A Decade of Beta
My wife screamed and fell to the floor in the bathroom. It was late and it was sciatica. Very bad sciatica.
I called our friend saying only, “We need you.” She arrived in less than three minutes.
We drove to the hospital leaving the care of our little boy with another friend.
They hooked up all those things they hook up to monitor the unborn baby.
Hours later the doctor regretted the discomfort but could offer little more than her own understanding, she also being a mom.
So we drove home at two-thirty in the morning.
On the way, halfway home, my phone rang.
“Mr. Clary? This is the hospital. We see something on the monitor tape we didn’t see when you were here. We want you to stop the car, turn around and come back. Now. We want to deliver the child now.”
I was already slowing the car and pulling over before the conversation was over. One doesn’t need the end of the sentence when the hospital calls you in the middle of the night, so I had a sure feeling plans were changing.
My wife was all-pistons-firing and girding herself for what news the call brought. Which I conveyed in as calm a way as I could, all things considered. “They’re concerned about something on the tape they didn’t see while we were there. They want us to turn around now and come back. Honey, they want to deliver the baby.”
And so we turned around. And the light-hearted banter among the three of us transformed into a sudden sobriety where each of us, I’m sure, quietly leaned into God, Please…
And everything turned out fine.
Our second son, known far and wide as Beta Male, turned ten years old recently.
He is a happy boy, but not cloy.
He is affectionate to a fault, if there is such a thing, but not delicate.
He is intelligent and questioning and curious, but not driven by academics.
He knows he is an athlete because we’ve told him he is, and, believing us, he’s tried his hand at many sports and taken a liking to the arena, but is never far from smiling to himself while he competes.
He is the typical little brother, getting pounded on by his big brother, but may turn out to be a living example of the old adage, The Little Fish Grow Up To Eat The Big Fish…so, if I were you, big brother, I’d stay on his good side.
He smells like a little boy, has a retainer he refuses to wear, will wear the same shirt for a week, like all other ten year olds, and not only not care…he won’t even realize it; he loves pancakes and bacon now, but for the first year of his life, spit up after every single feeding.
He is a fine mix of all these things and more.
One of my very favorite, most treasured memories about him is this: When he was crawling, I’d hear the tiny shuffling coming down the hall, and stop just outside my office door. Then, steadying himself on two chubby little knees and one chubby little arm, swing the free arm so he could hit my office door and call, “Da!”
And I love how, no longer crawling, ten years later, when he passes through a room and sees me? Chances are exceedingly high he’ll come over, lay his head on my chest and offer nothing more than, “…I just want to be near you.”
So beautiful. Beyond words, so tenderly beautiful.
Thank you, Juán. It was good to just read that all over again :)