Mykie Made a Shrimp

4 pounds 6 ounces.

Still named Baby.



My brother comes out of the operating room-- blue scrubs on the bottom, red polo, and those squared-off Clark Kent glasses.

"Where have you guys been?" He smirks. "You missed all the action!"

After we fling ourselves on him (okay, physically speaking, that was mostly me), he pulls out his cell phone pictures.

I imagine my brother watching an operation-- you know, that thing he's been doing for years at 10 pm on Discovery Health-- on his girlfriend. At this point, pesky med school degree aside, he could probably do the surgery himself. All the while narrating in a calm, metered voice for a squeamish audience. And then he could advise the hospital on what to do with Siamese triplet stone babies.

We have to wait for Baby to be stabilized before we can go in. Standing in the hallway, talking, taking pictures. This Is The Moment Before The Moment That We See The Baby.

Ashley is recovering. And, man, if I were her, after making a few good, solid demands to see my baby right now, I would request (calmly and politely) that they knock me out for a week. Also, a million bars of dark chocolate figure in there somewhere.

At the Natal Intensive Care Unit (eh, the nicky), we all mill about, wash our hands twice, and periodically get kicked out for being too many people in the room. Think of it this way. Baby, she is cheese. Really tasty cheese. And we are mice. On steroids.

When we get kicked out we are mice on steroids staring at the cheese through a window.

I leave you with my brother's favorite picture. The Stink-Eye:



Welcome to the world baby Baby.