He’s Perfect

When the story is told over the upcoming years, this part may or may not get brought up, so I'm making sure that it gets told now.

You see, I'm such an awesome chef that our baby boy was born at 4:33 PM instead of 8:33 AM. My culinary abilities are why we had to sit, for 7 straight hours, in a waiting area, being told little and enjoying it even less. The day before, Wife and I cruised the aisles of Woolworth's scabgrabbing everything that appealed to wife's happy li'l hormonal heart.

I asked her what she'd like for a "Last Meal" and she told me. So I made it.

Seafood Marinara in White Cream Sauce with Rhubarb and Strawberry Pie.

These are crappy pics from my phone:

The lady at Woolie's was rather proud of her mixture of prawns, mussels, salmon, calamari and snapper. She should be too.

The pie was all me though, and even if my crusts are a bit crusty sometimes, I was DAMN proud.

So wife and I ate, and we ate, and we enjoyed the hell out of a pleasure that can only be described as Not Having Any Kids Around.

We laid in bed and told secrets under the covers about how we're both a bit nervous and hit the lights out to be awoken at 4 (for her) and 6 (for me, since it takes me 8 minutes to get ready). At 4 AM she got up, but then I did too because I was nervous and wanted to have solidarity and all that rot. I put the news on and sipped coffee while she fussed about.

We rolled up to the ward with only 2 other elective C-sections (after 3 of 'em, they make you have one for #4 here) and sat down. Seconds later, our name is called and next thing you know Jo's in those gowns that hang your ass out there for the World and I was a pacing poppa.

A routine question hiccup was all that we needed at that point.

"Have you had anything to eat or drink?" they asked.

Wife answered, "Nope, just a swallow of milk at about 4:15 because of husband's deliciously acidic dinner last night!"

We were both still beaming when nurselady says, "Oh dear, I'll have to check to see if that's okay."

Wife explains to me that the whole No Eating thing is usually for General Anaesthetics and she would just have an epidural, and also it's only so you don't barf in your sleep and then choke on it. No worries.

Well, there were big worries apparently. Some folks are real sticklers sometimes. I usually like to refer to them as "Suckjob Fartfaces".

So we got bumped, not a huge deal. We asked to speak to our doctor when he had a minute so that we could explain that there was REALLY no danger, and we waited. And we got bumped again, for the gal getting a hysterectomy. Nothing to that one, there's no babies even in there! "44 minute op", we were told.

SIX HOURS LATER and we're finally told that there were "complications" in the previous surgery and everything was bumped for the day. Wife started feeling hopeless and I was actually feeling boredom which, if you know me, is a real sign of trouble. It's lucky it almost NEVER happens, because I get up to things.

First, I got up to taking pics:

Then wife got bored as well:

There are more. I'm not posting them because you don't really need to see those big red wee/blood catcher thignos taken from an upside-down angle any more than you need to see an empty hospital corridor.

I snuck off to go to the gift shop in search of something more than just the crap magazine by wife's feet and came back with a surprise.

When you squeeze his left foot, he laughs uncontrollably until you're uncomfortable enough to leave the room. Like me when I'm at dinner at my mother-in-law's after I've told a fart joke.

I also rocked simply because I can. I mean, when you're stuck in a hospital bed with your hugely pregnant wife, she can't eat and hasn't since the night before and it's 2 PM the next day, and your ass feels like it knows those vinyl chairs in the Biblical Sense, what are you gonna do?

That's right.

Then it was GO TIME. Just like that, they came in, wheeled us away, and we were In Action.

Check this: Exact same spot, 4 and a bit years ago.

Same outfit. Same spot. Same pose. Same jackass about to be a daddy again.

Literally within 13 seconds they had him out and on her chest. Uncleaned, unfussed-with, unkempt and perfectly PERFECT. That moment will continue to stand out in our memories.

They didn't need to smack his ass as he did start crying on his own, but by the time he started getting a head of steam up, they lay him on Jo's chest and it was like MAGIC. He settled and breathed deeply of her scent and was the happiest boy in the Universe. So happy and content, in fact, that we actually had to check on him to make sure he was alright.

Of course, he was alright, and that continues to be his favouritest place ever. Doesn't matter what's up, his head on her chest solves everything.

By the time I got a hold of him, he was getting swaddled to keep him warm, but as per our request he was still covered in the waxgook. His swollen little eyes were almost glued shut with the waxgook, and I whispered sweetly to his little face. Jo said something, so I spoke up in my normal voice (which was probably quite boomy in the newborn's face) and he started.

But he didn't start from fright, it was like he'd been reminded of something. He struggled and wiggled his little head (as he's doing now at the very moment I'm typing this) and forced those gooky little eyes open. It was as if he said, "HEY! I know that voice! You're the guy that talked to me all those months!"

The very first thing my son ever laid eyes on was me.

Pretty cool.

******

There were some issues with the giant metal thing they poke in your spine, so we had plenty of time to meet our "new" anesthetist (our original was there so long that he was off shift). He was a nice-looking German/Filipino guy named "Andreas" who looked 8 years younger than me yet was about 8 years older.

It was only later, almost a day later, when we were still completely flummoxed as to what to name this little bundle of Amazing when wife almost-kind-of-jokingly suggested "Andreas", though she followed it with, "the more common form would be 'Andrew'". I was interested, but not terribly moved, as I'd spent the entire drive to the hospital with "Levi" in my head.

Then she said, "You can call him 'Drew'" and that did it for me. Andrew James Exley gets to be "Drew" or "AJ" or "DJ" or any other variation of coolitudinosity.

Hours old and sleeping happily on mummy. Hairy and still a bit waxygook gross, we couldn't marvel enough at how perfect he was.

I tried to steal the hospital outfit thingie, but after he peed on me I found I didn't want it any more.

That is one good-lookin' boy.

See? Shirtless. Because it got peed on. Turns out that if you button up their li'l nappy and don't point his doodle DOWN, then it shoots wee out the sides. Plus, it's a pretty big doodle *coughlikehisdaddycough* and has some reach.

Auntie Roni actually looked at her child as she requested to hold the baby and said, "Yes, certainly you can hold him, except that my arms don't appear to be letting him go. I want you to hold him, but my arms say different, so too bad!"

First drive home. The sunlight continues to highlight his fairer aspects.

He has a comfy arm, and he uses it quite prolificly to sleep on daddy (no boobs, you see).

Uncle Sam came by after work to have a look at him and poke him in a doctorly way. I think he likes him.

Wrinkly and sleepy and a bit angry at not being fed, but none o fthese things bother Jade when she's busy telling you about Polly and Tim, twin fairies that live in her hands.

Pretty perfect moment.

About JuddHole

This blog was the one that changed everything in my life, so it stands to reason that it continue to do so. I hope it starts with my underwear.