We're Only Making Plans For Nigel

Okay, so apparently those contractions were the real deal. We went to the hospital at around 2am Thurday morning and were admitted. From about 2:30am until about 11PM that night Margaret breathed and contracted, rode the birthing ball, took numerous showers and walked laps around the maternity ward. The problem was that as the evening wore on the progress the Bean had made ground to a screeching halt. He simply refused to move any further into Margaret's pelvis.

The doctor broke her water and we hoped this would speed up the process.

No such luck.

Finally, the doctor on call (not the doctor Margaret has been seeing) advised Margaret that he had gone as far as she was going to go with natural childbirth, and that they were going to have to do a Ceasarian section. We were obviously disappointed, especially Margaret, who was determined to have the child naturally. I was handed a pair of scrubs and told to wait, while Maragret was wheeled into the OR. Several minutes later a nurse came to escort me to the OR, but on the way she revealed that the spinal tap they were trying to use on Margaret wasn't working, and that they would have to put her under. That meant that I couldn't be in the OR while the procedure was going on. Since Margaret would be knocked out, it meant that neither of us would be able to witness the moment our child entered the world.

What can I say? I cried upon hearing this news. Nine months of waiting for this day, and I can't even greet my son. As I stood outside the door of the OR I could hear the doctors and nurses talking, and suddenly their banter was interrupted by a loud wail of protest. It seems that our son had arrived, and man, was he pissed off. Even before I saw him I knew that there was nothing to fear in the area of respiratory health. Margaret's mom and sister were serepated from the OR by a hallway and two thick doors, but they heard him carrying on loud and clear.

Finally, the nurse stuck her head out the door. "It's a boy," she said, "and he's a big one." Several minutes later the door opened, and this is what I saw...


Of course I began blubbering like a baby all over again. I now understand the meaning of the Yiddish word verklempt. (Tawk amongst yourselves. I'll give you a subject. The Arc de Triumph is neither an ark, nor a small English sports car.)

Ladies and gentlemen, it gives us great pleasure to introduce to the world Mr. Charles Nigel Grant. Born at 12:15am on Friday, May 26. Weighing in a a hefty 9 pounds, 3 ounces and an impressive 23 inches in length.

If you thought I was humbled the night we found out we were expecting, that's nothing compared to this. Nigel (as we'll call him) just became our entire universe.

If that isn't perfection, then I don't want to know what perfection is. Ten fingers and ten toes. Full head of hair, including sideburns, and a mouth shaped precisely like his late grandfather's for whom he was given his first name (Charles).

After the birth I accompanied Nigel and the nurse to the nursery, where he was bathed. As you can see below, Nigel was less than impressed by the bath, although he did like the shampoo.


After the bath they gave him a few shots and then I went to check on Margaret. She was coming around, so I brought Nigel in so they could bond. She wept for joy upon seeing him, which of course got me started all over again. Nigel just kept looking like Edward G. Robinson, star of numerous film noir gangster flicks from the 30's and 40's, one Bugs Bunny cartoon, and who had a memorable part in The Ten Commandments flick with Charlton Heston ("Where's yer god now, Moses? Nyah! Nyah!")



I'll tell you, there's nothing like holding a sleeping baby. The picture below says it all.




So was the last nine months worth it? One look into my son's eyes and it was worth everything.