Jon and Bethany, the recipients of the emergency baby shower last month, had a daughter Monday morning. Her name is Savannah. And that’s all the detail I know.
Bethany’s doctor took her off bedrest just after the first of the year. He estimated the baby’s weight at about 7.5 pounds then. I was talking to Jon then, and he told me about those classes pregnant women take in order to learn how to have a baby. (I know how to say it but absolutely no clue how to spell it, so I won’t embarrass myself any further.) Jon said they told the men that hand massages can really help during pregnancy, but warned not to press on a certain spot on the hand because it can induce labor. I filed that in my useless information bin.
A couple of weeks ago, Jon and Bethany were at a party. Jon mentioned Bethany was ready for the baby at any time. The room was ready, the house baby-proofed, they had a crib–the crib Jon slept in, and all of his ancestors on his dad’s side slept in, because it literally came with them on the boat from Germany. Everything was ready except the baby. I can’t imagine anyone blaming Bethany for being tired of carrying around a 7.5-pound infant inside her. If she were carrying one outside, she could make Jon carry his fair share of the time, after all.
I told Jon I couldn’t believe he’d forgotten about the spot. His eyes lit up. “The spot!” he hissed. He took his left hand in his right and started pressing. “It’s not working!” he hissed, with his trademark diabolical mad-scientist twinkle in his eye. He pointed his left hand at Bethany, like a remote control, and kept pressing. “It’s still not working!” he hissed. Bethany tried to act like she wasn’t paying attention.
A few minutes later, he walked over to Bethany and grabbed her hand. She said something about that feeling good. “Dave reminded me about the spot,” he said, that diabolical look returning.
She didn’t just shoot him one of those looks women make. She shot him The Look. If you’re male, you know exactly what look I’m talking about. If you’re female, imagine your guy trying to patch a leaky tire with the last of your favorite chocolate, then go look in the mirror. “Not now!” she said. Yelled. OK, she half-yelled it. With a really big howl of protest in her voice. You know, smooth fluctuating pitch, going up on the vowel, then down again and trailing off. “Wait until we get home!”
She was ready, but not quite that ready. Jon dropped her hand. He knows what’s good for him.
I talked to Bethany again on Friday. “Everyone tells me it must be a girl,” she said. “It can’t make up its mind.”
I left that comment alone. And I won’t repeat the other thing she said either. It’s one thing when girls say something about girls fluctuating between impatient and stubborn. It’s another thing when guys say it. I left that comment alone too. I just said one thing: “It’s good to be male.” She rolled her eyes at me.
And on Monday, Jan. 28, 2002, Savannah made up her mind. She’s here, and only about a week before her expected due date.