Your first few moments in this world

Thought I’d make sure to document for you your first hour or so in this world, as I’m positive your mind was courteous enough to block it all out for you. That’s something our brains do when traumatic events happen — the mind just decides to close the blinds for a bit and whistles, hoping the rest of you forgets to pay attention to what’s really going on behind those curtains.

Hope this doesn’t bring the memories back in any lasting manner, but there’s a reason you spent that first hour crying your head off.

First, you were all snug in your old bedroom. Actually, maybe you weren’t because the blankets were gone and something, some unseen, outside force (probably a velociraptor or something) was trying to pull you out the door headfirst. But you ran into a little problem there — the door was too small for your head, and so that velociraptor decided to come at you like a predator does: claws first. He ripped a hole in the side of your bedroom, grabbed you by the butt and yanked you out.

This part you can’t read until you’re a little older: Y’know, in those birthing classes my wife and I attended, they made the c-section seem so simple and painless. Even in the videos they showed of the procedure, everything was done smoothly and without any trauma to the mother.

In the video we saw, the mom walked into the room, jumped on the table and said: “Let’s do this thing!” And then she started doing chest-bumps with the doctors. Pretty soon everyone in the room was whooping and hollering; she was eating chips and peanuts, and had to drop her diet coke on the floor when the doctor tossed the baby at her. She caught it, and gave the camera a thumbs up before the title came up on the screen: C-SECTION: HELL YEAH!!

But that’s not what it’s like in real life. I had to wait outside the room for about twenty minutes before I got the chance to go in and see your mom — to make sure she was all right. And the truth was, she was scared beyond belief. Surrounded by eight doctors and nurses and countless machines, your mother was shaking so violently that the entire gurney was shaking. She was scared, Little Dude.

I was only let in the room to be with her when they started the procedure, and let me tell you this: I’m glad (and I’m sure your mom is as well) they put up that little curtain that shields the patient’s face from the rest of the room, and here’s why: Those doctors were working with such force and ferocity, such violence, that I would have assumed they were goin to start pulling a never-ending string of handkerchiefs, or a rabbit, or maybe even a Buick from your mother’s stomach. They were up to their elbows and bumping into each other and grunting, and then the table was shaking for an entirely different reason.

Oh, and another thing: those doctors didn’t have the best customer-service skills. they weren’t talking to us or aking how we were doing or even giving us a play-by-play. Nope, all that wrestling and yanking was accompanied with the following conversation:

“So, where’re you guys going this weekend?”

“Oh, we’re going to the cabin. need to get out of the city for a while.”

“Fishin’?”

“‘Course!”

They were working to get you out quickly and safely, little Dude, but man…

Make sure you give your mom a hug every mother’s day and on every one of your birthdays, ’cause you owe her. Big time.

Anyway, after the velociraptor pulled you out, it tied up part of you and cut it off from your bedroom, then it wiggled you in the air and handed you off to another pair of velociraptors who stuck vacuums in your mouth and nose, stuck a thing on your head, pried open all the parts of your body that can be pried open, and then stuck you in a cold, metal tray before grunting: “7lbs 9oz. Cute kid. Wanna take a picture?”

Then they handed you to me and your mom and I had about 30 seconds with your before one of the raptors grabbed me and ushered me out of the room. We were headed to another part of the hospital for more poking and prodding.

This part you can’t read until you’re a little older: You’ll never believe what happened on the way to the nursery. We passed up your grandparents who came running down the hall to see you, to get that first grandparent glimpse; to take a look and start deciding who you look like and whether they’ll keep you or not. I asked Nurse Raptor (who was leading me to the nursery) if I could stop to show you off, and he grunted:

“Look, we don’t have time to dilly-dally. I have another one of these in a few minutes.”

And we were off again, your grandparents left in the dust.

Up in the nursery you were stuck under a heat lamp, had your temperature taken, and some strange goop slopped in your eyes, were measured, had your feet stuck in ink, had some tape wrapped around your head, were weighed again and fitted with three different tracking devices around your wrists and ankles before being returned to me and your mom.

Pretty surprising, the battery of tests you’re put through once you step into this world. You’d think they’d give you a few days to chill and get used to things, especially the new temperature, but they don’t. The people in charge want you to get up and get moving, get going and make your way through. It’s a hard-knock life, and those doctors want you to understand that from the get-go.

You got to spend a handful of hours with us and were taken away for the rest of the night for god-knows-what-tests-they-did-that-we-couldn’t-be-present-for, and I hope you’re no worse for wear because of them.

And I hope your brain did its job of holding those curtains tight — I’d hate for the dreams you have during your REM sleep these days have nothing to do with those first few hours. They don’t seem to be so far; whenever I see you dreaming, you’ve got a big ol’ smile across your face. I’ll assume you’re thinking about eating at those moments. To tell you the truth, I smile when I dream about those things, too.

This part you can’t read until you’re a little older: Two days later we lopped off part of your wang. Sorry.