Before my son was born, I confess that I was highly suspicious regarding two of the key ingredients that would ultimately be necessary to bring him into the world – God and vaginas.
On October 1, 2011, I had a very peculiar awakening. Before sunrise, I was shaken from my sleep repeatedly by a pesky case of recurring, nocturnal hiccups. The result was that I was a little groggy shortly after dawn when I received a message saying that Mommy’s water broke and that she was having contractions. I scrawled a note and left it on the kitchen counter for my sister Liz and my brother-in-law Anthony. I was still living with them at the time. I climbed into my car and headed off across an otherwise quiet Saturday morning in the San Fernando Valley.
I was feeling extremely skeptical. Even at this late stage in the process of becoming a dad. Even as I was driving into the moment. It was still difficult for me to accept that something so extraordinary could actually be happening.
I was dubious for a couple of reasons. First, simply from a physiological standpoint, the whole concept of human reproduction struck me as highly implausible. How could someone live all stuffed up inside of there for nine months? Come on, really? I mean Mommy was fat. Don’t misunderstand. There was no getting around that. Not to mention that I had seen multiple ultrasound images of what looked like a small extraterrestrial hibernating in her belly. But even so, I could not fathom how such a confined and isolated space could effectively incubate and nourish an actual little person without ventilation or Grubhub. It should be noted here that as an undergrad I failed Freshman Biology. Twice. I only passed the class on my third attempt because the professor was kind enough to offer me an opportunity to earn some extra credit. I created rather impressive 3D models of meiosis and mitosis using only some dental floss, a few pipe cleaners, and a small stack of Styrofoam cups. Eat your heart out MacGyver.
Second, and even more confounding than my lack of biological knowledge, was my lack of biblical conviction. As a long-battered Catholic, I had little reason to believe in God. And as an HIV-positive gay man living on the outskirts of a religion that did not accept me, I had even less reason to think that God believed in me. What I did know for sure is that there were throngs of well-intended Christians who would vehemently argue that no clear-thinking deity would ever trust the likes of me with something as extraordinary as baby making or as significant as child rearing. In defense of all of those righteous naysayers, however, picture this; an innocent, fresh-faced little life pops its big alien head out from between Mommy’s legs and then looks over to me for answers. Me. A queer agnostic who just five minutes ago had to google the correct spellings of meiosis and mitosis to try and explain how I was finally able to pass Freshman Biology on the third go-round. Me? Someone’s dad? No. Even I had to concede that none of what was about to happen made any rational or spiritual sense.
And so it was, with all that junk in my psychological trunk, that I entered the labor and delivery phase half expecting to find out that it had all been some elaborate hoax. A cruel episode of Punk’d perhaps. “Duping the Would-be Dad.” The only real upside being that I might be afforded an awkward opportunity to flirt with Ashton Kutcher.
I arrived at Mommy and Mama’s house where I was greeted by Mama’s large and loving pit bull, Bubba. There were already two midwives in attendance, Mari and Marina, and one of them directed me to the bedroom. When I walked in, Mommy was alone. She was kneeling on the floor with her head resting face down on the edge of the bed. I stood for a moment listening to her labored breathing. I was at a total loss for words. Well, as it turns out – not at a total loss. Unfortunately.
“Does it hurt?” I asked.
I don’t recall Mommy’s exact verbal response, or even if she had one. In the years since then, however, we have often laughed about my lack of ability in that moment to conjure some communication more meaningful or empathetic. Now, when the story of my tactless query is retold at family gatherings, people like to take turns retrospectively spitballing any number of hypothetical replies for Mommy that would have been appropriate. For example, “I don’t know, would it hurt if you were pushing a pomegranate out through your penis?” Or maybe, “Hand me your balls and a pair of plyers and then let’s talk.” You know, pithy and painfully colorful zingers like that. I think you get how the game works.
Not long after I got there, Paul arrived and the two of us were sent out for groceries. I considered hunting and gathering at the local Ralph’s a welcome diversion while the women folk got down to the serious business of ushering a new life into the world. When Paul and I got back at the house, he immediately set about the task of preparing food. Liz, who had arrived somewhere along the way, was helping keep an eye on Mari’s young daughter. And when the time came, I was summoned into the master bathroom where Mommy was now naked and submerged in a bathtub filled with water. Mommy, Mama, and I agreed beforehand that I would film the proceedings. Clutching an iPad that had been gifted to me by Liz and Anthony a few weeks prior, I positioned myself against the wall at the foot of the tub. Cinematically speaking, it was a great angle to capture all of the baby-birthing action, but it meant that my back was right up against the light switch. The result was an intermittent flashing off and on when I adjusted my stance.
Seemingly unaware of my impromptu light show, Mari and Marina moved about the limited bathroom space with a calm and seamless fluidity. They coached and comforted Mommy as needed, and reassured me and Mama as the process unfolded.
“Who is catching?” I remember Mari asking at one point.
Within seconds, Mama was in a swimsuit and gently lowering herself into the water at Mommy’s feet. In very short order, there was some back and forth chatter confirming that Mommy was sufficiently dilated. I peered around the edge of my iPad screen for a more unobstructed view. Through the slightly cloudy water, and even with my very limited understanding of the metric system, it seemed clear to me that there was no observable opening that measured anywhere near nine centimeters. However big that was. But in the swirl of very deliberate and confident midwifery, and considering that I was the only one in the room without a vagina, I decided to keep my concerns about the exact diameter of various lady parts to myself. It was not until sometime later that someone enlightened me regarding the accurate anatomical locations of the cervix (not so visible) and the labia (hello). Who knew?
The breathing, pushing, and light flashing continued for a short while until the little guy was ready. Out he came and Mama was right there to catch him. Just like that. There he was. Easy peasy. (Just kidding, Mommy.) Mama and the midwives raised the yelping, purple bundle from the murky water and placed him onto Mommy’s chest.
With an incomparable mix of emotion and exhaustion, Mommy managed to exhale, “I did it.”
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“Oh my God. We did it, Jimmy. We did it.”
Mama looked back at me. “I bet you thought it wasn’t going to happen,” she said. Her face was glowing. Everything. The whole world was bright and vibrating.
Completely overwhelmed, I responded without calculation, “I didn’t. I didn’t.”
Looking back at the video now, I can hear how my simple words conveyed a sad and complicated truth. I lacked faith. I had been aware of this fact for some time, but now it was clear that others could recognize in me an inability, or unwillingness to believe in something more. Something amazing. Something immaculate.
“Do you want to touch him?” Mama asked me.
I did. And I did. I reached out and I touched our child. We had done it, as Mommy said. But I knew immediately that we had not done it alone. It was suddenly undeniable to me. There was something more. I had no choice but to concede, because I had just witnessed it. I had touched it. Or had it touched me?
Someone reached into the tub and pulled the plug. The water that had been drawn to help mediate and soften our child’s transition from one state of consciousness to another began to make that slurping sound that happens when used up liquid gets sucked down the drain. Reflecting on that moment now, I know that something very similar was happening inside of me. As I stood emotionally unguarded in the dreamlike aftermath of our child’s birth, something gained access to my soul and pulled the plug. The paralyzing doubt and disbelief that had been drawn in for so long began to slowly run out. I felt reborn. It was liberating and frightening at the same time. I was suddenly free to believe. But believe in what exactly?
“Who is going to cut the cord?” Mari asked.
“Jimmy,” Mommy replied.
Something else that we had discussed in advance – Mama would catch and I would cut. I was handed an odd looking pair of scissors and told where to snip. Marina told me to take off my shirt and then she handed me my son. She steered me toward the bed and explained that holding the baby close to my warm, bare chest and rubbing him would help change his purple complexion to pink. Paul helped Mommy get from the bathroom to the bed, Liz cleaned out the tub, and Bubba stood watch over the proceedings.
Honestly, the rest of the day is sort of a blur. I do, however, clearly remember Marina asking me if I wanted to see the placenta. Sure, I responded – obviously in a weakened state. She led me to the kitchen. Sitting on the counter was a big mixing bowl with a dish towel draped over the top of it. Marina pulled back the edge of the cloth revealing the large, thick, red and purple globule. I thought about the opening scene in the 1958 version of The Blob. Do you remember when the old man made the very unfortunate decision to poke that meteorite with a stick? Yeah, I took a step back. Marina explained to me that there was a service that would come to retrieve the afterbirth, take it away, dehydrate it, and then deliver it back to Mommy in the form of capsules and tea. Apparently placentophagy, or consumption of the placenta, is a tradition that dates back to the early Egyptians. Today, some people – including the Kardashians – still believe that the practice yields some very worthwhile benefits; including an increased production of breast milk, and a reduction in the effects of post-partum depression. It is also interesting to note that in a 2018 article in The Concordia Law Review, entitled Placentophagy: A Women’s Right to Her Placenta, Amber Goeden discusses the fact that, “Even though a woman might choose to partake in placentophagy, she might be met with law, or the lack there of, that restricts her access to her placenta.” Again, who knew?
Yes, the day of our son’s birth was an educational and transformative occasion for me on a number of fronts. A few basic anatomical misconceptions were cleared up. I learned that really keeping up with the Kardashians means eating your own placenta. And, oh yeah. I actually did become a dad. I can’t think of a single thing that I would want to change about that day. Not even my ludicrous question to Mommy. No, the “does it hurt” game is far to fun to wish away now. Of course that does not stop me from spitballing here a little something that a more enlightened version of me might have said to her when I walked into the room that morning. Like, “Hey Mommy, can you believe it? We are almost there. I can’t pretend to imagine for a single moment how or what you can possibly be feeling. I just want you to know that I am exceedingly thankful that our lives intersected all those years ago.” Or maybe, “I am in awe of your bravery. You are already the best mommy that a boy could ever have. I love you. I am here. You can do this. We are all here. You can do this. God is here. You can fucking do this.” Well, those are a couple of first passes anyway. More enlightenment to come, God willing.
And so it was that Mari, Marina, Mommy, and Mama delivered our child. Together they achieved this astonishing feat with a courage, a grace, a conviction, and a generosity of spirit like I had never before experienced. And while doing that, they accomplished something more. Something amazing. Something immaculate. They delivered to me my defeated spirit renewed. At the time, of course, I didn’t realize how much work it would be to help care for an infant while trying to nurture my own newborn faith. But from the moment my soul was drained of doubt on that miraculous day, I made a promise to myself to never stop believing that all things are possible.
Yes, On October 1, 2011, I had a very peculiar awakening.
