Happy New Birthday Year

“I usually stay home on New Year's Eve because I don't drink with amateurs”, was Ed McMahon's response when Johnny Carson asked him if he had celebrated the new year. An earlier version of the line referred to the Irish declining to drink with amateurs, but of course, most of us with Irish descent are too sociable to decline a toast or two.

The reason I avoid New Year's Eve parties is more complicated, involving feminism, taxation and fatherhood with a small helping of embarrassment. This year, 40 years after the events, I am telling the whole story for the first time to help my daughter celebrate her birthday with the true story of the day she was born.

Part of the revolution of the 1960's included the demand that women have more input into the process of motherhood. Natural childbirth, Lamaze methods and the presence of fathers in the delivery room were a part of the awakening spirit of birth as a parenting process instead of physicians taking control to prevent complications that had been greatly reduced as medical techniques advanced. Women took it upon themselves to determine the degree of medical intervention as an element of what we now describe with the umbrella term of feminism.

In 1973, the birth of a baby remained clouded in mystery in so many ways. Ultra sound was not an automatic part of prenatal care and exotic procedures like amniocentesis were reserved for high risk cases. A four or five day stay in the hospital was still fairly common as new mothers received nursing care while getting to know a freshly minted human treasure. Previous parents did not have the option of knowing the gender of their baby before its birth, so couples had to choose whether or not to know in advance. We lived in the beginning of hospital confidence that there would not be unforeseen complications during delivery giving us choices of traditional medicine or embracing advancing technology laden with all manner of political implications.

The mother of my children was a feminist until she had experienced labor pains for about an hour. Then she embraced the comfort of an epidural in a brief triumph of science over politics. For the second delivery, there was no discussion of natural childbirth. We never discussed my being a spectator as it was assumed that I would be there as an intensely interested party. In fact, the only discussion was when to have a baby.

The math of adding nine months to a calendar has not changed, so I was expecting a late December addition to the family. Predictably unpredictable, but within a range that provides some comfort and reasonable expectations. A post Thanksgiving visit to the doctor brought our first challenge. We heard the opinion that the infant had pretty much finished its internal development, an opinion that was backed up by the use of ultra sound. A healthy baby, and by the way, do you want to know the gender? I said no, forget the spoiler, long live the tradition of waiting for the living breathing proof.

The second choice remains one of those irreconcilable differences. Because the baby had stopped developing, the doctor recommended picking a convenient day to induce labor. Science triumphs over politics? Or whim? No. Rational discussion of the best day to plan a baby? No. My rational mind knew that the baby would arrive when it was ready, but my male, geek influenced, scientifically liberated mind saw all kinds of advantages.

The biggest advantage came from the Internal Revenue Service. Income tax regulations were pretty clear, a child born before midnight of December 31st counted as a dependent for the whole tax year. In 1973, that was enough of deduction to pay for the hospital bills, yes, it used to cost a lot less to have a baby. The scientific mind battled the sensitive mind leaving sensitive gasping in the dust enough to have a daily conversation about having a baby.

It looks like a beautiful day to have a baby.

It might be.

Want me to call the hospital?

No, I really don't feel like having a baby today.

What? You don't feel like having a baby? When does anyone feel like having a baby? When the sensitive mind was really beaten back, I would try the sound financial planning approach. After all, if you can pick your child's birthday, why not include some financial reward? I would suggest that we were running out of days that would not only be good days for a baby but also return a nice tax deduction.

Politics, whim and an infant's stubborn tenacity won out in the end. New Year's Eve was spent watching a play at the Arena Stage followed by a quick return to allow time for resting. I did not realize as the actors took their bows that my year end celebrations were forever curtailed and not because I chose not to drink with amateurs, because bright and early the next morning, New Year's Day, 1974, I was greeted with the news that it was a good day to have a baby. Not yesterday, 1973, today, 1974.

The sensitive mind stood tall to mock the science that could only grind molars against each other while the arrangements were made. Too late to save a nice tax break, so it looked like a good day to put on my best caring father face for meeting the latest addition to my eye's apples. By noon, everyone was assembled and labor had been induced to force mother and baby to end their symbiotic relationship.

I had watched my son's birth and felt like an old hand at this birthing game. Stand near the head where you can hold a hand, offer comfort and mostly stay out of the way of the professionals. People seeing a live birth frequently notice the relaxed banter that goes on until a head is visible. Suddenly the only sounds are crisp directions as everyone does their designated task, quickly! Some hands are assigned to the mother and others are assigned to the baby, but after months of waiting patiently for this moment, the time between birth and the infant being whisked away and cleaned seems like a space of only seconds. Is that just the excited view of a father?

I watched for my opportunity to peek at the new arrival to end the 9 month guessing game of brother or sister knowing that most of the people in the room had seen the ultra sound and knew the answer hours ago. I did my best to peek at the important bits below the waist to get my own information. What I saw was a tiny body covered with various fluids and hands; lots of hands covering, caring, cleaning. Given only the quickest of glances from a bad angle clouded by the thrill of being father, the genitals of a boy baby and girl baby can easily be confused, right? So with a 50 – 50 shot at getting it right, I went with boy! A son! Wow! I even shared the news.

A minute later, one of the nurses came over and whispered in my ear, “It's a girl”. All the years I had laughed at my mother's excitement when her first grandchild was about to be born and she announced that she was on her way to find out if we would be aunts or uncles settled on my psyche in a black cloud that only now do I recognize as the end of New Year's Eve celebrations. You can't stay out late and party when you are planning for ten five year olds or five ten year olds the next day. You can't be tired and hung over on your daughter's special day. Sensitive joins with science to end partying.

What a day! Induced labor that could have been any day in the previous weeks. Money needlessly given to the IRS. The prospect of being a father during New Years instead of a party animal and football fan. I demonstrated a lack of ability to distinguish between the sexes. She was not even the first baby born at that hospital in the new year and I had completely blown the science mind in favor of sensitive. It all comes down to one thing, I had a daughter! What a wonderful day!

Happy Birthday, Heather!

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