The Wikiness

By the time we got pregnant, two years into marriage, we were in cold war. You had decided that after all, I was a loser, and I was certain that your values were repulsive. If we had continued childless, we would have divorced when the remaining energy in our system drained.

But Mother Nature had other plans.  In the fall of 1988, you found yourself pregnant. I had a job and a new Mazda 323. You wanted a kid, and were not averse to gambles. So we went for it. 

At 28 I had never wanted to parent–didn’t feel adult enough, or capable.  I had imperfect models. 

Nonetheless I practiced reassuring words in Lamaze class, telling you to breathe, breathe, breathe. I looked around at the happy loving couples and felt like an imposter. But where else would I be? I was grimly determined. As the months advanced, I saw myself a paratrooper hooked onto the jump wire. There was no getting out of this line. 

At home, we absorbed What to Expect When You’re Expecting. I showed patience and compassion for your mounting discomfort and angry outbursts. Mother Nature had taken over your body, and was riding it rough.

One evening before dinner your water broke. We got to Evanston Hospital excited to complete the process, only to be told, “No. You’re only a few centimeters dilated. Go walk around the building.” 

We circumnavigated the grounds for an hour or two and returned eager to start birthing. But no. Your cervical opening was not wide enough, so on we walked on until the contractions buckled your knees.

A few hours later began a special kind of hell. We’d missed the window for a pain-blocker, so the monitors foretold waves of excruciation that would seismically rip through your torso. In your suffering, you spurned my Lamaze coaching. In epidural-less agony, you’d have none of it. 

“No! You’re not helping!” 

The most painful contractions began after midnight. They told us the baby was positioned to give you “back labor,” something we weren’t prepared for. The nurse told me to push against your lower back with all my might. I pushed and pushed and you moaned and cried.

By three in the morning, we were on a death march of inexorable exertion and misery.  The sonogram showed our child holding his little elbow out, his little hand on his chin, as if considering his options. His little ears  had perhaps heard our tones and he was trying to delay entry into the discord.  

Two hours later, in the early dawn light of June 14th, 1989, everything changed.

I looked at our helpless son thrown from his comfort onto the life raft of your chest, and felt a powerful urge to nurture and protect this fruit of your womb, this purchase of my seed, so helpless but for you and me. 

On that day I acquired a new but ancient self. You and I might never be more than friendly, but for this child I would work long hours, hazard any risk, and subjugate all desire. 

A new, parental lens filtered my vision from then on, bifurcating the world into threats and safety, chaos and certainty, privation and material possession. My mind was forever changed. 

The transformation transcended us. Since I alone vowed this love, I knew that it would last.