Abraham,
We left around 7:00 in the evening to bring you to Carmen's. I was loaded up with bags, somewhat haphazardly packed by Momma between contractions. This was to be your first ever overnight and she was concerned that you would be homesick without your routines, your usual stuff. “Hurry back,” she said, as I walked out the door.
I didn't linger at Carmen's. You were ready for me to go back home; you were in a hurry to take her dogs for a walk and explore her house. As I drove back, I called Fred to announce my absence at work for the next day. “It's on, Kristin's in labor.” I expected a long evening.
When I pulled back into the driveway the midwife's truck was parked close to the house. According to my phone, I got home at 7:20. I wandered into the house, expecting to see Momma and the midwife sorting the bags and bags of compresses, sheets and cottons we had prepared for this coming. The house was surprisingly quiet and I wandered around until I found them in the bedroom, in a pose I remember from before, your mother like a tiger, the air very, very alive.
“Are we that far along?” I asked.
“We are,” the midwife, whose named I later learned was Rhonda, said.
She sent me to her truck for a tackle box of supplies, but told me to wait until this next contraction was over. I never did make it to the truck.
Your brother Alessandro Xavier was born at 7:23 p.m. on the 14th of July 2008, your parent's seventh wedding anniversary. He weighed in at 8 pounds and measured up at 21.25 inches. He has a full head of dark hair and sleeps a lot, between bouts of strong nursing and peering around with his dark gray eyes.
He arrived quickly and full of voice. For an hour afterwards, your Momma quaked with the exertion and the power of it all. We all laid on our bed together. There is a stillness, a quietude in the air immediately after a birth that is unlike any peace I have ever known. Perhaps it is the eye of the storm, when all doubt and fear for your baby's health and the risks of delivery are lifted, before the chaos of discovering the new normal strikes. I remember that stillness well from when you were born. You and I laid on the bed and just stared into each other's eyes.
You came home the next morning and were amazed by Alessandro. “Look at the little baby,” you said one hundred times. You stroked his cheeks, counted his eyes and tweaked his nose. You always wants to hold Allie and still have a bit to learn about how to treat newborns. Allie, to his credit, takes all the inadvertent bumps, bounces and loud noises with great equanimity.
It's a good life.
Pa-
