3/30
The day Baby X and Baby O were born (for my new nanny babies)
On the morning of the day you were born a flight left the Austin airport at 6:30 am, headed toward Philly and her old liberty bell.
On the morning of the day you were born, a beautiful woman served me a cup of coffee and talked clever at me so that later, while I was grading poetry submissions, I jotted down a few lines about how she was the kind of girl anybody would want to kiss below the bleachers just so they could keep that moment hot-lava and licorice secret behind the back of their tongues.
On the morning of the day you were born your big brother was learning how to hold his ring and pinky fingers down with his thumb so he could have just two solid little fingers in the air. How a big boy counts his age. And we stood near the corner of the roof of Whole Foods down on 6th and Lamar and watched the noisy passenger train rattle off below. At story time, we bought a book for your big brother about being a New Big Brother. We read it five times, all wide-eyed. One page let us practice our silly face. That might have been our favorite page.
On the morning of the day you were born, the whole house was cleaned top to bottom so brother and I ate a picnic outside. Fresh berries and crackers with cheese and chicken soup. Brother practiced marching and sweeping with the broom. Grandma G and Grandpa B and the clouds joined us. The air was thick and we all hoped for rain.
In the afternoon on the day you were born brother and I went searching for baby birds because it is spring and because there are tiny eggs and tiny nests and the whole universe, it seems, is brimming with song. We saw two dogs, a golfer, and a birds nest. We met twins, and thought about you. About both of you, Baby X and Baby O.
At dusk on the day you were born the sky flashed, and the lights flickered, and the thunder ripped so loud above our heads that the windows rattled. Grandpa B saw a jogger outside jump and turn in fright. Brother jumped and his heart kept jumping jumping jumping and when he hugged me, he held me tight like a sea star. And still there was no rain. Just clouds, all green and full near bursting.
At dusk on the day you were born the sky finally let loose some rain. Brother said "Now it is raining, Boo Boo" while I ran to my car. The rain in clumsy fistfuls. It had already stopped raining by the time I drove the mile to the birthing center.
At the hospital on the day that you were born we were all so nervous we couldn't think straight enough to plan a successful rendezvous and I lost Ba somewhere near the north entrance elevators, so when I dropped off the food in the delivery room I got to hang brother's picture up for mommy, the one we painted together in the muggy afternoon. We hung it up on the back of a mirror so mommy could see the picture the whole time. Daddy ran his fingers through his hair again and again, excited to see you.
You were born in the evening, Baby X and Baby O. Brother was already sleeping. I was already at home. All the clouds had already packed their bags, taking rolling thunder storms with them, so that the night sky was showing patches of stars. On my tattered living room couch I heard news of your arrival and sat, wondering which one of you came into this great expanse, this wonderful experiment, this calamity of atoms and molecules, first.
All of this is magic. The shaking thunder, so loud before the rain. The way brother's small hands learn to hold up two fingers only. Your beautiful mommy carrying the collective 11 lbs 11 oz of the two of you. The baby birds we can only imagine are in the nests. The crying of the train horn across the river. Your excited daddy with his hands running through his hair. All of this love, all of these people and all of their love. The way your lungs knew they wanted to start breathing air. All of it, magic.
On the morning of the day you were born a flight left the Austin airport at 6:30 am, headed toward Philly and her old liberty bell.
On the morning of the day you were born, a beautiful woman served me a cup of coffee and talked clever at me so that later, while I was grading poetry submissions, I jotted down a few lines about how she was the kind of girl anybody would want to kiss below the bleachers just so they could keep that moment hot-lava and licorice secret behind the back of their tongues.
On the morning of the day you were born your big brother was learning how to hold his ring and pinky fingers down with his thumb so he could have just two solid little fingers in the air. How a big boy counts his age. And we stood near the corner of the roof of Whole Foods down on 6th and Lamar and watched the noisy passenger train rattle off below. At story time, we bought a book for your big brother about being a New Big Brother. We read it five times, all wide-eyed. One page let us practice our silly face. That might have been our favorite page.
On the morning of the day you were born, the whole house was cleaned top to bottom so brother and I ate a picnic outside. Fresh berries and crackers with cheese and chicken soup. Brother practiced marching and sweeping with the broom. Grandma G and Grandpa B and the clouds joined us. The air was thick and we all hoped for rain.
In the afternoon on the day you were born brother and I went searching for baby birds because it is spring and because there are tiny eggs and tiny nests and the whole universe, it seems, is brimming with song. We saw two dogs, a golfer, and a birds nest. We met twins, and thought about you. About both of you, Baby X and Baby O.
At dusk on the day you were born the sky flashed, and the lights flickered, and the thunder ripped so loud above our heads that the windows rattled. Grandpa B saw a jogger outside jump and turn in fright. Brother jumped and his heart kept jumping jumping jumping and when he hugged me, he held me tight like a sea star. And still there was no rain. Just clouds, all green and full near bursting.
At dusk on the day you were born the sky finally let loose some rain. Brother said "Now it is raining, Boo Boo" while I ran to my car. The rain in clumsy fistfuls. It had already stopped raining by the time I drove the mile to the birthing center.
At the hospital on the day that you were born we were all so nervous we couldn't think straight enough to plan a successful rendezvous and I lost Ba somewhere near the north entrance elevators, so when I dropped off the food in the delivery room I got to hang brother's picture up for mommy, the one we painted together in the muggy afternoon. We hung it up on the back of a mirror so mommy could see the picture the whole time. Daddy ran his fingers through his hair again and again, excited to see you.
You were born in the evening, Baby X and Baby O. Brother was already sleeping. I was already at home. All the clouds had already packed their bags, taking rolling thunder storms with them, so that the night sky was showing patches of stars. On my tattered living room couch I heard news of your arrival and sat, wondering which one of you came into this great expanse, this wonderful experiment, this calamity of atoms and molecules, first.
All of this is magic. The shaking thunder, so loud before the rain. The way brother's small hands learn to hold up two fingers only. Your beautiful mommy carrying the collective 11 lbs 11 oz of the two of you. The baby birds we can only imagine are in the nests. The crying of the train horn across the river. Your excited daddy with his hands running through his hair. All of this love, all of these people and all of their love. The way your lungs knew they wanted to start breathing air. All of it, magic.
Comments
Post a Comment