Silflay Hraka

So during the compilation of the Carnival of Beer the wife was was timing contractions and thinking out loud, “I wonder if we need to go to the hospital.” Since the contractions were neither long nor regular, the answer was “not yet.”

“Not yet,” became “should have left an hour ago,” around one in the morning, so while SW got dressed I called our teenager baby sitter, who was fortunately only a couple of houses away.

“How would you like to come spend the night?” I asked when she answered.

She sounded shocked, and a little intrigued. “Who is this?”

Once that was cleared up, she ran through the rain–for great sheets of it had begun falling almost as soon as the wife decided labor had arrived–and took up position on our couch as we left. One of the Maenad’s arrived to relieve her a half-hour or afterwards. We found out the next day that sitter’s parents didn’t even notice she was gone, which bodes well for her social life in future.

I had the pleasure of runnig several extraneous redlights in downtown Durham on the way to the hospital, while the wife kept up her rythmic chant of “I don’t care what happens, I just want my drugs.”

During Ngnat’s birth she’d missed the epidural, as the staff was convinced that there was no way a first-time mom was going to give birth anytime soon, and had moved at a pacé glacial until they realized delivery was imminent. Scotty’s arrival was more well-anticipated, so she’d been able to compare the experiences.

Her recollection of birth with an epidural; “A day at the spa.”

As it turned out, the nurses moved as fast as they were able, but were unable to keep up with SW’s Indy-like birth tract, and Benjamin arrived without benefit of drugs. The staff came close, as the anethesiologist literally had the local anesthic loaded and ready for injection when they decided it was too late. SW let out a howl of disappointment that I’m sure brought fear to every soul in the waiting room down the hall, and I tried my best to look like I wasn’t laughing inside.

I don’t think I succeded. Three pushes later, less than an hour after we arrived, Ben made his appearance.

He was unhappy with things in general.

But at least he wasn’t covered in cheese. 8.4 pounds, 20.5 inches long. Intial Apgar score was 9. He was presented to SW, who was now much happier, disconnected from his network of tubes with a quick snip from our lady Korean doctor, and whisked off to the nursery for a bath.

Here he is later.

He has a great shock of black hair, though it might be hard to see that from the photos. His head must be covered at all times, lest all heat escape and he turn into a babysicle.

SW thought he looked like Ngnat. I though he looked liked a Mexican bricklayer.

“This is why the fence will never work,” I told her. “The minute we build it, thousands of illegal immigrants will begin sneaking across the border inside American vaginas.”

My oberservation was appreciated about as much as you’d suspect, though it did not stop me from extending my meditations on the theme as the opportunity arose.

While holding his latest grandson, the Reverend Sid observed that “this one, at least, did not look like Winston Churchill.”

“Nope. Thanks to affirmative action, one-third of American newborns are now required to look like Santa Anna.”

He was much more appreciative.

After his first feeding, Ben slept for 11 hours.

As to the matter of his blog alias, I’m thinking “Fluffy Mendoza,” as it reflects Scotty M’s naming aspirations for his brother as well as Ben’s rich Mexican heritage. “Fluffy Sanchez” was also considered, but rejected based on its euphonius similarites to certain references in South Park.

Never let it be said that I am not tasteful and considerate.

Postscript: Be sure to send me your LolBabies.