elec tric bill when she felt me urging her along, dropping into poÂsition.
Soon, she thought, taking a breath in quickly, but she didnât get up, or even stop looking at the bill. She just thought that one word. Soon.
Outside, as he mowed the lawn, it wasnât looking good for Auburn. Never did. It was the same every time: you went into the game believing that this was going to be the year they did it, this was going to be it, finally, and it never was.
It was almost halftime, and Auburn was already down ten.
On the day I was born, my father finished the front and then started the backyard with a renewed sense of optimism. In the second half Auburn came out charging and scored a touchdown on their first possession. Now down only three, anything was possible.
Alabama scored just as quickly, and then, off a fumble, they scored a field goal.
My mother placed the electric bill flat on the table, and pressed it with her hands as though trying to get out the wrinkles. She didnât know that all my fatherâs hard work and perseverance would, in a matter of only a few days, pay off handsomely, and that she would never have to worry about an electric bill again. For now the world, the entire planetary solar system, seemed to orbit around the center that was this bill for $42.27. But she had to have the house cool. She was carrying around all this weight. Naturally she was a slim woman but she was as big as a house now with me inside her. And she liked it cool.
She heard my father in the backyard, mowing. Her eyes widened: I was coming. Now. I was coming now.
Auburn was making a comeback.
Time passed. She calmly gathered her hospital things. Auburn had the ball with but a few seconds remaining. Time for a field goal.
On the day I was born, my father stopped mowing the lawn and listened to the announcerâs voice on the radio. He stood like a statue in his backyard, half of which had been mown, half to go. He knew they were going to lose.
On the day I was born, the world became a small and joyous place.
My mother screamed, my father screamed.
On the day I was born, they won.
How He Saw Me
I was unimpressive at firstâsmall and pink, helpless, with no real skills to speak of. I couldnât even roll over. When my father was a boy, a child, a babyâhe had brought more into the world with him than I did. Times were different then, and more was asked of everybody, even the babies. Even the babies had to pull their weight.
But as a baby I didnât know those hard times. Born in a real hospital, with the best medical care and all kinds of drugs for my mother, I just didnât know what birth was like in the old days. Though this didnât change anything: Edward loved me. He did. Heâd always wanted a boy and here I was. Heâd expected more, of course, from my arrival. A muted brilliance, a glow, maybe even a halo of some kind. That mystical feeling of completion. But none of that came. I was just a baby, like any otherâexcept, of course, that I belonged to him, and that made me special. I cried a lot and slept a lot and that was about it; my repertoire was very limited, though there were those moments of peaceful clarity and joy when I stared up at my father from his lap, my eyes beaming, as though he were a godâwhich, in a way, he was. Or godlike anyway, having created this life, having planted the magic seed. At those times he could see how smart I was, how bright, he could visualize my potential in the world. So much was possible.
But then I would start to cry again, or my diaper would need changing, and he would have to hand me over to my mother who fixed all that and fed me, while Edward watched helplessly from his chair, suddenly tired, excruciatingly tired of the noise, the sleepless nights, the smell. Tired of his tired wife. So he missed the old life sometimes, the freedom, the time to think things throughâbut did that make him different from any other man?
Soon, she thought, taking a breath in quickly, but she didnât get up, or even stop looking at the bill. She just thought that one word. Soon.
Outside, as he mowed the lawn, it wasnât looking good for Auburn. Never did. It was the same every time: you went into the game believing that this was going to be the year they did it, this was going to be it, finally, and it never was.
It was almost halftime, and Auburn was already down ten.
On the day I was born, my father finished the front and then started the backyard with a renewed sense of optimism. In the second half Auburn came out charging and scored a touchdown on their first possession. Now down only three, anything was possible.
Alabama scored just as quickly, and then, off a fumble, they scored a field goal.
My mother placed the electric bill flat on the table, and pressed it with her hands as though trying to get out the wrinkles. She didnât know that all my fatherâs hard work and perseverance would, in a matter of only a few days, pay off handsomely, and that she would never have to worry about an electric bill again. For now the world, the entire planetary solar system, seemed to orbit around the center that was this bill for $42.27. But she had to have the house cool. She was carrying around all this weight. Naturally she was a slim woman but she was as big as a house now with me inside her. And she liked it cool.
She heard my father in the backyard, mowing. Her eyes widened: I was coming. Now. I was coming now.
Auburn was making a comeback.
Time passed. She calmly gathered her hospital things. Auburn had the ball with but a few seconds remaining. Time for a field goal.
On the day I was born, my father stopped mowing the lawn and listened to the announcerâs voice on the radio. He stood like a statue in his backyard, half of which had been mown, half to go. He knew they were going to lose.
On the day I was born, the world became a small and joyous place.
My mother screamed, my father screamed.
On the day I was born, they won.
How He Saw Me
I was unimpressive at firstâsmall and pink, helpless, with no real skills to speak of. I couldnât even roll over. When my father was a boy, a child, a babyâhe had brought more into the world with him than I did. Times were different then, and more was asked of everybody, even the babies. Even the babies had to pull their weight.
But as a baby I didnât know those hard times. Born in a real hospital, with the best medical care and all kinds of drugs for my mother, I just didnât know what birth was like in the old days. Though this didnât change anything: Edward loved me. He did. Heâd always wanted a boy and here I was. Heâd expected more, of course, from my arrival. A muted brilliance, a glow, maybe even a halo of some kind. That mystical feeling of completion. But none of that came. I was just a baby, like any otherâexcept, of course, that I belonged to him, and that made me special. I cried a lot and slept a lot and that was about it; my repertoire was very limited, though there were those moments of peaceful clarity and joy when I stared up at my father from his lap, my eyes beaming, as though he were a godâwhich, in a way, he was. Or godlike anyway, having created this life, having planted the magic seed. At those times he could see how smart I was, how bright, he could visualize my potential in the world. So much was possible.
But then I would start to cry again, or my diaper would need changing, and he would have to hand me over to my mother who fixed all that and fed me, while Edward watched helplessly from his chair, suddenly tired, excruciatingly tired of the noise, the sleepless nights, the smell. Tired of his tired wife. So he missed the old life sometimes, the freedom, the time to think things throughâbut did that make him different from any other man?
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