It should’ve been California!

On occasion, Marcel runs around the room introducing herself to people she already knows. Woman or man, she sticks out her hand and, in a child’s rendition of a gentleman, says in a deep voice, “Nice to meet you, sir!”

This tendency, however, did not make me fret any less about her reaction to the arrival of her younger sister, Tristan. I shouldn’t have been concerned, though.

When Marcel came into my wife’s hospital, her first reaction wasn’t to my wife, my parents or her Godmother Netty. Her first reaction was to her sister laying in the bassinet. That reaction was a question.

“Is that my baby?”

I guess we know where her loyalties lie.

We woke up knowing our newest baby was coming…because we had scheduled an appointment.

Maybe that lulled me into a false sense of security. Maybe it was my wife ignoring the first two or three alarm clock rings. Whatever it was, we not only left the house a half hour late, but I found myself Sunday driving to the hospital. Even my wife–the slowest driving, most often tardy person that I know–had to pipe up about my speed. Thus, we arrived about five minutes before the induction was supposed to begin.

Three weeks ago, our obstetrician told us that our newest baby had dropped into position, and that my wife had dilated 1 cm and effaced 50 percent, indicating that our newest baby could come at any time, though the doctor hoped that she would wait a week. My parents, having already planned to come to town that weekend for Marcel’s birthday, had begun to hope that they might also get a birth, too.

That was too much to ask for and, apparently, we were punished for even thinking it because the next obstetric appointment revealed that our newest baby had flipped into a breech position. Fearing a breech delivery, our obstetrician scheduled an inversion appointment and, fearing that our newest baby might invert the inversion, an induction soon after. Fortunately, our newest baby is feisty and inverted on her own, making the inversion unnecessary.

However, the doctor on call that weekend is new to our obstetric practice. My wife was concerned about starting a new relationship under such a stressful situation, and didn’t want to risk going into labor over the weekend with the new doctor. Fortunately, the doctor that delivered Marcel was scheduled to handle the induction appointment, so we decided to induce even though our newest baby was no longer breech. Thus, we picked our day and time of meeting her.

And we were late.

It wasn’t all of our fault. My wife and I did arrive at the hospital 10 minutes before the scheduled procedure. However, the paperwork took a long time. Actually, we had to wait to even start the paperwork. The admissions desk gave us one of those light-up/vibrate beepers and told us to wait in the lobby. Then the admissions clerk kept inputting my wife’s name incorrectly but kept redoing it because, apparently, it had to be just right in order to avoid a hassle from the insurance company. Eventually, though, we got upstairs to Labor and Delivery Room 5.

As before, our nurses–Lorna, Tammy, Amy and Amy–were great. Lorna joked with the technician that lifting heavy objects was off limits because of a shoulder injury received from “ballroom brawling.” And, after the anesthesiologist left my wife with instructions to please wait an hour before increasing her epidural dose, Lorna instructed my wife to use it if she needed it. About halfway through that hour, my wife started using it.

It only works after 15 minute intervals, so we kept time of when she used it. Her last time using it was about 11:55 am. Then our obstetrician arrived and, completely surprising us all, informed us that it was time to push.

I quickly called my parents to make sure that they were in the waiting room and not in the cafeteria getting coffee or breakfast. I then realized I could more quickly text the rest of our family, instead of trying to call and direct a phone tree. That was the hardest text I’d ever written, because the pressure to get done and get in position by my wife’s side was so intense. I can only imagine if I tried to start dialing numbers and holding conversations over and over, again. I can only imagine my wife’s reaction to me having those phone conversations!

But that didn’t have to happen. We had text, and at 12:18 pm, I informed as many close friends and family as I could that pushing was about to commence. Then, I, and some nurse in training, got into position as human stirrups.

The epidural, and my wife’s two self-administrations, must have kicked in pretty good because she didn’t even flinch at a contraction that the monitor said was off the charts. Further evidence was that, after that first push, I saw what looked like hair. I shrugged that off as impossible, though. Then, I was distracted with the final piece of evidence.

Presumably assuming a long delivery but low stamina from her novice stirrups, our doctor instructed us to put my wife’s feet back into the real stirrups after that first push. Our nurse in training, though, must have been less then perfect at that because her leg–well the leg that that nurse was holding–slipped and fell with a thud. Fortunately, that was all that fell and we all quickly recouped and went back to the business at hand and I resolved to hold that leg ’til the bitter end.

My wife gave another push and our doctor commented on our newest baby’s hair, confirming my earlier suspicion, which is crazy because that was only the first push and this was only the second push. We all took a collective breath, or at least I did, and when that third contraction came, we got my wife to pushing, again. This time there was no denying it. There was hair–and a whole half of a head–sitting right there in all of our laps!

This was decision time: Wait for the next contraction or do something. My wife’s vision showed through at that moment. Our doctor–the doctor my wife scheduled–choose to do something. The nurse in training and I gripped our legs, our doctor grabbed that half of a head and my wife took a deep breath and pushed.

And, after only 11 minutes, there was Tristan.

On time.

Today, Marcel started singing as we ran, hand-in-hand, from the car, across the parking lot and into the Target for the potty.

“We’re running! We’re running,” she sang.

In the bathroom, Marcel shined at both the potty and the singing.

“I’m doing it! I’m doing it,” she sang.

By the time we ran, hand-in-hand, from the Target, across the parking lot and back to the car, Marcel had gotten caught up in appreciation of our adventure.

“You’re my daddy! You’re my da-a-a-a-dee!”

Mommy, who had waited in the car, joined in the revelry, but sans the singing.

“Marcel”, she smiled, “do you know that he’s my husband?”

Marcel, without a moments hesitation, switched to a different verse.

“Too bad, too bad…”

Now is a good time to digress for a moment.

My wife and I are engaged in a bit of a rivalry over who has it better. We’re constantly teasing each other over who has the better taste, the better judgment, the better parenting skills, the most affection from our child and, even, who has the better spouse. See, for example, this old story.

Given all of that, you can understand why my wife would get a good chuckle out Marcel’s new verse, seemingly anointing her as the better spouse. Actually, she cackled. Then, Marcel finished her verse.

“…for da-a-a-a-dee!”

Happy Father’s Day, indeed.

A few weeks ago, our obstetrician gave us the news that my wife had dilated 1 cm, that the cervix was 50 percent effaced and that the baby had moved into delivery position. She hoped the baby would wait a week before she came, but felt the baby could be born any day. We’re still waiting.

Friends and family, however, have moved into action. My wife hammers me about her “honey do” list. My parents call daily–sometimes several times a day–to get updates. And just the other day, a colleague bought a stuffed rabbit for the baby. It’s even holding two, cute baby blankets! Still, we wait.

It’s tough to be in this holding pattern. One particularly tough thing is keeping the new baby’s things from Marcel, who has come to expect that, in this house, such things belong to her. She dragged drawers full of new baby clothes into a pile on her bedroom floor. She reclaimed the crib. She even tried to climb into the co-sleeper. Consequently, we were a bit worried when Marcel noticed the poorly hidden stuffed rabbit and asked after it.

“Is that for me?”

I could tell that my wife, for a second, considered whisking it away, hoping that Marcel would come to doubt her eyes. But my wife came to her senses, took a deep breath then informed Marcel of the truth.

“No, Marcel. That’s for Sister.”

I steeled myself for the onslaught. Instead, this is what we got.

“Can I give it to her?”

We are rich with gifts, indeed.

In French, Marcel’s name means “little warrior”. Last Sunday, she lived up to it.

Marcel got restless during church service, so we left. Because I had promised a trip to the playground to buy her cooperation with dressing that morning, I decided to take her to the playground while my parents and wife enjoyed the rest of the service.

A jungle gym, more suited to elementary school children than toddlers like Marcel, dominated the first playground that we found. Eventually, though, I happened to spy another, more colorful playground down the path a bit, so we decided to check it out.

That playground was dominated by a sandbox and a swing set. Given that she was in her Sunday best, I, and I’m sure her mother, would’ve preferred she ran to the swings. Of course, though, she ran for the sandbox.

I don’t blame her for her interest. This was a very cool sandbox. In addition to being much, much bigger than the average, every day sandbox, it also had a colorful jungle gym-type structure–the color I saw from a distance–that had lifts to carry small buckets of sand and tubes to slide the sand around the structure and back to the ground. Moreover, the sandbox was strewn with toys, including an old play kitchen, toy garden and construction tools, and the expected shovels and pails. This was sandbox heaven. And, Sunday clothes be damned, Marcel jumped right into the fray.

Marcel, however, wasn’t the only child. Two boys, of a family more engrossed with their picnic than their supervisory duties, were in the midst of some great adventure. Like the two other mothers at the sandbox, however, I was too engrossed in my kid to care too much about those kids. (Those mothers and I spent quite a bit of time talking about how gorgeous my Marcel was!) Marcel, though, was very much interested in those boys.

Or, should I say, she was very much interested in the toys the boys were collecting. Of course, she would. What good is sand if you can’t push it around and toys always make pushing sand around more effective and exciting. Marcel would have that excitement. So, she went after the toys.

Fortunately, she didn’t just run up on the boys, who seemed to be twice her age. She was decent enough to wait until the boys had abandoned the toys, first. That is, she waited until they looked like they had abandoned the toys. In reality, the boys weren’t abandoning any toys, at all. Instead, they were collecting and hoarding them for themselves, alone, for some little boy purpose. But neither Marcel or I knew that. As far as we know, the toys were abandoned.

So, Marcel grabbed a plastic beach tote of abandoned sand toys and began playing with them in the sand. This, however, was too much for the boys. One, maybe at the urging of the other, ran over to Marcel and took a toy that she had momentarily laid to the side while she used her hands.

Now, this upset me. If some stranger had taken a thing that I was using, I would’ve said something, struggling the whole time to keep a smile on my face and civility in my voice. I’ve had my fill of bullies and am eager to do battle these days, however counterproductive. Only the great desire for high achievement, frankly, keeps me from murder.

In this instance, I was also chastened by my opposition. No matter who’s right and who’s wrong, when it’s man versus child, the man is the bully and wrong party. I had to hold my tongue. Marcel, however, did not.

At first, though, she did hold her tongue, which surprised me. I think “mine” is one of five first words mastered by every child and Marcel wasn’t too far off that mark. But, in the moment of the theft, she was apparently too preoccupied by what she was doing with the sand in front of her to care about that toy. Her reaction, when she finally did decide to react, was yet another surprise.

“I’m going to go help them, daddy.” she said. Then she picked up her tote and ran after the boys.

Now, bully or not, I was prepared to intervene. Clearly, these boys felt “entitled”. That, plus their general immaturity, spelled troubled. Worse, one of those two mothers from earlier was sitting next to the brats. So, there was going to be trouble AND a witness. Still, my baby comes first. So I followed, preparing to get ugly.

Marcel, though, was a step quicker and got to the boys before I could. There reaction was as expected. The other boy–the ring leader–stepped to Marcel, first. He was soon joined by his errand boy. Together, they loomed over Marcel and, by the time that I got there, had already started making their demands.

“Give us our toys,” barked the ring leader.

Unsuspecting this response, Marcel was first struck dumb. I think she might have even taken a step back. Then the errand boy made a grab for her tote. That’s when she recovered. She yanked the tote back just out the boy’s reach then took a step to her aggressors in order to better thrust out her chin.

“They’re not your toys!”

“We had them first,” the ring leader almost pleaded.

“You have to share!”

Maybe that last scream was too much for even Marcel. She turned to me at that point, with a look of concern on her face, wondering if she were in trouble. She didn’t have to worry. Marcel had invoked the high commandment of playgrounds all around the world. Even I, a near forty year old man, recognized the righteousness of her cause. Instead of rebuke, she actually ellicited an involuntary “amen” on that glorious Sunday morning. Fortified, she turned back to the boys and reemphasized her point.

“Share!”

Maybe the boys were swayed by Marcel’s arguments. Maybe, it was her attitude. Maybe they just noticed, for the first time, her big bodyguard. Either way, they conceded. The errand boy even threw, at Marcel’s feet, the plastic construction tool he had grabbed earlier.

“You can have this one”, he said.

Victorious, my little warrior picked up her prize and joined them in their digging.