Gifts

We are given something everyday, pieces of life’s details that we often ignore. And there are moments we hold on to, tuck back into the recess of our minds in a file we call “remember this.” Our senses heighten and we pay attention to the shift of light around us, the smell, the lilt of voices. We take everything in in that moment and we press “save” in our minds. “This is important,” we think. And then we go on.

Last night I arrived ready to recount my awful parking job. I had one-liners and little details piled up, the turning and the pulling in and out of the parallel space, the looking back, the gauging, the getting out and checking and getting back in and retrying, the crookedness, and then the “fuck it.” When the door opened, I was greeted with a “shhhhh,” a forefinger to lips and a whisper about a baby. J. was on the phone to his best friend who was recounting the birth of his son.

I knew that this was a gift and my smile enveloped my face. A baby is born and man is talking about it.

I’ve been present just moments after a baby comes into the world. I’ve held and cooed over the newborns, watched them get weighed and prodded and wrapped up tight. I’ve watched their eyes moving, taking in this strange new world and their mouths opening to this strange new air. It’s amazing, but in the hubbub and excitement over the child, I don’t pay attention to the father and his reactions. I focus on the baby, the new life in the room. I’ve never been privileged to the father’s recount until last night.

The joy and exhaustion on the speakerphone was evident even to someone who doesn’t know B. well. His voice was elevated. He was elated. He talked about the whole process with brevity, his mind seeming to not fully grasp the fact that he was a father, that he is now responsible for this other him. The details came after questions and we heard about the hours spent at the hospital, how H. was doing during and after the birth, and how little W’s eyes were a big beautiful blue/ grey, and then the best sentences came when B. said “It’s just amazing. This person was inside her belly and now he’s here.” W. was perfect he said, with ten fingers and ten toes. I had to repress my Special Ed. mind and the probability game in my head. This was joy, this was wonderment, perfect was perfect at this moment. And I accepted the gift that was given me. B. never new I was in the room listening in with K and J beside me. He words were meant for their ears, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if the whole world knew he now has a perfect baby boy.