For months, Ben practiced with an endearing fervor, quickly mastering the basics and acquiring impressive calluses. On my birthday he serenaded me with a perfect rendition of “I Can’t Help Falling in Love With You” a song that, I sheepishly confess, makes me melt, especially because I’ve always maintained that Ben looks a little bit like a young, sandy-haired version of Elvis.
But a short time later, Ben lost interest in his new hobby and retired his guitar to a dusty corner under our bed. Recently, he posted it for sale on eBay. Jess reassures me now that his current fixation on fatherhood will be just as short-lived.
“Only problem is,” I say, “Ben actually owned a guitar before abandoning the idea of becoming an accomplished musician.”
“That’s true,” she says, scrolling through e-mail on her Black-Berry. Jess is a masterful multitasker. She furiously types a reply with her thumbs as she says, “And there’s no way to temporarily own a child, is there?”
“That’s where Ray and Annie’s baby could come in handy,” I say, thinking of the week-long stays at my sister Maura’s house after she had each of her three babies. All three visits were initially thrilling as there is nothing quite as meaningful or special as meeting a new member of your family. I also loved spending such quiet, intimate time with my sister, who is usually so frenetically busy with her many Bronxville social obligations. Maura and I have had some of our best talks in that cozy new-baby aftermath, both of us in our robes and slippers with our teeth unbrushed. Still, the nighttime feeding duties I would volunteer for were always brutal, and I would leave her house with a bone-tired weariness that verged on actual pain . I honestly don’t know how so many women keep that up for weeks and months at a time.
“Was the kid born yet or what?” Jess asks.
I smile at her wording. For someone desperate to be a mother, she’s going to have to soften up her vocabulary.
“Any day now,” I say. “So let’s hope that this is nothing that a few hours with a real, live infant can’t cure.”
As if on cue, Raymond Gage Jr. arrives the following afternoon, following fourteen hours of labor and a last-minute emergency C-section. Ben calls me at work with the news.
“Annie and Ray want us to come right over,” he says excitedly.
The hospital invite surprises me. Annie and Ray are our close friends, but I didn’t think we were that close. I thought we were more “Come see the baby as soon as we take him home” level friends. Still, the current controversy notwithstanding, I am looking forward to meeting their baby.
So after work I take the subway to Roosevelt Hospital where I meet up with Ben in the hospital gift shop. He has already picked up a couple of Mylar balloons and a card that we sign on the elevator ride up to the baby wing. We make our way to Room 1231. The door is adorned with a big, pastel blue stork holding an it’s a boy! banner, as are approximately half of the doors on the corridor.
Given Annie’s rough delivery, I am expecting a subdued gathering, but there is a full-on, raucous party inside. The room is filled with flowers, gifts, and at least a dozen friends and relatives who are snapping photos of the baby and clamoring to hold him.
There are even a few bottles of champagne that Ray hides behind his back whenever a nurse stops by.
Ray and Annie beam as they retell the details of Annie’s water breaking, the cab ride to the hospital, and their fight right before Annie got her epidural when Ray admitted he had left the video camera at home. We laugh and listen and admire Raymond Jr., who looks exactly like his father (and I’m not one who can normally see such resemblances).
It is a good time for all, but I am very aware of the effect the celebration is having on Ben. He is swept up in emotion and clearly thrilled for our friends, but I can tell that he is also uneasy and wistful. Not quite sad, but as close as you can get to being sad without actually being sad. His expression reminds me of a single bridesmaid at a wedding as she listens to the twentieth toast of the night.
Just as we are about to take turns holding Raymond Jr., a lactation consultant stops in, and Ray asks politely if everyone would please leave. I’m surprised that Annie, who would have been burning bras had she been born a few years earlier, cares a lick about her privacy, but then again, don’t they say a baby changes everything? We give Annie and Ray our final congratulations and tell them we’ll be in touch soon.
As we ride the subway home, I am hoping that Ben understands that the party only lasts so long. That once you bring the baby home from the hospital and a few weeks pass, the champagne-and-casserole flow stops, and you’re on your own in the middle of the night.