Tuesday night we went about our evening with determined normalcy: futz around the house, play with the dog, order in dinner, clean up a bit, stay up too late watching the ball game. (For the record, the Yankees lost to the Orioles in 11 rain-delayed innings.)
The difference, of course, was in the thoughtfully packed suitcase at the foot of the bed. Oh, and the car seat in the front hall, and the huge belly full of baby situated firmly between my wife and me. Between my wife and everything, really.
Wednesday was quite an Einsteinean relativity test for me: slow-motion until 10:56 a.m., hyperspeed after. Beforehand, we were weighted down by process, delay, impatience, and anticipation. Then, the better part of an hour in scrubs, plied with anesthetics (her) and splattered with placental fluid (me). And after, a brief moment of quiet excitement, then:
Followed very rapidly by recovery and transfer and shivering and ice chips and IV drips; several dozen phone calls, spanning the next 11 hours and including friends, relatives, mohels, and the like; many hours of abundant warmth with parents, siblings, niece and nephew; hugs, kisses, tears of joy, the shared revelry among three generations of two harmonious families; and lots and lots of holding, staring, and marveling. And eye contact. With him. Nathan, that is.
We are proud, elated, excited, overwhelmed, exhausted.

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