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When they finally came to get me and told me that I could go back and see you, I was sufficiently nervous. The cool of the "doctor posing" had worn off, and a half an hour had gone by. I had pretty much sweated through my scrubs and shirt, wringing my hands and pacing, waiting to be taken to the OR. I was wondering what a "restricted pelvis" really meant and if there was any way that they could have known from the get-go that your Mom has one so she wouldn't have had to under go so much pain.
But when I walked in and saw your mother's face, and all the doctors hovering over her behind a partition, I knew everything was going to be okay.
The lead me right to your Mom's side, and I sat down next to her and started playing with her hair.
Your Mom started complaining that her oxygen flowing in from her mask smelled funny. The anesthesiologist motioned to me that it wasn't her oxygen mask at all making the smell. So, I covered and told your Mom that the smell was in fact, me. But, truthfully, that smell was them cutting through your Mom's tissue with the cauterizer flame thrower thing making the final incisions.
Your Mom and I chatted some nebulous drugged-up pillow talk, and I encouraged her as the doctors tinkered away.
Within moments the anesthesiologist said, "Dad, get your camera ready, get ready, because here he comes."
I stood up, away from your Mother's side and peered over the partition, I don't recall seeing any blood or entrails or anything, all I remember was seeing your purple, hairy head being lifted from your Mom's body.
I snapped a picture.
The nurse told me to take a picture of the time, for that was the time you were born.
And then they took you away to get your lungs cleaned out, get your body cleaned off and weigh you.
The second your Mom heard your voice, your cry, she started crying too. I was in awe. We both were so happy that you were here, that finally, after all this time, we'd finally be able to meet our son,
Aidan Powell Weinstein!
Your Mom was so relieved, and I kept peaking around the partition to get a glimpse at you. Finally, they called my name: "Daddy, come over here and meet your son!"
They didn't need to ask me twice. I walked over to the baby cleaning station to meet you. You were pretty upset at being removed from such a nice, warm belly and were a bit traumatized from the hour and a half of labor (you had a boo-boo on your head from the hour of bone on bone pushing), you kind of looked like a purple, angry old man.
You screamed bloody murder. You had a decent coat of hair. You did a dead-on Yoda impersonation:
And you were beautiful, and perfect, and all we could have ever dreamed for.
You held my hand.
I'm a Daddy now.
Finally, they let you meet your Mommy. She was so glad to see you and started talking to you immediately. She says that you recognized our voices, because once we started talking, you calmed down. I sang our lullaby a little, your Mom (still heavily medicated) told you to not worry, because "Mommy's cross-eyed too" (you were cross eyed because babies- especially 3 minute old ones- can't focus their eyes).
It was among the sweetest moments I've ever felt. The three of us sat there as they sewed your Mom back together again. Our first moments as a family. And since I'm a Dad now, I documented part of the moment on video:
"I know, it was tough for Mommy too. But we did it. We did it."
Did it, you guys did. Soon enough they had finished your Mom's surgery and the three of us could go back to room 7, as a family: Aaron, Holly and Aidan.
Your Mom seemed to radiate happiness as she got to hold you in her arms and just look at your for the first time.
And you seemed to know us before, as if we'd met already.
Although there was never really anything to worry about, we all breathed a sigh of relief.
We were all there safe and sound, sound and safe. You had ten fingers and ten toes, two ears, two eyes and a nose. Your mother's lips, my sideburns, and maybe my eyes.
Your eyes were almost cobalt blue, though they may not stay.
Your head was a bit of a cone, though it's already back to being nice and round.
Your ears were a bit flattened from the trauma, though their perking up.
You have your mother's chin and eyebrows.
And you might have my nose, though that doesn't go away without surgery.
Still to this day, we don't know quite who you look like. I think that's because you look exactly like yourself, Aidan.
That evening you got to meet lots of cool people too: Nannah and Baba, Aunt Sham, Mimi and Pops. And as the days rolled on, you met tons of other people too: your unofficial aunts and uncles, your real uncle, your Godparents, your Great Grandma and unofficial Great Great Grandma.
But for that night, even though you had to go to the nursery for two hours to get nice and warmed up, it felt like you, me and your Mother were the only ones in the universe. You were no longer a fraction; our immediate family was now 3 (plus 2 dogs). You are our son, and we are your parents. This journal is no longer a pregnancy journal, but now a baby diary...a diary about you, Aidan, and how you've changed all of our lives for the better.
We have a lot to learn. It will be very exciting.
Welcome to the world, Aidan Powell Weinstein! Born on February 27, 2010 at 5:51 pm. 7 lbs, 1 ounce. 20 inches tall. Welcome to the world!
I hear you crying. I'm going to go hold you now!
