IT WAS SLIGHTLY EASIER this time. Maybe because we were an ocean away from the old chaos and stress.
When the big day came we were both surer, calmer—steadier. What bliss, we said, not having to worry about timing, protocols, journalists at the front gate.
We drove calmly, sanely to the hospital, where our bodyguards once again fed us. This time they brought burgers and fries from In-N-Out. And fajitas from a local Mexican restaurant for Meg. We ate and ate and then did the Baby Mama dance around the hospital room.
Nothing but joy and love in that room.
Still, after many hours Meg asked the doctor: When? Soon. We’re close.
This time I didn’t touch the laughing gas. (Because there was none.) I was fully present. I was with Meg through every push.
When the doctor said it was a matter of minutes, I told Meg that I wanted mine to be the first face our little girl saw.
We knew we were having a daughter. Meg nodded, squeezed my hand.
I went and stood beside the doctor. We both crouched. As if about to pray. The doctor called out: The head is crowning.
Crowning, I thought. Incredible.
The skin was blue. I worried the baby wasn’t getting enough air. Is she choking? I looked at Meg. One more push, my love! We’re so close.
Here, here, here, the doctor said, guiding my hands, right here.
A scream, then a moment of pure liquid silence. It wasn’t, as sometimes happens, that past and future were suddenly one. It was that the past didn’t matter, and the future didn’t exist. There was only this intense present, and then the doctor turned to me and shouted: Now!
I slid my hands under the tiny back and neck. Gently, but firmly, as I’d seen in films, I pulled our precious daughter from that world into this, and cradled her just a moment, trying to smile at her, to see her, but honestly, I couldn’t see anything. I wanted to say: Hello. I wanted to say: Where have you come from? I wanted to say: Is it better there? Is it peaceful? Are you frightened?
Don’t be, don’t be, all will be well.
I’ll keep you safe.
I surrendered her to Meg. Skin to skin, the nurse said.
Later, after we’d brought her home, after we’d settled into all the new rhythms of a family of four, Meg and I were skin to skin and she said: I’ve never been more in love with you than in that moment.
Really?
Really.
She jotted some thoughts in a kind of journal. Which she shared. I read them as a love poem.
I read them as a testament, a renewal of our vows.
I read them as a citation, a remembrance, a proclamation. I read them as a decree.
She said: That was everything.
She said: That is a man.
My love. She said: That is not a Spare.
