clock struck midnight.  Princess Meesh was pumpkin-izing.  We got in the car.  That drive to the hospital is as it is in the films...surreal and slow.  We get up to the room.  Set up shop.  Clary Sage and Peppermint oils in hand.  Ipod playing Joni Mitchell (oddly, theatrical Meesh and Ghetto Meesh did not want to give birth hence no Beyonce or Babs...baby E    V    V    Y (there mom)  wanted to be birthed like a proper, poetic girl.  

2 a.m. rolled around and Meesh was simply plum tuckered.  Very hard to watch your wife in that much pain...heartbreaking...also hard to not laugh (that uncomfortable "i want to cry but instead I'm laughing" laugh).  Needless to say, I had to bury my head a few times.  And after nearly 24 hours of labor, Meesh essentially looked at the doula and looked at me and said "fuck you both...give me the epidural."  

The epidural doctor arrived quickly.  If you ever have to witness this act, just kill yourself.  The doctor opens a suitcase that rivals a 007 assassin kit, throws a wall of sticky plastic on Meesh's back and starts building a house on it...pipes and hoses and needles, oh my!  That was my first black out.

The epidural knocked us both out.  We slept until 6 a.m.  They took her off the epideral.  And shortly thereafter she was 100 percent dilated.  Ready to push.  And then the door opened.  Finally, our doctor had arrived.  Oops, scratch that...our doctor is a young black woman.  This doctor was a not that young white woman.  I pull her aside before Meesh can freak out "where is our Doctor."  And very matter-of-factly she says "she got suspended this morning for brawling over a C-section."  Oh no she di'int.  But, in fact, yes she did.  So it was, the doctor we had spent nine months with was in hospital jail but this doctor loved my Ipod mix so I liked her.

She sat on the bed with Meesh and the pushing began.  25 minutes later a head was crowning (black out number 2).  And then within moments, a face and a chest, arms, legs and the announcement "it's a girl!"  B L A C K O U T #3.  A girl?  My brother has three sons.  A girl?  Everyone thought Meesh was carrying the way one does when they carry a BOY.  A girl?  And then some weird, you-have-a-baby-girl chemical kicks in and you start crying and your heart opens so wide and all you can hear in your head is your own voice saying "I have a daughter" and then you hear your voice but now British saying "Not Without My Daughter" and you think of Sally Field and then you remember the joke you had with someone about being parched and saying "Not Without My Water."  And then...you are asked to cut the umbilical chord.  You do, and then you properly black out.

An Open Letter To My Baby

Today reminds me of all the stories we hear from our parents about those hours before heading to the hospital. When I was in my Mom's belly it was snowing in Connecticut. The house was warm. My older brother, David, was preparing to ninja me whenever I was brought home. My parents were so excited (not about David slicing me with throwing stars but that I was coming into the world.) Just like me and Meesh today. Los Angeles and it is hot outside. We are listening to Leona Naess on Itunes. The dogs, Thursday and August, are flanking your Mom while she breathes through contractions. All the while she is as beautiful as ever. She writes down the time between the contractions and the length of each one. This reminds me of counting thunder claps and lightning cracks. Nature. So incredibly beautiful. What do you look like? Your eyes? Lips? Hands? You are on your way. On your way into our arms. You've been in our hearts already. But soon, you will sleep, your heart pressed to your Mom's, to mine. Chest to chest. Skin to skin. How are we feeling right now? Well, it is indescribable. The way you do when first you see oceans, Yosemite, a constellation. Awed! And you're only just making your way. I have a feeling your arrival will multiply all of the above by millions. Until soon my child...I love you.

Castor Oil, Rub Ankles, Intercourse...REPEAT

The belly is dropped (kind of like a Kanye West album) and all of the things that should be dilated are including my eyes which are in a perpetual state of "oh my God." Our doula reccommended castor oil followed by me rubbing the nape of Meesh's ankles followed by sex. Castor oil, it seems, can only be found in a store in the 1950's so unless anyone has a time machine to lend us or a lovely Grandmother who has some hidden behind her ovaltine and Jackie Gleason DVDs, we're not castor oiling. Rubbing ankle napes, check. I got hands that can accupressure something right good. And as for the sex...umm...well lets just say we're having wonderful phone sex sans the phones. Meesh wants sex right now as much as you'd want to run a marathon with a migraine, swollen knees and a carry on suitcase attached to your front side.

But the baby is on its way. Bags are packed. Mixes are made: Broadway (for when Meesh feels inclined to get theatrical on our asses) Lilith Fair (for when Meesh feels inclined to be woman and roar) Beyonce et. al (for when Meesh feels inclined to get ghetto). I've got my flipcam (can't wait to see if I can record my baby entering the world and exiting the vag considering I faint watching people use needles on Intervention). And I've got my newfound education: infant CPR, spiritual mantras, breathing exercises...is this like the SATs? Study for months then get in the room and have no fucking clue which circle to use your Ticonderoga number 2 pencil on?

You Get What You Get (when you're with Jewish People)

I warned Meesh.  Don't complain about having "sausage toes" (in quotes because she said it, not me.  I think her toes are lovely, dancer-like even or as my mom likes to say "actorly") especially when we are in the company of people of the dreidl persuasion.  I told her.  "Meesh, you might want to NOT say how big you feel and how much you hope your belly goes down once the baby is born" at a table filled with Jews (for some reason, all I can hear in my head right now is the theme to the film JAWS because it just works when discussing the JEWS...not that they're SHARKS ala Bernard Madoff but that they kind of, how do you say it in America...attack!)  You see, you can not toss out bait with our people.  You think fish like worms on hooks?  Amy Winehouse likes needles with heroin?  Octumom likes attention?  Well guess what everyone, Jewish people like weakness.  Tell them you feel fat and here is what happens:

JEWISH DAD

"Listen, what can I tell ya?  You're pregnant.  For thousands of years....

JEWISH MOM

"Millions...listen to him, thousands....

JEWISH DAD

"Fine...millions.  (he whispers out of the crook of his mouth) "Isn't she annoying..."

JEWISH MOM

"Heard it..."

JEWISH DAD

"Wanted you to."  (he continues)  "Anyway, you're pregnant.  The baby will come when the baby will come.  You're body will be what you're body will be.  You'll go to the gym and you'll breast feed.  That baby sucking on those nipples will help you thin out..."

JEWISH MOM

"I wish you sucking on my nipples could help you thin out..."

Meesh knew I was right about this one.  She swore never to complain about feeling sausagey at a table filled with Matzah eaters again.  

**Note, the events of this story are oddly true.  I must keep the identities of the JEWISH MOM and JEWISH DAD a secret.  

**Double NOTE...I love being Jewish and laughed my ass off while the story you just read occurred.