pff, pff, pff
you made it
pff, pff, pff.
Run check on Grandpa
pff, pff, pff
see if he’ll be okay with Mrs. Cobber
pff, pff, pff.
Grandpa is sitting in his blue chair
eyeing Mrs. Cobber warily
as she pulls up a chair across from him.
Annie, who is this woman?
he asks me.
Grandpa, you know her—
that’s Mrs. Cobber
and she’s going to stay with you
while I go with Mom—
she’s having the baby!
A hint of recognition in Grandpa’s eyes.
Yes, he says to Mrs. Cobber
we’re having a baby today!
Mrs. Cobber pulls a deck of cards
from her pocket.
Do you like cards?
she asks Grandpa.
Yes, he says, I do
and then he turns to me
and says
too loudly
Tell her not to talk too much, okay?
Mrs. Cobber smiles.
Don’t you worry
she says.
I am a woman of few words.
Okay, then
Grandpa says
and I leave them there
and race downstairs
and Mom is making her way
to the front door
pff, pff, pff.
Dad and I help her down the steps
and off we go
and my eyes are glued to my mother
whose eyes are closed
and my dad is trying to drive
while glancing from the road to my mother
back and forth
and it’s all happening too fast
and I can’t think
and I’m excited
and I’m terrified.
And what about Max?
Is he in his black mood
throwing his shoes in the river?
LABOR
The manuals have taught me
that it can take a long, long time
for a baby to be born
and so we have brought
books and magazines and playing cards
and enough food for ten people
but when the midwife examines my mother
she says
Hmm. You’re pretty far along already.
My mom attempts a weak smile.
The midwife ushers her straight to
the whirlpool tub.
I hear her get in and sigh heavily.
Dad is with her.
I look around the Colonial room:
at the bed with its blue sheets
the blue-curtained windows
the soft lighting
and I feel the quietness of the room
the readiness for the baby.
I hear Dad saying:
Breathe in, breathe out
relax your brow
breathe in, breathe out.
I sit on the blue bed
surprised at how I feel
as if I am immersed in the water, too
and there is a rhythm to living and breathing
and birthing a baby
and one moment I feel alone
and apart
no longer my mother’s only child
no longer a center of her world
and the next moment I feel
completely bound to my mother
as if I am her
or she is me
and I feel as if I will bawl like a baby.
Breathe in, breathe out
relax your brow.
I think of all the mothers
all over the world
and all the babies
and I was one of those babies
and this is my mother
and maybe this will be me one day
breathing in, breathing out.
PUSHING
Labor is the right word:
it is work, hard work
for the mother’s body
but the whirlpool tub has helped
and when Mom is resettled in the bed
the midwife says
Okay, now we push.
My mother seems to be in a trance
somewhere else
and we have to call to her
bring her back from far away
so that she can push, pause, push.
Dad on the other.
Mom is gripping our hands22
but I am not really sure
that she knows we are there
so deep in her trance is she.
When the midwife announces
that she sees the baby’s head
my father and I stare at each other
The head! The head of the baby!
This seems astounding
even though it is what we all have been
preparing for.
An assistant enters and checks
the baby’s heart rate
whispers to the midwife
and there is new urgency now
as the midwife says
I want you to push NOW
I want you to push very strongly NOW
We have to get this baby out NOW!
And I feel everything crumbling
so fragile and tentative and precarious
but we must give calm to my mother
and so we mop her brow
and grip her hands and tell her
she is doing great
and the baby is coming
and Push, push NOW!
The midwife’s face is sober, serious
her hands working rapidly
her voice tight, saying
something about the shoulder
and something about pushing
but my mother seems not to hear
and we have to speak loudly to her
Push, push NOW!
The baby comes out
just like that
in a sudden rush
into the midwife’s gloved hands
and the next instant
the baby is lying there
on the blue sheet
and the baby is not moving.
ETERNITY
My father and I stare at the baby
grayish and motionless.
We avert our eyes, turn to my mother
whose face is full of expectancy.
The baby’s out! I say
trying to sound more hopeful than I feel.
I feel as if I have to will the baby to live:
live, live, live
breathe, breathe, breathe.
The midwife and the assistant
work rapidly
clearing the baby’s nose and mouth
and I am thinking
How can the baby not be alive
when it was moving
and its heart was beating
just minutes ago?
And how can all of this—
all the morning sickness and the backaches
and the growing belly
and the dreaming
and the labor
and the pushing—
how could it NOT all end with a
living, breathing baby?
How could we bear it?
The midwife says
Just a couple puffs of oxygen
is all we need.
Her voice sounds strained.
I see the oxygen tube
hear a soft noise
a pfft, pfft
as the air goes into the baby
and maybe it has only been a minute
since the baby came out
but it seems as if it has been an eternity
as if it has been hours and a lifetime.
I turn to my mother
not wanting to betray my fear
but needing to see her face
and as I do so
we all hear
Wahh, wahh
and there is the baby
squirming
and crying
and breathing
and the relief rustles
through the room—
you can see it, feel it, hear it.
Everyone bursts into tears
mother, father, me, midwife
and it is only then that my father and I
look again at the baby
to see whether it is a boy or a girl
and my father proudly announces to my mother
that they have a son
and I have a brother.
The midwife lifts the baby to my mother’s chest
and my mother says
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh
and she is laughing and crying
and I cannot take my eyes off the baby
whose own eyes are open
and who gazes directly into my mother’s eyes.
The baby has perfect hands and feet and
fingers and toes and ears
and eyes and nose
(and it is a human baby
which is a great relief)
and I know that everyone else says this
but I don’t know how else to say it:
it is a miracle—
a marvel—
an astonishing
astounding
fabulous
incredible
phenomenal
prodigious
stupendous
wondrous
miracle.
WATCHING
I phone Grandpa and tell him the news.
He cries a little
and then he says
Everyone okay? Your mom? The baby?
Your dad? You?
Yes, yes, yes, we’re all okay.
It is the middle of the dark night
and Mom has nursed the baby
and now she and my dad are asleep
on the bed
and I am sitting in the overstuffed chair
in the calm blue room
holding my new brother.
All I can do is stare at him
as he sleeps.
I stare hard and listen
to be sure he is breathing
and I touch his small fingers
so perfect and long
and I touch his cheek so warm so soft
and I whisper to him:
I tell him he is a miracle
and that he is perfect in every way
and that we will love him and take care of him
always.
The midwife says that after my mom
gets a good sleep
and eats a good meal
we can all go home.
This is frightening
because it seems too soon
and the baby seems so fragile
and what if we don’t know what to do
and what if there is an emergency?
What if he stops breathing
and needs more puffs of air?
INFINITELY JOEY
I do not know how babies—
so small, so fragile—
ever grow up—
how their hearts can beat strongly enough
and how they continue to breathe
and how they do not perish
from the endless dangers
all around:
what if someone drops him?
what if he doesn’t eat?
what if he gets sick?
Our baby relies on us for everything:
warmth and food and clothing
protection and safety
and love.
He needs us to love him
and it makes me worry
about all the babies in the world
who might not be warm or fed
or protected or loved.
He seems infinitely delicate
and yet infinitely whole
already a person.
I stare at him for hours
wondering who he is
and what he will look like
as he grows
and what he will think and do.
The answers seem all bound up
in the small bundle of this baby
answers already there
waiting to unfurl
like a bud on a tree.
I wish that every baby everywhere
could land in a family
that wanted that baby
as much as we want ours.
I do not know how I—
once a baby this small—
became me
nor how my mother or father
or grandfather or Max
all once so small and fragile
became who they are
nor if—
even when we were all alien babies—
if we already were
so much of who we are.
The baby will not remember
that we change his diapers
a thousand, thousand times
nor that we sing to him
and hold him
and bathe him
and mop his blurps
just as I do not remember
my parents and my grandparents
doing these many small things for me.
This bundle is our baby
my brother.
This is Joey.
SLEEPING
Grandpa is lying on his bed
with the baby asleep on his chest
the two of them curled together
peacefully.
I lie beside them
sneaking one arm over them
making sure they are both breathing
thump-THUMP, thump-THUMP
and I feel infinitely happy
that this miracle baby
has come to us
and infinitely
infinitely
infinitely
sad
that my grandpa
does not have a whole
long
life
ahead
of
him.
A SECRET
I am running
down the path
up the hill.
Hey, Annie-banany! How’s that baby?
Fine, Mrs. Cobber-obber! Perfect!
It feels so good to run
to fill up with air
where everything looks green and lush
everything in harmony.
Hey, Annie—
Max’s voice is sour
not in harmony.
Hey, Max—
He runs with his head down
not speaking
sullen
tense.
I can’t help myself:
We have a new baby!
It’s a boy and his name is Joseph—Joey—
after my grandpa—
and he is beautiful and—
That’s great, just great
Max mutters
interrupting me
chopping off my words
letting them fall onto the path
like dead leaves.
I take it you didn’t see the race?
he asks.
I try to tell him that I was there
but was called away by Mrs. Cobber
because the baby was coming,
but he chops my words again:
Well, I didn’t win.
He says it roughly
accusingly
as if it was my fault.
We run past the birches23
l-e-a-p over the creek
past the barn24
round the pasture.
We reach the bench
and stretch and flop
and I check the soles of my feet
searching for words
but there is still no help on my feet
and finally I say
Did you feel bad?
His answer is a hiss:
Yessss!
Was I supposed to feel good?
It was only one race—
I try, but he chop-chops my words.
I had to win that race.
I had to.
I don’t ask why.
We start back down the path
retracing our steps
black black black
Max-mood all around us
but when we reach the place
where we normally part
I grab his arm
and ask him to come with me.
He tries to pull away.
You want me to see the baby,
don’t you?
I don’t want to see the—
But I chop his words
chop-chop:
Max, you are coming with me.
This will only take five minutes
and you are not going to argue with me.
I pull him along
until I feel him give in
and when we reach our house
I tug him inside and upstairs
where Mom is leaning in the doorway
of Grandpa’s room
smiling at Grandpa
sitting in his chair
with the baby curled against his chest.
Grandpa is humming a little melody
to the baby
and when he sees us
he pulls the baby a little closer
to him.
It’s okay, Grandpa, this is Max.