Happy Labor Day, everyone! And speaking of labor, my sister Miranda just had her baby and he is a bundle of joy. And poop. And throw up.
My mom and dad went to “help” her have the baby. This means moral support in the delivery room, more or less, since everyone knows that the mom does all the work. All the doctor really does is catch and clean up, and the grandparents and husband just kind of cheer and give the mother positive affirmations.
Anyway, I guess Miranda’s labor was really rough and actually kind of scary. My dad (a seasoned delivery room cheer squad veteran of seven births) tried to explain it to me. There was something about “tearing” and “hemorrhaging” and that’s all I remember because when he got to “stitching” I passed out cold. Not really, but I sure thought about it.
My brother-in-law Rafa managed, to my surprise. I always make fun of Rafa and say he’s a wiener and I thought for sure he’d be passed out on the floor first thing. I give Rafa a hard time because when he and Miranda were dating she was also dating another guy, and I was rooting for the other guy. Well, Rafa won and I’m a sore loser so I always talk a lot of trash on Rafa. But in this case he surprised me.
Anyway, I also learned that baby-having involves a lot of colors. The baby is starting to turn a normal color now, but he didn’t start out that way. When my mom first e-mailed me some pictures he was a dark purplish-red and was kind of smooshy in texture (I am told this has something to do with him getting squeezed out of a birth canal a couple minutes before the picture was taken). He looked like a screaming beet with hair.
On the other hand, Miranda looked pale and white in the pictures. I’d put some of them up but she threatened me with a switchblade and a really nasty-smelling dirty diaper.
“But you have a motherly glow,” I said.
“I’ll glow you,” she said, angrily brandishing the putrid abomination of a baby diaper.
So you’ll have to take my word that she looked pretty sick. The baby is less purple now, and has more of a reddish tint, kind of like a crying, pooping watermelon’s insides.
They named him Kaleo, which is a pretty good compromise in my opinion. It’s unique, but not half as obnoxious as some of the other names they were tossing around.
Rafa is kind of controlling when it comes to what the baby will be named. Miranda has some ideas for a middle name, but Rafa keeps shooting them down. He keeps asserting that he is the boss, which makes sense because he contributed a whopping 23 chromosomes to the whole process. Oh wait. That doesn't make sense. My issues with this are:
1. It’s 2009.
2. If I remember correctly, Miranda was the one who squirted the thing out, lost a bunch of blood and got stitched back together, right?
But somehow Rafa thinks he gets to have the last say in what they name it. I guess someone made him the new baby-naming sheriff in town. Not only does that seem a little unfair, but I know my sister (not to mention my mother) and I think Rafa is taking his life in his hands. But he won’t listen to my warnings, oh no!
“These women are going to kill you, man,” I say with urgency in my voice.
“I’m the man and I get to name the baby,” he says, resolute in his stupidity.
Sounds like famous last words to me. Or a nice epitaph.
PS - Having a nephew is awesome because I can hold him until he cries or poops and then hand him straight back to his mom, like, "Here, my interest in your baby has expired." It's all the perks of having a a baby with no actual work or responsibility.