Read Online Babyhood (9780062098788) by Paul Reiser - Free Book Online Page A

same. And I wasn’t sure how much I wanted that. So my brain convinced me that if I slowed down and dragged everything out, I could postpone the next phase of my life. As it turns out, apparently you can’t.
    We got into the car, and I tried desperately to project an air of competence and authority.
    â€œI’ll drive,” I said with great calm and magnanimity.
    â€œOkay,” she said.
    Like she was actually thinking of driving.
    Â Â Â Â 
    I remember thinking that if ever I was legally allowed to drive too fast, it was now. Because even if we got stopped by a cop, I could say, “But, Officer, my wife’s having a baby.”
    And then, if he did his part right, he’d push up the brim of his hat like cops did in the movies and say, “Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place? Follow me!”
    And then we’d get that really cool police escort, with sirens and everything.
    I also remember it was really quiet in the car. All I heard was the thumping of my heart and that faint, grinding sound you sometimes hear when everything in the entire universe spins horribly out of control.
    I looked over at my wife, who was holding her belly, her eyes closed. I squeezed her hand. She weakly attempted the beginning part of a smile, and then gave up.
    I wanted to say something, but I didn’t know what. I suspected that asking “You okay?” every eight seconds wasn’t really helping.
    When we stopped for a light, I looked at the guy next to us. I remember thinking how simple his life seemed. Wherever he was driving, I was willing to bet it didn’t matter to him as much as our drive mattered to us.
    I noticed his car. Then I’m pretty sure I said, “I was talking to Barry today, and they really love their Camry. They did go with the four-door.”
    My Beloved opened her eyes and turned her head ever so slightly toward me. Her pained expression told me to go with my first instinct.
    â€œYou okay?”
    She nodded yes, and I drove us to the hospital.
    Â Â Â Â 
    T he main difference between a hospital admission area and the Department of Motor Vehicles is that the DMV really doesn’t care. Hospitals care, but they still make you fill out a clipboard-full of forms and “wait over there.”
    While the woman that I loved sat caressing the stomach that we both loved, I fumbled through my wallet, produced cards and IDs, and listed as many phone numbers and next of kins as my frazzled brain would offer up.
    A steady stream of both green- and white-clothed hospital employees kept whizzing past us on their way to taking care of someone not us, and I remember feeling like immigrants must feel trying to get a cab from the airport.
    â€œWill somebody just help us, please ?”
    Whenever anyone did talk to us, even if it was just to give us a map of fire exits and a pamphlet on the history of the hospital, I made a special effort to observe the name on their name tag and use it pointedly in a complete sentence.
    â€œThank you, Dorothy. We really appreciate that, Dorothy. ”
    â€œHow we doing on that room, Darryl ? We’ll be over here, Darryl. Honey? Darryl ’s going to check on the room for us.”
    I wanted to forge a bond with them not just because I thought it would make us stand out and get better service, but also because I was naive enough to think this was a special night for them , too, and that we would all correspond regularly for years to come.
    â€œHey, Dorothy, remember when Darryl tried to give an I.V. and he couldn’t find a vein? That was something, huh?”
    Of course, as soon as any of them took a coffee break and someone new came on duty, they became my new best friend.
    â€œWhat is your name? Rosalinda? That’s a very beautiful name . . . Listen, Rosalinda . . . I was wondering if you could help us . . .”
    Once in a while I sucked up to people who didn’t even work there.