WHITE OUT
I’m in the shower. My ears are filled with soap and water. The radio in the bathroom is blaring. Alternative rock and cascading water bounce off the ceramic tile like cannon fire inside of a thimble.
Through the fray, I hear my wife. “AC come quickly!” It’s not a frantic voice, but there is a hint of excitement.
Like a Miami Beach lady of leisure at the salon, she “dolled” herself upwith “White Out”, the new and improved Liquid Paper which bodly pledgesright on the label “not to deplete the ozone layer”
Kenzie’s nails are small, and her aim bad. It looked like a jet-plane ofvanilla ice cream crash landed on her extremities. There was but one survivor, the thumb of her left hand, which was pink and lovely and free of any chemical coating. The lone thumb was like Judas at the last supper, just hanging around, trying not to look guilty, but all the while knowing that it had a “hand” in the debauchery.
Things like this don’t happen to other Americans I said to myself. I grabbed my camcorder to document the moment. As I began taping, my towel fell to the carpet, as Dana began laughing so hard, I thought she was about to wet the bed.
As I narrated the lunacy, I told Dana that we should sell these crazy Kenzie moments to Fox TV. “AMERICA’S GREATEST POLICECHASES” followed by another edition of “WHEN CHILDREN GO BERSERK!”
In case you’re wondering, Dana says that White Out is a tough wash. In fact,we may have to wait for epidermal erosion before her digits and limbs arepink again.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
A PREGNANT COLUMBUS
As the weeks melt into months, and months dissolve into trimesters, theincubation portal grows in a magnificent glow of motherhood. Inside thewomb, the bubbling cauldron of life pulsates, as time and evolution sprinklein the ingredients necessary for this human brew of existence.
That’s right, I’ve gone and done it again. After all the craziness I’ve all ready shared with you, I went and “knocked” up my wife again. What a blessing!
While motherhood is joyful and thoughts of a new baby resoundinglywondrous, I’m reminded that pregnancy does have its draw backs.
Being a father, means I am partially responsible for the manifestations ofgrowth and unyielding change that are swirling through my wife’s body. Ican see the cyclical nuances of mother hood as they unravel each passingday, but I cannot personally experience these changes, and thus cannot fullyappreciate the majesty of the transformation.
As I write to you about pregnancy, I feel a twinge of inadequacy, ay-chromosome induced inability to fully communicate the wonderment ofgestation. The problem is simple; I’m a man.
I’m like a sun drenched Columbus sitting on the antiquated docks of ancientEurope, watching as the tallest masts of the sailing armada disappear overthe horizon. From the distant safety of the shore, Columbus understandsbeyond reason that the edge of the Earth can never be found. But his theory,however sound, is rejected as sacrilegious fire water, consumed by a thirsty populous of court jesters and clergyman drunk on the table scraps of ignorance.
Like the miracle of birth, there’s a vast difference between sedentaryreflection from the docks, and the personal epiphany of grabbing thatplacenta filled wheel and setting a course into the hissing orange sunset of another passing day. When it comes to this third baby, I am the Columbus ofthe docks, scribbling and writing interminable thoughts from a passive thirdperson experience. Meanwhile; Dana is a neoteric Columbus. Her mast is ashiny set of stirrups, her sail a maternity gown with hospital logos, her compass isthe guiding hand of God.
Like Columbus, Dana is the navigator of motherhood, charting a coursethrough the murky uncertainty of birth. She is a tireless explorer who sails acrossthe frothing seas of pregnancy, wiping salty ocean spray from her face andstaying the course of slow incubation, even on days when the end of theworld and reverse peristalsis surely seem to loom over the next sunrise.
And through it all, her crew of one sails swimmingly along with theequanimity of warm milk. Unlike Columbus’ crew, there’s not a rebelliousor frightened sailor in site. Not a rum guzzler in the bunch. Not a razorstubbled, peg-legged, loose toothed sea-dog to be found. No, baby-Cordan ishis own crew of one, floating in his own universe, charting a course offuture destiny. Only he knows for certain where he’s going, and how long itwill take him to get there.
Enjoy your children. They grow up before your eyes and then they’re gone. Cherish these times.
Peace!