Father's Day

Last Sunday was Father's Day. Apparently FD was invented a couple of years after Mother's Day, an interesting bit of affirmative gender action at work. In the newspaper, an article stated that today's dads are far more likely to be closely involved in raising their children--they change diapers, push strollers, chauffeur kids around, sing lullabies, and want more time off from work to spend with the family.

This is a great thing, and I like to think that our generation of dads had something to do with moving this whole daddy enterprise forward. Having had the benefit of living with an involved dad, I know that this is no small feat. If you will recall, when we left off, I was returning from the hospital with a third kid, so life with three little boys under the age of four was no picnic, believe me. In fact, it would have been unbearable without the complete involvement of Jack--while he may have had some eccentric notions about things like bacon, he was the most committed of pops. I cannot imagine raising any number of kids on my own--I am gobsmacked by the everyday heroism of single parents everywhere, and worry about the lack of support that they must struggle with on so many fronts.

So I count myself one of the lucky ones--who knows what trouble I would have gotten myself into without Jack's help? As it was, I was usually two hairs away from a complete melt-down. It takes a lot of energy to get through the day with your sanity (not to mention the kids) intact. As the once-domestic-goddess Roseanne declared, "When my husband comes home from work at the end of the day and the kids are still alive, I figure I've done my job!"

The scenario at Chez-us was fairly unchanging--once dinner had been consumed (getting those boys to eat was never a problem--they were remarkably tidy--food spilled meant food not eaten), the dishes done and Tercero plopped into his crib for the night, I would head for the door, announcing that I was going for coffee (to Dee's, or Natalie's, or Allie's, or Claire's, or Barb's) and not to wait up. I needed time away from the house and all that kid energy. Vampires have nothing on children when it comes to sucking up life forces--vampires are only hoovering up blood, after all.

Once I left, Jack would bathe Primero and Segundo, inserting his six-foot-three inch frame into the tub along with the boys and all the toys. He usually fell asleep within minutes until the boys, tired of playing, would wake him up ("Water's cold, dad!"). There is a story about a toy boat, its little plastic chain attached to a large ring, which the boys attempted to latch onto the only thing resembling a pole in the tub, which also happened to be attached to Jack, who woke up to little fingers determinedly attempting to cram the ring onto the moorage post. The story, while true, has assumed apocryphal status in the family--'nuff said.

After the bath, Jack would pop the boys into bed (they shared a room), settle down with them and read a story until he fell asleep, usually within the first three pages. I, returning from getting buzzed on coffee (Natalie's espresso was particularly deadly) would find him unconscious, book open on his chest, while Primero and Segundo, having fallen asleep out of boredom, were draped over him in interesting configurations. This is the picture of an involved dad.

I would wake him up and he'd stagger off to bed. I would stay up reading, jazzed on coffee, fiercely protective of my alone time. Then, morning and its barely-controlled chaos beckoning, I would reluctantly leave the blessed silence of the living room and go to bed myself.

But back to the business of dads--when I think back (as I have been doing a lot of lately--must be age) to all the dads whose kids comprised The Little Moron Club, I see men changing diapers; coaxing goo into baby's mouths; lugging infants and toddlers in arms, on shoulders, in various devices and vehicles; reading bedtime stories, putting band-aids on skinned knees, patiently explaining that cats don't always land on their feet and therefore should not be dropped from heights, and many other tender actions. My mind's eye is filled with pictures of the dads--Rollie, Jack, Duane, Joe and the rest--showing patience, love and tenderness to the kids. Just as The Little Moron Club had a lot of moms, it also had many dads looking out for the various members. And I like to think that the dads were furthering the evolution of fatherhood by their prosaic yet profound interactions with the children. So when I see those Little Morons who are themselves now dads, I see guys who cried when their daughters were born, who go all mushy at the sight of a newborn, who moon over the smell of clean baby, who--like pack-mules--lug all the paraphernalia the modern child seems to require from house to car to park to car to street to car to store to car to house again, if not with complete good cheer, then at least with a minimum of swearing.

This memory business is, of course, fraught with the danger of glossing over the negative. While this is true for most frolics down memory lane, as we tend to remember only the good (who wants to remember the bad?), nevertheless, for the most part, the dads were great. Jack's few lapses from his usual good nature loom so large in the boys' collective consciousness that they have assumed legendary status. Smashing a small chair to show how stupid wrecking toys is (the logic still eludes us), kicking a hole in the wall (which the boys then brought all their friends over to proudly show it off) out of frustration at some other inane act of wanton destruction, losing it over trivial items such as Primero filling the truck's gas tank with gravel (the tamping stick poking out of the tank was a dead giveaway) or Segundo peeling all the bark off a recently-planted willow tree (again, the murder weapon--a butter knife--was left at the scene of the crime) have become the fondly-remembered litany of Dad losing it. Primero especially has a knack for embellishment--every year the stories get more and more lurid. Sometimes strangers new to the stories are alarmed, and eye Jack nervously, ready to call Social Services for his retroactive crimes. However, as we know Primero's proclivities in this area, we remain calm--like fish, the fits grow with the telling.

The dads, as mentioned, were great. They worked, but retained the ability to play--boomers have always been good at playing. But they played with their kids in a way that taught them the value of responsible play, and how essential it is to young and old alike.

Traditions of play took hold--The Great Green Tomato Fight, for instance, instigated by Rollie, went on for some years. As a nod to Dee's dismay at wastage, it quickly morphed into The Great Green ROTTEN Tomato Fight--only those rotting orbs left after the harvest were allowable ammunition. Of course, the decomposing tomatoes added a delicious disgust factor to the enterprise, a wonderful example of necessity becoming the mother of a truly gross (and therefore greatly improved) invention.

Camping was also de rigueur as a pastime. And camping usually meant group camping--it was affordable, and the enticing lakes of northern Saskatchewan were an easy drive away. All manner of kids learned valuable skills on these outings--how to avoid drowning each other, now NOT to open a Swiss Army Knife, how sliding down pine trees in shorts is dangerous, how burning marshmallows flying through the night air are to be dodged at all costs, how fire--while our friend--must be respected, which means not throwing various substances into it to see what will happen.

The dads were also up for rescues of various kinds--driving down to the creek to pick up bikes and kids too tired to pedal home, heading up search parties for yard-runners who'd made a break for the school playground, and of course the always-needed ambulance service to the hospital's emergency room. Sometimes the victims were dads themselves--I recall one particular evening when Duane, side-swiped on his bike by one of The Little Morons who was a bit too exuberant in his recent mastery of "no hands" cycling, came into our kitchen, jacket clutched to a face pumping blood, hollering for Natalie to drive him to the hospital. Because Duane was a farmer who eschewed medical treatment for pretty much everything ("Just slap a band-aid on it--I'll be fine!"), this caught our attention. It must be bad if Duane actually WANTED to go to the hospital. It was--I remember his eyes, enormous with growing shock above the bloody jacket, and his muffled cries of "Natalie! NATALIE!" I believe a broken nose, dislocated jaw, various lacerations and other injuries were involved. Duane, once he was splinted and stitched, dismissed it, maintaining that these things happened--no biggie--he now had a couple of new scars to add to the old ones (see future blog post on "Male Ow-ies and Scar Hierarchies").

The dads, for the most part, did their jobs well. They were good models. And given their increasing eccentricities (see previous blog post "We're All Married to the Same *@#$%&* Guy"), it is inviting to think that perhaps moving male culture forward consumed so much emotional energy that their various dormant weirdnesses finally have a chance to frolic unencumbered. It's an interesting theory that warrants further exploration at some later date. I await input from all interested parties.

In the meantime, let's celebrate dads--after all, a dad is a male who has had the courage to procreate and stick around to help herd the kids to adulthood (and beyond). They're the ultimate cowboys--staying in the saddle until the end, for being a dad (or a mom for that matter) is a never ending story--dads become grand-dads. Hopefully this generation of grampies, grandpas, pader-buzorgs, zeydas, abuelos, nonnos, babus, bobos, papouses (and my personal favourite--"it"--grandpa in ancient Egyptian!) will change a diaper or two--my dad and Jack's dad managed to get through many grandkids without stooping to handling poopy diapers. Sons become dads and dads become grand-dads and, in the deathless words of Father Kurt Vonnegut, so it goes, so it goes.

I, however, like to think that this circle is really a spiral. Circles don't really go anywhere--they wind up where they started. If the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again even though it doesn't really work, then let us move away from the circle model of parental development into the spiral, for the spiral moves. It may be up (hopefully) or down (yikes!), but it moves. The spiral is also the pattern of the universe. Galaxies are spirals. The DNA's double-helix is a tandem spiral. Some of the oldest carvings on the planet are spirals cut into rock. The earth's coriolis effect which spins off hurricanes and tornados and sends water down drains (counter-clockwise if you're Australian!) partakes of the spiral. So let us embrace all the dads who, in their efforts to tenderly herd the kids into a better world, are spiraling upwards and outwards, moving the children towards new ways of seeing and being.

Thanks, dads. You know who you are.

We're All Married To The Same *#$%&!* Guy

Last weekend I was visiting an old friend in Vancouver. As we sat up late into the night, gabbing and drinking tea, we exchanged news about our ever-advancing adventures as halves of long-married couples. Years ago, some members of the old Herbert gang gathered for a wee reunion--this was after most of us had moved away. Someone observed that from among the friends her kids hung out with, most had divorced parents. We looked around the circle--no one was divorced (yet). It made us reflect. It still does for me. Not that I think we had anything necessarily stellar to work with. Perhaps we were just lucky, or maybe we were unadventurous and felt it was just too much work to start over from scratch. Or perhaps we were able to hang onto our senses of humour.

Back to my weekend with Stephanie. We regaled ourselves with husband tales. Steph has been married to Brian for more years than Jack and I have been together. As we roared with laughter at their spousal antics, during one of our more lucid moments between gasping guffaws, we realized that our narratives were ominously similar. Brian and Jack might have been clones of one another, so great were the similarities in the stories.

As we cast our minds to the long-married couples we knew well, many of whom had lived in Herbert at one time or another (Steph and Brian are honorary Herbertians--they've been friends with certain former inmates and extended families thereof for years), we realized that the men shared many characteristics--and those were the ones informing the stories we were sharing--stories of how these guys drove us nuts with their bizarre behaviors and quirks and how, by laughing at these, we could avoid killing them and going to prison for the rest of our lives.

Back when Roseanne was surnamed Barr, was a stand-up comedian, and was funny, she famously quipped, "Well, we're all married to the same *#$%&!* guy!" As Steph and I exchanged stories about husbands, we realized that this, in our observation at least, is a truism. And, just as women of a certain age (menopausal and post-) display certain characteristics, men of the same certain age appear to intensify their previous and quirky ways. In short, while women get better with age, men (long-married ones, at any rate) just get weirder. And more similar. Steph insists that this strange congruity among older married males means they are morphing into the Borg, and our resistance maybe futile (although that won't stop any post-menopausal women we know).

Instead of sobering us with its looming Trekkie homogeneity, we once more burst into laughter at the absurdity of married men as the Borg. After all, who would find their synthetic components when they misplaced them? Who would ask for and then give them directions back to the Delta Quadrant? Who would tidy up the Unicomplex? (All those cubes!). Back to our laughter at this loonie (but perhaps a wee bit real?) proposition--because maybe it is laughter that keeps people married. While I am sure there are many more factors in such a complex issue, for me, it comes back to a sense of humour. The ability to laugh at one's partner (and perhaps, just perhaps at ourselves, although we all know that partners are far more laugh-worthy) includes the capacity to put things into perspective: Don't sweat the little stuff--just see what bits are funny. Don't yell--laugh instead. Don't act like the world is about to fall apart--even if it is, what good can you do by running around flapping your arms in the air like a chicken? (Or like Joe at the sight of blood?)

No, far better to mine the situation for comedic gems. After all, most of us would rather laugh than cry. For laughter is the purview of children--or should be, at any rate. Children laugh at just about anything. Think about what your kids found hilarious when they were younger--all those elephant jokes and "Mother! Mother!" chestnuts. The dumber (and grosser in the case of boys), the funnier. So, as my febrile mind darts about for connections, I think, perhaps we are drawn to laughter as a way to touch base with our inner child (the good one--not that tiresome little new-age brat that whines incessantly about past slights). The good inner child is the one who splashes in puddles, chases beetles, stops to watch the worms wriggle on the rain-soaked sidewalk, runs because it's fun, sees adventure around every corner. THAT is the inner child we all need to become from time to time. And perhaps, just perhaps seeing the whimsy in a situation helps us get there. Which, in turn, refreshes us for the daunting task of living adult lives.

Woody Allen once said, "When you do comedy, you are not sitting at the grownups' table." While Woody's inner child (and outer adult) has taken him down some questionable roads over the years, here he has a point. Think about all those extended family dinners--which table was having more fun? Where would we have rather been sitting?

Finding the funny also helps us stay in touch with our young children (and now grandchildren) so we can share the odd, absurd, goofy, bizarre things kids relate to so viscerally. Perhaps, just perhaps we adults have lost some of our facility in this area, just as we've lost hearing, flexibility, hair, net worth, or lightheartedness. Perhaps the burden of years has worn this away. If so, all the more reason to pick it up, dust it off, and take it out for a walk from time to time.

I remember, years ago, a group of young moms gathered at someone's house. We were discussing marriage, intimacy, men and women--all that relationship stuff that ladies love to talk about. Dee, balancing a cup on her knee, spoke. "You know," she said, stirring the coffee, "Sometimes when I wake up in the morning and look over at Rollie, I think to myself, `Gee, I'm so lucky to have such a fantastic, wonderful husband.' And sometimes when I wake up in the morning and look over at him, I just want to smash his face in." Smiling, she sipped her coffee.

There was a moment of silence, and the we all roared with laughter, for we knew exactly what she meant. Not that we'd ever smash in our spouse's face (no matter how tempted we might be), or maybe even that we thought he was so great in the first place (although we did marry the guy). But those wildly veering sentiments of extravagant love and the dismay of "Oh my God--who is this doofus I married anyway?" were those we all shared. And Dee had spoken them.

But back to my weekend with Steph. Over our days together, we covered a variety of areas that appeared to form a primer for living with the aging male, specifically the aging male boomer, for our generation has inserted its own particular spins on everything, including getting old. While in some ways we are distressingly (to us AND them) like our parents' and grandparents' generations, we do display idiosyncrasies of our own. And while we may have to trust people over thirty at this point in our lives (after all, we've got KIDS over thirty), we still have problems with those in authority and anyone thirty years OLDER than we are. (Jerry Rubin may be dead, but his aphorism lives on).

Steph and I narrowed the primer down to a few main themes--after all, we had only a weekend. Our primer, as it has emerged, is a work in progress, like life, and doubtless many more themes will materialise, like those worms that litter the sidewalk after a hard rain. And, no doubt readers will think of more themes--and I encourage you to share them--after all, this is also a collective work as well as progressive. Just like living with men has always worked better as a collective enterprise (women sharing stories) and progressive (jury's still out on that one!) process.

Here are some of the themes we came up with--these will be discussed in more detail later (see future blog entry):

1) Male hair migrates 2) Control (or the illusion of it) must be maintained 3) Who'll get Dad if Mom goes first? 4) The aging male brain [also know as "The Fog of Ignore"] 5) You're not getting better--you're getting weirder.

As I said, these are merely the few we touched upon during our very fun weekend. We had a great time, and are now refreshed and ready to keep living with these guys. There are certainly other themes we didn't get to--again, those of you who have more, please suggest them, along with illustrative examples.

What has all this to do with raising four boys, you ask? Well, in a nutshell, it's about survival. I'm still alive, Jack's still alive, the boys are still alive, and we're all relatively sane (except for maybe Jack). Humour played a big role in dragging us through some pretty dense thickets and fairly mucky ditches over the years. Humour parodied Scarlett O'Hara's maxim of "After all, tomorrow is another day!" in a way so as to take the terror out of it. It was humour shared with others that helped us realize we were all living in the same world, suffering similar difficulties, experiencing parallel triumphs, raising collateral kids, and married to the same *#$%&!* guy.

Mordecai Richler said that "Humor, after all, is a very serious business." That's good, because it has a big job, and has to do it while appearing not to, for once the underpinnings of humour are examined, it's no longer funny. Try explaining a joke, and you will understand this.

So cherish your inner comedian, your interior gag-writer, your hidden humorist. Trot her or him out regularly. By this time in our lives, those intrinsic funny guys need as much air as they can get. Some of them may be gasping for breath as we speak. Your children (and grandchildren) will thank you.

Or they will think you are just being lame. In either case, as long as someone gets a laugh, meagre though it may be, it's better than crying. As the Bible says (sort of), "Instead of cursing the darkness, or even lighting a candle (after all, you may not have a match!), just tell a joke!"

(The above is a rather free translation...)

(Note to all men reading this: As you roll your eyes and snort to yourselves, "Well, we could say a thing or two about living with WOMEN!", I suggest you get your own blog...)

Tercero Eye Eye (I I)

Here I was, back again, in the hospital about to give birth. Obviously I had completely forgotten about the messy and painful aspects of this procedure, otherwise why would I even be here? I am mystified by those adventurous folks who opt for home births--who will clean up the mess, I ask myself? (This, alas, only shows up my own prejudices and shortcomings in this area).

Those of you who have given birth have undoubtedly noticed how quickly the memories of pain and discomfort vanish--poof, gone, only to instantly rush back the minute you are in a bed (hospital or home), on a stool or in a wading pool, ready to grab your surfboard and hit the waves once again.

Of course, we know that this handy amnesia is nature's way of perpetuating the human race. Without amnesia, children would be onlies with no siblings. And while this might make it easier for parents to wrangle one kid instead of herds large and small, it likely wouldn't have led to homo sapiens surviving as a species.

So, here I was again, about to lose my amnesia. Here I was, talking to an unborn who was already showing signs of not doing was was expected. Here I was, bargaining with an abdominal lump. But you see, I'd been through this twice before, and this time it was going to be different. I'd heard the siren call of modern medical science and had responded--I wanted the EPIDURAL--nothing could be allowed to interfere with that. Especially since this would be the last time I'd go through such a thing--three kids would be enough for us, by God. And so this labour, my last labour, would proceed in a civilized and scientific (read "pain-free") way. I'd gone natural twice--now I was embracing technology.

Something urgent in my voice must have crossed the placental barrier, because just before midnight, I felt a twinge. I'd been reading in bed--such a luxury not to worry about kids waking up for water or a diaper change or a cuddle. Lovely to have the light on without listening to grumbling about how some people have to go to work the next day and need their sleep and when was I going to turn off that light anyway? So peaceful knowing that there was no breakfast to cook the next day, no housework or duties of any kind, other than popping out a kid, but hey, that was going to be a piece of cake, thanks to the EPIDURAL.

I put the book down and concentrated. The reading lamp cast a small golden pool. Beyond this the room was in darkness, except for the faint line of light from the hall seeping past the door. I could hear the muted workings of the night-time ward. Putting my hands on either side of the bump, I listened and felt for signs.

There it was--another twinge. I felt my abdominal muscles clench briefly, and then relax. A signal from the deep. I waited for a third sign, and then rang the nurse. So, there would be no inducing of labour. Thank heavens the little beggar had listened and decided to come out on his own terms, late as they were.

The usual bustle of people ensued--nurses doing their brisk business, doctors checking this, that and the other thing, Jack arriving from his parents' house three blocks away. I was whisked to one of the hospital's new (at that time) labour-and-delivery rooms, all decked out to look like a hotel room. Except for the bed, of course, which had more controls than a jet fighter.

Doctor Heather's order for the EPIDURAL (I use all caps here to indicate my regard for this word--I am not shouting, unless perhaps out of gratitude) were duly noted, and a tired-looking but friendly anesthesiologist (had to look THAT one up!) explained the procedure to me while Jack was checking out the bed's controls. I took in very little of what he was saying--the anesthesiologist, that is, not Jack, who by now had moved on to pushing the various buttons on the bed's controls. I wanted the anesthesiologist to hurry up and get on with it--Doctor Heather had explained that timing was crucial--too early and the EPIDURAL could stop the contractions; too late and the EPIDURAL would have no effect. "Come on! Come on!" I hollered in my head, dodging the parts of the bed that rose and fell as Jack pressed control buttons. "Quit gabbing and just DO IT!"

The anesthesiologist (I figure that if I type it out enough times, I'll remember how to spell it!) must have heard my internal panic, because he announced that now was the time. Mentally wanting to confer sainthood on the guy (by then the contractions were gaining serious attitude), I blissfully followed his directions. So thrilled was I to be getting the EPIDURAL that I remember very little about the procedure itself. I do remember it involved some bending then something cold shooting into my back--but it wasn't painful. A good sign, I thought to myself.

"You'll still feel the contractions" said the anesthesiologist. "But they won't hurt so much and you'll be able to get some rest." Nodding crazily like one of those dashboard toy dogs, I waited for it to take effect. All I'd really heard the guy say was "Blah blah blah...blah blah..won't hurt...blah blah..."

The nurses and the anesthesiologist (last time, I promise!) left Jack and me in the mellow glow of the room's decorator lamps. Jack took up his usual post by the fetal monitor's display, which was merrily chugging out its paper read-out ribbon. The smooth lines indicated a hiatus between contractions. Suddenly, the lines started moving back and forth. "Hey," said Jack. "Looks like a contraction. Do you feel anything?"

Frowning in concentration, I went deep into the waves, ready to hop onto my surfboard. I felt pressure, then more pressure, then a lot of pressure, then less pressure, then hardly any pressure. What I didn't feel was pain. I looked at Jack, who was still checking the read-out. "Jack," I whispered, "It doesn't hurt!" Now I know there are those who feel that perhaps medical science has overstepped its bounds here and there and gone down some questionable roads, but I am here to say that all things are completely compensated for by the invention of the EPIDURAL, the greatest thing (in my mind) since the eradication of smallpox, the discovery of insulin, and sliced bread.

For the next several hours, we amused ourselves by watching the monitor's read-out ribbon as I wrested the bed's controls away from Jack and played with them, raising and lowering sections of the bed. "That was a big one," Jack would say as I peered in mild curiosity at the wildly fluctuating lines. "A whopper," I would agree as the foot of the bed chugged upwards and downwards.

I didn't have to ride the big waves anymore. Now I could paddle around in the shallows on my skim board and, while "enjoying myself" might have been a bit strong, at least I wasn't stuck out where the big ones were rolling, waiting to get to shore but knowing it would be hours yet.

Five hours of manipulating the bed and watching the contractions quickly passed. We started noticing that the contractions were getting stronger and closer together. From the Olympian heights of my EPIDURALISED (Is that a word? Never mind--it should be) state, I inspected the read-out and agreed.

"I think we need to get the doctor in here" said Jack. I was feeling pretty good--I knew the contractions were getting stronger because the pressure on my abdomen was increasing, but they still didn't hurt enough to cause too much discomfort (there, how I've used the word myself!). Whatever sensation the contractions were provoking beyond mere pressure was simply that--discomfort--and THAT I could live with.

"Okay Jack," I said. "Let me push the call button." I'd fallen in love with all the buttons, knobs and controls while flying the bed--I wanted one at home--in case I got bored in the middle of the night I could amuse myself by playing with the controls.

The head-nurse came in. A large Jamaican lady, she had a lovely island lilt in her voice. She checked the monitor, checked me, nodded and went off to summon the resident on call and to phone Doctor Heather. A couple of minutes later, a disheveled resident trotted into the room, looking all of twelve years old.

"This is my first delivery," he announced. He sounded nervous.

"That's okay," I said, lulled into complacency by the EPIDURAL. "We've done this before. It's a piece of cake." Jack, startled, looked at me as if I'd lost my mind. But you know how it is--you worry and worry about some really hard thing you have to do. It turns out to be not so bad, and so you overcompensate, blowing it off completely. I imagine marathoners do this--"Shoot!" they say after the race. "I was worried about hitting the wall but I didn't even notice that sucker when it popped up--piece of cake!"

Perhaps the twelve-year-old resident knew something like that was going on, because my words didn't appear to reassure him much. In fact, he looked even more worried. He checked the monitor, he checked me, I think he mentally checked himself, and then he checked me some more. In between the checking, he would scoot his wheeled chair over to the sink on the room's far side and wash his hands. Then he'd scoot back, check things out, watch a contraction/push or two, and zip back over to the sink.

In the meantime, I'd moved well into Stage Three--you will recall that my previous Stage Three's had been nightmares of pushing, gasping, heaving, exhaustion, pushing some more, etc. etc. While there was still pushing, I didn't need to gasp and heave and puff nearly as much. Refreshed from all the rest I'd gotten during the EPIDURALISED labour, I had lots of energy to push with.

By now, amniotic fluid was spewing out with each push. "Hey, I think I can see the head!" said Jack. "Uh, doctor, I can see the head...I think you need to get over here." The resident, at this point back at the sink, turned his head and glanced at us, looking like a deer caught in headlights. I think he was buying time with all his chair scooting, hoping like hell that Doctor Heather would arrive in time and save him.

"Uh, doctor," said Jack again, moving down to the foot of the bed, reading to get into position in case the resident didn't get scooted back in time. "I think this kid is coming NOW!" The urgency in Jack's voice must have convinced him that he'd better return to his station, or perhaps he figured his hands were clean enough. In either case, he scooted his chair back in time to catch the baby who, carried on a final gush of fluid, spurted out like a watermelon seed. The twelve-year-old resident managed to make the catch. He held up another whopper of a baby.

"It's a boy!" he announced, smiling in triumph and, no doubt, enormous relief. He placed the baby on my breast as he cut the umbilical cord and saw to all the afterbirth stuff.

And so arrived Tercero, the small, determined surfer. He'd dictated the terms of his arrival and would continue to march to his own drummer. He was a peaceful and sleepy newborn--remarkably relaxed. After getting APGAR'd and weighed, "Nine pounds, fifteen and one-half ounce" crowed the nurse as she handed him back, all bundled up in a warm blanket. "He's a big one."

"We grow 'em that way" I said. At that moment, the Jamaican head-nurse and Doctor Heather came into the room. The nurse stopped just inside the doorway, hands on ample hips, as she stared at me, the floor, and back at me again.

"What de hell happen here?" she demanded. "Where all de fluid come from? Looks like a flood in here!" Now that I had time to look around, I noticed that I was lying in pools of liquid, and the floor under the bed was awash in puddles of it.

"There's enough amnio fluid here to float a battleship!" said Doctor Heather, as she checked me out and then the baby.

As people bustled about, cleaning things up and drying them off, Jack and I and Tercero engaged in the sweetest part of labour--getting acquainted with the new arrival. We did our usual inspection--the touching that ties child to parents in the most tactile of ways--handling the tiny fingers and toes, touching cheeks to the downy head, breathing in the fragrance of fresh life, wondering what kind of person lay within the slumbering scrap of humanity.

For Primero and Segundo had already taught us that humans are infinitely different, even those who come from the same stock and are raised in the same household. So what did little Tercero have in store for us? How would he be different from his brothers? What would he teach us?

Secure in the knowledge that we would learn much, we were happy to simply be with him at that time in that place--so newly arrived, so peaceful, so tranquil. Because we knew that going home with three boys would be anything but.