Two Lines

(From my memoir-in-progress on fatherhood. Some material in this chapter also appears in The Hull, the Sail, and the Rudder.)

Two lines.

She thought she saw two lines, but wasn’t sure. So she brought the plastic stick, still glistening with urine, over to the bed. The second line was faint, but I definitely saw something.

“Put it this way,” I said. “How mad would you be if you didn’t want to be pregnant and you saw that line, even if it was faint?”

She agreed.

The next day, she repeated the whole process, and the second line was darker. Our second anniversary present to each other, was that we would have a baby.

We watched and listened as the baby grew inside of her. The nurse would smear KY jelly all over a microphone-like instrument and rub it around between Kirstin’s navel and pubic bone. The nurse would stare at the wall, as if that helped her to listen, and then, there it would be. Woosh-woosh, woosh-woosh, woosh-woosh. The heartbeat. She’d freeze in that spot, and Kirstin and I would exchange grins of disbelief.

When it was time for the sonogram, she’d flip on the video monitor, pop in the videotape that we’d bring with us each time, and begin swirling the sensor around on her stomach. The grainy black and white kaleidoscope would swirl and finally come to rest on something that looked like a lima bean. And right in the middle of the bean was a throbbing grain of sand, looking like a pulsar in some far-away galaxy. His, or her, beating heart.

That was him … or her. We didn’t know the sex and chose not to find out. But we hated to just call it “It” over and over. And so we came up with working titles. It started as “Bryo,” then became “Cletus the Fetus,” before settling into “Chou-chou,” (shoo-shoo) which Kirstin, the erstwhile French major, said meant “little cabbage.”

Had we been able to see images before seven weeks — and someday soon surely people will — we might have seen how the baby, or, as nurses universally called him, simply “Baby,” looks in the very beginning. (Nurses say, “Baby’s in this position,” and “Baby’s active today!” For me, it’s “the baby.” “Baby” was the protagonist in Dirty Dancing. “Nobody puts Baby in a corner of a uterus!”)

Pregnant couples learn to mark time in weeks. Forty weeks was the goal, though Baby is considered fully cooked anywhere from two weeks early to two weeks late.

From periodic sonograms, we could see someone growing inside Kirstin, something on its face so miraculous and bizarre that nobody would believe it if it didn’t happen 490,000 times a day all over the world.

The first round showed a bean. The second showed a clear split between the body and the relatively enormous head, as big as the body. After this, we followed along week by week in Kirstin’s old biology textbook. Now the arm buds and leg buds were sprouting out of the torso. The dark spots were eyes. For the first two months, had we been able to monitor it every day, we would have seen something different. Some new, enormously vital and complex body system was taking shape on a daily basis. On Tuesday the baby grew kidneys; Wednesday the lungs were forming; Thursday the digestive tract was differentiating and pulling inside of the rib cage. This week, all of the bones of the hand are formed, in the very same configuration they will remain for the next eighty years.

Knowing all this, we scrutinized Kirstin’s diet and activities. No caffeine. No NutriSweet. No ibuprofen. No antibiotics. No pumping gasoline. Swimming was okay, but not jogging. No mowing. And her longtime goal of skydiving was right out. Nothing was allowed that we even suspected might throw off this amazing unfoldment of life and its layered and interlocking systems.

Throughout its development, there are striking similarities between a human fetus and the fetuses of animals down the evolutionary ladder. For instance, our fetus resembles the fetus of a shark, complete with gills (Shark Week!), then resembles the fetus of a pig, and later resembles the fetus of a monkey and finally an ape, covered in hair called lanugo. This observation by others spawned a theory of gestation known as ontology recapitulating phylogeny.

In the early months, with a clear image, it is hard not to notice the tail. I briefly wondered if I had sired a sea monkey and how this would play out when it came time to start dating. But Chou-Chou soon grew into his or her tail, and my worries were for naught.

In the meantime we attended classes, which struck me as so quaintly human. Dogs and cats did not seem to need hand-outs and instructions on how to have their young. Yet we felt we did. In fact, we went through not one course but two: the Bradley Method, which was for hardcore granola couples who wished to keep things as natural as possible, and the Lamaze classes sponsored and required by the hospital. It was the last day of class and Kirstin had left early to make it to her baby shower on time. I vowed to stay behind and pick up as many more details of child birthing and rearing as I could. “Where’s the justice,” I thought. “She’s at a party unwrapping presents, and I’m here holding a thermometer up a doll’s ass.” In any event, I realized full well, with all the talk of centimeters this and lactation that, that nature had dealt me the easy hand in this partnership.

There were decisions to make. First was the name. This one is fun but also a little nerve-wracking. To think that two people can sit around and just decide what somebody is going to be called for the rest of their lives, like they would decide whether to go for Mexican or seafood on a given night, is bizarre, and, if you let yourself think about it for too long, can be petrifying.

Kirstin and I had decided that we were old fashioned and didn’t want to know the gender of the baby before it was born, as this is one of the true surprises left in life. But that means that you’ve got to pick two names.

I felt the weight of this decision keenly. Kirstin and I suspect a pendulum at work here — one generation assigns a “creative,” that is to say unusual, name to their kids, who suffer the daily grind of a world not set up for creative names: spelling it every time you leave a phone message or transact any business whatsoever, correcting people who mispronounce it or, as I tend to do, simply answering to anything. As Kirstin and I (Avrel) had this in common, we aimed to give the kids names that were 1) self-explanatory 2) without being overly common. Of course, this is a fool’s errand because you’re always fighting the last war when it comes to distinctiveness vs. commonness. We though we were going just a little ways off the beaten path with each one until we showed up for the first day of preschool, and heard “Andrew, come here!” from six different directions, addressing six of Andrew’s classmates. How all parents decide to “zag” at precisely the same moment, rendering the zag a zig and thereby nullifying it, is uncanny.

The next decision, I can honestly say, never occurred to me before she was pregnant: Whether or not to circumcise if it be a boy. Most things of consequence in our marriage and in our family life Kirstin and I consult on. But occasionally there will be something that we just leave completely up to the other. One example was whether or not to try for a third child, which, recognizing that her level of sacrifice both physically and mentally — was higher than mine, I left completely up to her. In her wisdom, Kirstin left this one entirely up to me.

Like virtually all American boys born in the mid-century, I had been circumcised. But there were a lot of things done back in the day that weren’t anymore. Immunization schedules. Birthing methods. Just because something was done for or to me was not a compelling reason. I read everything I could easily find on the subject. There were pros and cons on both sides. The Cut It side offered horror stories of chronic infections in little boys that led to teenage circumcisions.

The Leave It side pointed to the fact that circumcision shortened one’s adult manhood by an average of one inch. Other studies have put the average difference at 8 millimeters, or a quarter inch, but the point remains, as it were. An inch, or even a quarter inch, might not seem like a lot in most areas of life; I don’t think I need to go into detail on why that might not be so in this particular case. The closest equivalent for a girl would be deciding before she was born that she should have a breast reduction as soon as she hit puberty regardless of her bra size. I wasn’t comfortable making a permanent remodel to someone else’s body; it just never seemed like my decision to make.

The American Medical Association was no help: Do whatever you want. Doesn’t hurt to do it; probably won’t hurt not to.

Where I finally came down on the question is that I found it unlikely that, while there might have been excellent reasons for it in ages past, and even today in other parts of the world, when and where human life was far less antiseptic than it is today, to say that all boys should be circumcised is to say that half of the human race is born in immediate need of surgery. This just seemed unlikely to me. So I threw their lot in with nature.

When the fortieth week arrived, a kind of hush fell over our house. A watched cervix never dilates — that is the saying, right? — and we were watching it pretty closely. About this time in a pregnancy, advice about how to get the baby out begins to gush from all quarters. Chief among this advice, at least in Texas, is that Mexican food is the key. And so we ate Mexican, she with extra jalapeños, every night. Nothing.

Walking also is said to bring on labor, and so, every night, I would prod Kirstin out of the house and take her — waddling now in the universal side-to-side motion that comes from the elastin in the pelvis — around our one-mile loop.

When her due date arrived, I stayed close to my phone at work, checking every time I returned to my desk for the stutter-tone that meant I had voicemail. (This was before I had a cell phone, which today seems like saying “This was before I started wearing pants,” but it’s true, kids. There was a time when not everybody carried a phone/computer/TV with them everywhere they went.)

No stutter-tone. No call. That afternoon she copied me on an e-mail she had sent to friends and family: “Today has been a very emotional day for me. Please forgive me if I don’t answer the phone tonight.”

It was like we had been stood up. With her miserable and me miserable by proxy, and the impatient type anyway, we looked for the silver lining. At least he or she wouldn’t be a premie.

One day past due. Two days. Four days. Six days. Knowing from our many classes that most women go into labor in the middle of the night, we greeted each sunrise with disappointment. Another eternal day of fending off questions by well-meaning co-workers and another volley of phone calls from anxious family members. How many times could we say “no news”?

We had tried Mexican food. We had tried dancing. We had walked her until her swollen feet were bursting out of the only pair of shoes that still fit.

I kissed her goodnight and retired down the hall to the study, where I had pitched camp about three weeks earlier, to give her the maximum chance to sleep without being awakened by my tossing, turning, snoring, sneezing. Maybe sex would work; maybe it wouldn’t. We had played our last card. Now, truly, all we could do was wait.

About two hours later, at half past midnight, I was awakened by the creak of the study door. Her ample silhouette eased through the doorway and slipped down beside me in spoons on the futon. She whispered in the dark, as if there were already a baby in the house she was trying not to wake, “I think I may have had a contraction.”

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