Soft Spot

Some more thoughts from the book proposal…

So I thought maybe we could just drag out this hospital
thing awhile. Like maybe eighteen years. Think about it…they have food, they
have TV, they have people that are nice who help with things, and most
importantly the place is fat with people who really actually know stuff about
babies.

Stuff  like “which end
is up,” and what kinds of screams are ok and which kind of screams are not ok
and most importantly of all they know why you must always and forever PROTECT
THE SOFT SPOT ON THE TOP OF THE BABY’S HEAD LIKE IT IS FOUNT OF ALL THAT IS
TRUE AND PURE AND HOLY. I didn’t even know that there was a soft spot, so you
can see how important these people were to me.

But much to my chagrin, the hospital people were not to keen
on my extended-stay plan. They had a plan too. Which, simply stated, was “you
are going home tomorrow.”

             So much for my thought about the
hospital being a place full of people that are really nice who help with
things.

With almost Twilight Zone timing, just as I had finished the
last trip to the car, the previously helpful nurse appeared at the door and said,
(like we were checking out at Wal-Mart) 
“Here you are, one beautiful daughter. 
Keep her wrapped tightly so she’ll think she is still in the mother’s
womb. Be sure you don’t drop her and be especially careful not to touch the
little soft spot on top of her head.”

 Again
with the soft spot? I mean really, we live in

America

. Surely, we could find  someone with a background in manufacturing or
engineering or logistics to address this
national soft spot issue.

The nurse smiled,
wished us luck, said, “She’s beautiful,” smiled again and nodded towards the
door. “You can go now.”

Gulp.

 

And with a sense of “I hope my wife knows what to do with
this sweet-smelling bundle of humanity cause I sure don’t” we were off.

 No
wonder our society is in such trouble.  Leaving a hospital with a baby is easier than renting a video. No background check, no
psychiatric eval, no deposit required.
Just a happy smile, a gentle push out the door, and a thousand  warnings
about the soft spot.

quick,
think of something…anything…maybe if we keep asking questions she won’t make us
leave and go out into that harsh, cruel world where they don’t bring you popsicles whenever you push a button….uhmm…

“Now what
happens if we drop her pacifier on the ground?” I asked.

“You may want to wipe it off,” she
said, mostly kindly.

“Wipe what off? The baby or the
pacifier.”

“I’ll let you decide that.”

“Well then, how long?” I said.

“I’m sorry I’m not following you.
How long what?” she replied, a bit less kindly this time.

“How long should I wipe it off?” I
offered, insistently.

”Are we back to the baby or the pacifier question?”

“No, just the pacifier,” I
said.  “How long should I wipe it off?
Are there government regulations for things like this? You know put together by
some sort of sub-committee or parental oversight watchdog group or something
like that?”

"No, just long enough to get it
clean.”

 “Oh, thanks. That helps.”

 Again, another smirky-faced nod
towards the door. So with baby-daughter in hand, a fistful of papers, and a bag
full of left over hospital stuff we were (sadly) out the door.

Important
note to all the cheap Dads. I have learned that hospital policy is if "you open it, you keep it,” so you should “accidentally” take
a bag of diapers to the car in
one of your first 12 trips to load all the stuff.  Then, just before your final trip with the baby, you could
innocently ask the nurse for a brand new jumbo ultra
size bag.

“You
know” you say to the nurse, “for the 15 minute ride home…just in case.”

 

So that was it. Nine months of
waiting. Weeks of anticipation. Hours of labor, and then just seconds of
instructions before we head off into the great unknown.

             And then
the crying began. Not the baby’s, she was great. Not TheBeautiful Bride’s
because she was composed.

             I was the
one crying because I was not ready for any of this.

Advertisements

Posted on March 17, 2009, in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: