They were planning a home birth, which bothered me from the get-go. I don't know that I'm opposed to home birth, per se. But I did not like the idea of my boy being in the house where a baby was being born without benefit of anesthetic or modern hospital equipment and fully trained medical staff (yes, I know midwives are very capable, yes, women have been having babies for thousands of years. But they and the babies have also been dying in labor for thousands of years, so that argument doesn't wash with me). Grayson was all excited about the prospect of being present when his baby brother entered the world, but he has no idea what's involved. It's all fun and games until the screaming starts.
I hoped that since he is only with his dad two weekends out of every month, chances were that I would get lucky and the baby would arrive when he wasn't there. No such luck. He was there, alright, from 3 a.m. contractions to 3 p.m. rush to the hospital to access...oh, what was it I was talking about? That's right, modern hospital equipment, anesthesia, and a professionally trained medical staff. She delivered by C-section some hours later, but by that time my parents had come to collect my son and keep him with them until it was all over, for which I am unbelievably grateful.
However, the process was traumatic. Not so much for him, but for me. For 12 hours after they left for the hospital, I heard nothing. By 10:30 the next morning, I feared the worst and was trying to imagine how I would deal with breaking bad news to my boy. I was calling every phone number I could think of, including the girlfriend's mother, leaving messages begging for information.
Of course, I realize that as the ex-wife, I'm low on the notification list, if I'm on it at all, which probably I'm not. But Grayson hadn't heard anything, either, and though he seemed unfazed by this, he didn't know all the potential ramifications. (It also turned out that he had arranged it with his dad that if the baby was born after, say, ten p.m., said dad would not call immediately, but would wait until the morning to give G the news. This bit they both failed, however, to impart to me or my family.)
The upshot is that my son now has a baby (half) brother named Truman. G's thrilled beyond words. And I'm happy for him. He's wanted a baby brother since he was about five, and has always loved babies. He's of the perfect age to adore this child without any cause for jealousy or annoyance. And this Truman kid just hit the jackpot of big brothers, though he doesn't know that yet.
What's weird about it, though, is that the baby is such a big deal in Grayson's life, but so separate from mine. So far, far away from me. His existence is conversation with Grayson, photographs. Barely the brush of a butterfly's wing on my life. And yet... so weighty.
Never before have I been so separate from my son. Always we have shared all the major parts of his life almost completely. This, though, is utterly apart from our life together, and something I can't and, frankly, don't want to share, however ignoble or petty that may sound.
In truth, the baby's been the catalyst for all kinds of painful and disturbing feelings regarding my own chances of ever conceiving another child (slim to none) and my own track record in providing a baby brother or sister for my son (0 for 1). And, regardless of whether or not I actually would like to have a second baby at this juncture in my life (I'm sure I don't, as the child would be only four when I turned fifty, and still under drinking age when I hit retirement)... it does cause a certain sense of loss and failure. A sense of chasing death into middle age. Intimations, as Mark Rothko said, of mortality.
Normally I don't feel old. I joke about it, but I don't really feel it. Usually I feel as if I'm stuck just under some sort of glass ceiling of adulthood, as if I never quite graduated to Grown Up. This baby, however, ambushed me with the realization that I likely am too old for a baby, and that in truth, I probably don't even want one. Not really. What I want for my life is to get on to doing the next thing, not to go back and do the same thing over again.
I'm fairly thick. No "personal growth" lesson I ever learn seems to come easily. So I had a pretty rough weekend, with all of this washing over me and forcing me to sink or swim in my own anger and bitterness, to wrestle my inner pity-party into submission long enough to think and observe.
It has been a teachable moment. That much is certain. I'm not sure yet what the lesson is. But it certainly has my attention.
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