One year ago today, one year ago RIGHT NOW, we were sitting quietly in a hospital room with a mewling, darling new creature. He'd been born at 7 oh something p.m. with minimal-to-medium fanfare. The fanfare: there had been the ruckus with the driving to the hospital at about 7 centimeters dilated, which makes Mopac feel like a VERY BUMPY ROAD. Then there was the waiting in the seemingly closed waiting area, after pressing the buzzer, which made such a lonely sound, like no one would answer EVER. Then there was the filling out of forms, which no one really wants to do EVER, but certainly not at EIGHT CENTIMETERS. Lastly, the news that the dreaded VERY HANDSOME DOCTOR would be delivering this baby: I clung to my doula, said several curse words and repeated my strong opinion that this good-looking doctor should not be allowed to see my private parts without several dates beforehand. Alas, we had no time for dates. There was some more gnashing of teeth and cursing before the real work started.
I pushed. They proclaimed: GOOD JOB, GREAT PUSHING!
I pushed more. More praise.
Pushing. Praise.
Pushing. I was feeling the lack of results. "WHAT AM I DOING WRONG?"
Pushing. Much encouragement and news of a head with dark hair. Dark hair? I made a creature with dark hair?
I pushed some more and [there is no punctuation, no drumroll fitting this]...
Milo.
Not too long later, we had this cone-headed animal, all cleaned up and swaddled. He smacked and snorted, but hardly cried. I had been reluctant to have another baby. HA. I kept saying to his bundled self, "Are you kidding me?"
Milo is such easy joy. He has blonde hair now, and he looks like me. He delights in the opening of doors, the turning on of lights, Beyonce, whoever he sees when he first wakes up. He wrinkles his nose when he smiles and he probably likes you, but he plays hard to get.
