Vol. 16 - Opening Ceremonies

On pageantry, new life, expectations, and slapshots.

Dear reader,

I wanted to spend this week writing about how both of our kids had Covid and how we’ve been shut in at home with them since last Monday and how it’s been one of the most difficult stretches of my entire life and how every single day was an unceasing marathon from five in the morning until nine at night. But I’m just entirely too fucking exhausted.

So here’s an excerpt from a little something I wrote in the day’s following my son’s birth, when I was somehow less tired than I am now, fitting as we’re on the eve of this year’s Winter Olympic Games.

Enjoy.

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Emily was propped up on the examination table in a small, windowless room. I was seated at her side, rummaging through the snack bag we had packed before heading to the hospital.

“Stop it,” she said with a quiet laugh.

“What?” I said, my mouth full with mini pretzels, cashews, and raisins.

“You’re getting trail mix on the floor.”

“Yeah. But I’m cleaning it up,” I said, handing her a plastic container full of strawberries which she politely declined.

The doctor returned with the nurse in tow, ready to examine my wife, to see whether the discharge was in fact a water break or something more mundane.

He took a swab of Emily’s crotch and handed it to the nurse. They spoke amongst themselves for a few moments before turning back to us.

“So, there’s nothing here that is super indicative of anything,” the doctor said, “And your physical examination feels normal. I’m going to wait a few minutes and try again. If the results are the same, we’ll just send you home and have you come back this evening.”

With that, he and the nurse left the room.

Twenty minutes later, they returned to do what appeared to be the exact same test.

As they stretched pairs of purple exam gloves over their hands and prepared to administer the test again, they were interrupted by a stern call on the intercom system.

“Emily, I’m very sorry,” the doctor said. “I have to go deliver a baby. As soon as I’m done, I’ll be back and we’ll do this test again.”

An hour passed before the doctor returned, apologizing for rushing out earlier.

“It’s fine,” I said. “We aren’t going anywhere. You want some strawberries?”

“No thanks,” the doctor replied, unsure if I was serious.

He cleaned his hands, put on gloves and swabbed Emily again. This time his face lit up.

“Well, it’s a good thing we didn’t send you home,” he said.

“Yeah?” said Emily.

“Yep. This baby is on his way. Now, he’s a long way off and you haven’t really even begun much dilation yet. But we’re going to transfer you to your room for the delivery.”

“It’s a good one,” said the nurse with a smile. “Got a beautiful view of town.”

Within a few hours, Emily’s contractions had come on in earnest.

She bounced on a big gray yoga ball, gripping her lower stomach and breathing deeper than I had ever heard. The pain was extreme and when Emily could talk, we marveled at the strength of women who birth without any painkilling drugs, as my mother did. Twice.

The sun set outside of our wall-length window and the lights of Chapel Hill began to flicker below us.

“Turn something on the television,” Emily said, as she bounced on the big grey yoga ball, wincing through contractions. “I need to be distracted.”

“Oh! The opening ceremonies are on,” I said, figuring our sequester would be as good a time as any to watch the ridiculous pageantry of an Olympic opening ceremony for the first time.

“Whatever,” Emily said, wincing in pain. “Just put something on.”

****

The only way the Winter Olympics will matter in any real sense to me going forward is the way in which they relate to you, kid.

I think how those games will be markers of your life, how every four years, as the opening ceremonies commence, your mom and I will recount the night you were born, about the terrible food court egg rolls I devoured and the big grey yoga ball on which she bounced.

I think I’ll always remember how, during your first few weeks, we watched the Olympics together, mom and dad exhausted on the couch, baby boy sleeping silent and content on our chests at all hours of the day and night.

I think of the near and further future.

You are four and I am explaining what exactly a luge is as we sip hot chocolate under our fuzzy Mets blanket while mom putters away in the kitchen, as cooking for us makes her most happy.

You are eight and have been to a few mountains, ski trips with mom and dad. You’ve taken some thumpers and gotten back up, ready to tame the wild hill. You learn how to fall, how to take a mouthful of snow without giving up. You learn resilience.

You are twelve and skating circles around your creaky old man, with a preternatural sense for puckhandling and a developing slapshot. I insist on telling you stories of the pond hockey I used to play when I was your age, but you don’t care. You just smile and nod at the story I’ve told you a thousand times before.

You are sixteen and you’re hitting the massive halfpipe, much to your nervous parents’ dismay. Your confidence is higher than it will ever be. You are invincible.

You are twenty. You’re a man now and are beginning to create your own life.

Maybe you’re off at college. Maybe you’re across the street at UNC. But we’ll talk on the phone while the Olympics play on the television and I’ll remind you once again about the night you made us a family. You just smile and nod at the story I’ve told you a thousand times before.

Maybe you’ll be a hockey player or a luger or a snowboard halfpiper. Maybe you’ll be none of those things.

And whether those years between now and then culminate in Olympic glory or not doesn’t matter to me. All that matters is that you’re safe, healthy, happy, and confident. There are far too many variables to make any sort of a prediction as to where your life might lead.

The only given is that by then, we’ll be done changing diapers.