7/4/06
Here's a logic problem: I can pass a paternity test for a baby girl in Bloomfield. I am not the father, though.
There was no adoption involved.
There was no cloning involved.
There was no sperm donation involved.
There was no hanky-panky involved, aside from people with matching rings.
None of this "the person who raises you is your real father" malarkey. It's true malarkey, but I'm talking about genetic you-have-half-my-DNA-sorry-about-that-hemophilia-gene father.
This is an easy question for most people reading this, since I've told everyone I've met I'm an uncle now. Being a regular uncle wouldn't get me a passing grade in a paternity test, but if your twin brother is the father, then you ace it. Genetically, we buy our ammunition at the same store. Sylvia will have many, many kidneys to choose from if there's any problem with the factory-installed ones.
Her name's Sylvia, by the way. None of us non-parents knew the name until she was born, and not even Jeff and Cindy knew the sex until birth. She would have been Ted if she was a boy. She's not named after Sylvia Plath, or any of the million Sylvias patrolling bingo parlors and the large print section of libraries. It's just a nice name. It's not so common she'll have to be known as Sylvia R. in class, and it's not so rare that people won't know how to spell it. It can also be spelled Silvia, but both Jeff and I can help her get over a name that can be spelled multiple ways. A pre-made novelty license plate for her bike will probably not be in her future, but by the time she's old enough to ride a bike, that long-awaited hover technology might have finally been perfected.
Without knowing the sex, it was hard to refer to the baby without stumbling on the he/she/it pronoun dilemma. The nickname Peanut took hold at about the time Sylvia was the size of one. The Peanut name continued all through the pregnancy, well beyond the point that Sylvia that size. To be correct, her name ought to have changed to Macadamia Nut to Brazil Nut to Little Entenmann's Cookie to Devil Dog to Bagel to Six Inch Sub to Pound Cake to Chihuahua to Twelve Inch Sub to Weiner Dog.
Before she was even born, Cindy knew one trait about Peanut: Peanut hiccuped. Little pulsations radiated out from Cindy's womb, like the bass from a radio left on in the basement. Peanut had the usual kicking and bladder-squeezing incidents, but the hiccuping was a new one. Whatever standing-on-your-head, chugging-water, counting-to-seven-on-a-pogo-stick methods you've heard to stop hiccups, try telling it to a fetus that's still breathing amniotic fluid.
The birth was scheduled around Superbowl Sunday, which was February 5 this year. The coin was flipped, and no baby. The first quarter was played, and no baby. The second quarter, no baby. Forgettable halftime show, no baby. Third quarter, fourth quarter, Jerome Bettis retiring, Grey's Anatomy episode, no baby.
Monday comes and goes. No baby. This is the first signal that I have some genetic contribution to the baby: it's late. Jeff and I were late when we were born. It's something we've continued in the post-natal world. I'm late to work most mornings. I can say it's genetic, but the prejudicial people at work don't seem to care.
Tuesday comes. Now we've got some outbound movement. Cindy goes to St. Barnabus, and camps out there all day. This isn't a sitcom birth, where it's a minute-long process in a broken elevator. The birth takes all day. Jeff's in the delivery room, with the doctor and nurses and Cindy's mom, who also happens to be a OB/GYN nurse practitioner. Ice chips might have been invented just so all the dads in the room have some way to feel productive.
Outside in the waiting room, there's a new level of people hoping to feel productive. Future grandfathers and future aunts are finding the sparse spots on the hospital grounds where cell phones work, so news can be reported. Like Peanut herself, I got to the party late. Driving directions to a hospital was not on my short list of stuff to prepare. By the time I got there, I found Dad outside the front doors, calling relatives about the birth.
This happened to be February 7, Charles Dickens' birthday. It's also the birthday of other noted authors Sinclair Lewis, Laura Ingalls Wilder and Ashton Kutchner, But it's the Dickens birthday that's important, because our mutual friend James holds a Charles Dickens party every year. I would have been there if I hadn't had a hospital to find: so would Cindy and Jeff, for that matter. So I called James.
"Hello ... OK, Sean, I'll relay it to everyone ...'In addition to this being Charles Dickens' birthday' ... ' it is also the birthday of' ... we all know Ashton Kutchner was born today, Sean ... 'AND Jeff and Cindy's baby girl ... seven pounds and fourteen ounces ... her name's Sylvia. What's the middle name? ... 'I forget'."
All I missed was sitting in a hallway for however many hours I. After I got in the hallway and hugged everyone, I had a full hour of sitting around, so I got to make up for all that pre-birth thumb-twiddling with post-birth thumb-twiddling.
Jeff came out of Cindy's room, and said that the nurses would let two of us in at a time to let us see Sylvia Jane (I remember her middle name now). The grandfathers went in, and they would rotate out so Cindy's sister Becca and I could get our turns.
Sylvia was a little pink face wrapped in blankets and a hat. She had silver nitrate smeared around her eyes, so she looked like she was ready for clubbing. It was weird to think that she was breathing air for the first time; she was doing it like a pro. I put my pinky in her hand, and she gripped it, hard. Babies have an instinctual firm grip, possibly dating back to when we were monkey babies hanging off of our mothers' fur. It was a damn special feeling, monkey baby or not.
Sylvia is a cute baby. I'm obligated to say that all babies are cute, but some are definitely more likely to get their pictures on formula packages. Sylvia was one of these babies. But I'm her uncle, and genetically a little bit more, so I'm biased in my judgment, and genetically a little bit more.
I had sci-fi ideas of having some unnatural bond to this baby. Something more than uncle-niece, something less than father-daughter. Probably no psychic link, but you never know. Plus all that pressure about passing my genes on is now over and done with. I can just watch TV for the rest of my life, without that lineage stuff to fret about.
Sylvia was born with a full head of hair, which she has mostly kept. It's gotten lighter colored, and there's a thin band on the back of her head where there's no growth because she sleeps on that part. She's pushed her way out of newborn clothes, and 3-6 month clothes, and she's just 5 months. She's ditched the maroon strip in her car seat that shrinks the seat down for little babies.
Her bedroom, decorated before she was born or known to be a she,� is in neutral green and yellow. There's a frog motif. The same baby company makes crib sheets, wallpaper, bibs, and all sorts of baby paraphernalia, so the same frog is everywhere.
Sylvia's got a fascination for distinctive visuals. She will stare at a ceiling fan, since it's a big dark shape against a light background. She loves watching umbrellas open, and stuffed animals fly over her head, and she little frogs on her crib's mobile (which of course match the wallpaper and sheets).
She loves TV. Way too much. Studies are being debated about if kids should watch any TV in their first two years. At just a few months old, she stares at a TV in happy, content wonder. This is just in passing, when someone's holding her in a room with a TV on. She doesn't even know what is it yet, just a rectangular kaleidoscope that says "Woo hoo!" and "Stupid Flanders" from time to time. But she stares so intently, as if eternal happiness can be achieved by just vegetating at this box for long enough, that I'm fairly sure my genetic material is taking precedence.
She's not crawling yet, but she's an Olympic-level stander. Put her in your lap, and she'll push up with her legs. Hold her while you're standing, and she'll push against your torso like she was doing a leg press. She hasn't quite figured out what to do once she's standing, but she's got plenty of time for that.
She's a puker. A big time puker. I was aware beforehand that babies spat up some milk, but Sylvia seems particularly flexible in her abilities. Every bit of milk that she swallows seems to find the up button on her stomach's elevator. She can spit up anywhere, at any time, in any quantity, in any direction. She gives no squirming or discomfort or other clues that it's coming back up, it just comes back up. Most of us have taken to holding her pointed away from us, the same way we don't hold loaded guns pointed toward us. She goes through many bibs and outfits a day. The washer and dryer at Jeff and Cindy's place are used more than the TiVo (and that TiVo does not get much time off). The fact that she's growing normally is the only evidence that she hasn't puked up every drop of milk she's ever sucked down.
I don't know why I was worried that I might care for Sylvia too much. Caring for someone too much is not possible. If my blueprints got used to build her, why should that be a worry? It's not like I'm going to spit in the face of any children my other relatives are going to have. Sylvia might, but she doesn't mean any offense.
I've gotten to babysit for Sylvia twice now, and since Sylvia didn't end up on the roof either time, I'll probably be babysitting again. When she's content, she'd very easy to get to laugh. You don't even need to think of any kid-friendly jokes: a weird face or sound will do it. I'm saving some P. G. Wodehouse novels for when sticking your tongue out won't suffice for humor. I might need some knock knock jokes to cover the territory in between.
But like most things in Sylvia's life, that's a ways in the future. She's a milk-drinking sack of cuteness at the moment, and will remain that way for a while. Of course, we'll all blink and she'll be leaving for college, but that's just what parents go through. Or uncles, as the case may be.
In the meantime, I'm on the lookout for any bike or hoverbike license plates that say "Sylvia." No rush.