He was preceeded by a masked OR nurse that asked "Vous êtes Papa?" She handed me my camera and assured me that all went well, he'd be out soon. I refused to look at him on a 3 inch LCD screen before meeting him face to face. I paced by the exit door and waited instead.
The OR doors swung open and I heard "Félicitations, Papa" and there he was. I can still hear those words ringing in my head. A second language holds some sort of inexplicable weight. I suppose because it is still new, not familiar nor comfortable, the words tend to carry their original meaning with all intended force. They are fresh and new and clear and meaningful. Maybe it was just the rush of receiving a son, maybe a "Congratulations" would have sounded just as good, but regardless, I loved all that was contained--the joyous blessing and the overwhelming responsibility--in that first, simple Félicitations.I answered with "Merci" several times over and my eyes were fixed. He and I rode the elevator with the sage femme back to the maternity ward. He was wide awake, surveying everything, kicking his legs, swinging his arms, clenching his fists, all contentedly, never crying once. On the ride up she told me it's very rare to have a baby so alert. She told me he was very muscular too, also unusual. She kept checking for my comprehension, almost skeptically, maybe because I refused to look up and acknowledge that she was talking. But I heard and somehow understood every word she said.
I was stationed in a room where we'd wait for my wife to return. I continued to stare and marvel at this mysterious little being who was trying to make sense of his incubator. I stuck my hand in through a hole on the side and let him grip my finger. He never once slept, never once cried, and the two of us just hung out, staring at one another, and nurses just kept passing by smiling at me smiling at him.
An hour later, time to get dressed. I just watched the girls do their thing, permanent smile fixed. They asked me for a onesie, but they had to find it themselves and teach me the word for it after. I told them the blue hat and booties were from the hospital where his grandfather works. "It's better than the ones we use," they agreed. But the wool sweater, I remarked referring to the outfit that was listed on the checklist of mandatory items to bring, that's completely French. We had never heard of that before! "Bah, oui! Bien sȗr! C'est française!"
I listened to them fawn over the little guy as they weighed and measured and assessed and my pride swelled even further. Le petit americain, très très beau, il sera le chouchou de la maternité, trop mignon, il est grand!, vraiment magnifique, une bonne santé, un beau garçon.And finally, finally, finally I got to hold the kid.
I usually am very timid and anxious and hesitant around newborns, but this one was different. I scooped him up and he fit. It was as though he was mine or something.
Not much after, attention began to shift back to Mama. I was told to wait two hours, but three hours quickly passed. The sage femme saw me and raised an eyebrow. "Oui...où est ma femme? Vous savez?" She hadn't heard anything, still downstairs, if they hadn't said otherwise, she is doing fine.Into the fourth hour I fell asleep sitting up with the kid sleeping in his crib still holding my finger. A nurse woke me up, told me the American looked pale, offered to take care of the kid, and sent me to my wife's bed for the rest of the waiting. More than four hours after the birth, she was wheeled in and I was relieved.
"He's perfect!" I told her excitedly. I introduced them and she glowed.
"Je suis fier de toi." I said it countless times in the course of 24 hours in French and English. "I am proud of you."
