Photographic Evidence the Blogger has Ridden a Bike in the Past Ten Years

This was taken at the local Bike Club Century last month but there is nothing in it that would indicate it wasn't ten years ago. Not the bike, the clothes or the goofy expression.

That guy could sure use to lay off the whoopie pies and boy could he use a new bike.

Both of which he is working on. Stay tuned.

Six Years Ago

Six years and a month ago M was big. Very big. She was bulbous, spherical, taut with the twins crammed inside her and she had lost that pregnant ‘glow’; it had been replaced by an ever-present film of perspiration since every movement, every action took so much effort. She was big and pink and shiny and she was at the point where she grunted, pursed her lips and sighed a lot, but never a deep sigh because she had no way to take a deep breath with all those babies filling her diaphragm.

Then one rainy day, six years and a couple of weeks ago, she got that blank look on her face, that inward stare that meant she was joining thousands of years of women in that sacred primal birth space. And I saw that look and knew it was time for me to start pacing, boiling water and chain-smoking, even though I didn’t smoke. It was also time to call her parents to come up and stay with Older Boy who was exactly 20 months and one day old.

This is what Older Boy looked like around then.

M seems to be glaring in all the pictures she is in and none of them are electronic but here is a picture of what her parents car looked like at that time.Once M’s parents arrived things had gotten far enough along that the doula thought we should head over to the hospital. When we got there they took M away through some doors and I paced and chain-smoked and then we took the babies home.

OK, not really.

We settled into one of the birthing rooms that had soft lighting and lots of wood and a window that looked out over the parking deck. I unpacked the music that we never listened to and the snacks that we never ate. And then, for the next 24 hours or so M worked and worked and grunted and squatted and breathed and did everything possible, while I held her hand and mouthed “what is going on??” and “what do I do now?” to the doula.

At some point, I’m not sure when, things got surreal and numbers began to change and monitors began to beep and brows began to furrow and the Doctor bustled in and everyone began to murmur and it was agreed that these kids were not coming out without a struggle and M didn’t have the struggle left in her, so they moved us to the surgical area and everybody scrubbed and gowned and got ready.

When we moved from the birthing room to the operating theatre it reminded me of when we were in New York City with some friends. We had finished a wonderful dinner and probably a little too much wine and we were tired out but we set out on an adventure another friend had told us about. We went to the Essex House hotel on Central Park, took the elevator as far as it went, 40 floors or so, then found the stairs and went as far as they went, to a big thrumming mechanical room, and then found a door that put us out onto the lower roof of the building and we walked around the roof, following the outside wall of the mechanical room until we found a rusty iron ladder which took us all the way up to the very top of the hotel, right under the giant “Essex House” sign.

It may have been 11 at night and there were huge floodlights focused on the sign and everything up there was bright and buzzing. But the view was breathtaking. Like this, but try to imagine it at night:

But it was absolutely terrifying and I had no idea how we would ever get back to our regular lives again and what if something went wrong, what would we do? How did we get there? I mean, I know what sequence of events transpired to get us right there right then but really, how did we get there?

The operating room was also bright and buzzing and was crammed with people: me, M, the doula, the anesthesiologist, and because M was carrying twins they had two of everyone else: two Doctors, two surgical nurses, two newborn nurses and two other nurses whose jobs appeared to be to root around in the back of everyone elses gowns and check all the buzzing pagers, let the pager wearer know what it said and then call from the OR to say “the Dr. is a little tied up at the moment but she advises you to go to the hospital and she’ll see you sometime after you get here.”

And then they were there, alive and out.

It was the next morning before everyone was where they were supposed to be in the hospital and I finally called home to tell M’s parents the great news. After the congratulations and inquiries as to statistics and health, we all agreed that it would make sense for M’s parents to take Older Boy home with them for a few days until we were home with the twins. At that point, M’s dad ventured, quietly, “well, there is one thing…”

“Somebody stole our car from in front of your house last night.”

So the twins birthday will always be paired, in family lore, with the night Grandma and Grandpa’s car got stolen from in front of our old house.

The car was found, eventually, and M’s parents drove for a long time after that before trading it in on something newer. And the twins, well, we won’t be trading them in any time soon.
Happy 6th, you two. It is so nice to have you here in our family.