Ezra's Arrival

The plan was simple: Don't look.

After 31 years of life and 16 hours of labor, I had convinced myself to stay away from “down there.” Was I denying myself a special once-in-a-lifetime moment or coming off as insensitive? Maybe. But I had another focus: Candace. I needed to help her through the process and make sure she was OK, be her support. As she started shivering in pain and fear, laying there with innocence emanating from her big beautiful eyes, I began to feel the magnitude of the situation. Before, in the calmness of the hospital, there was nothing more than waiting around, visiting the cafeteria for onion rings and killing time with small talk. Now, it got real -- Mob Wives real. The nine-month wait was over. Ezra was on his way. Now.

I held her right leg as directed by Dr. McAllister, who walked in minutes earlier and proclaimed, "That baby's coming. We are going to push." On the other side with a firm grip around her left leg was Stephanie, the person Candace considers one of her moms. Stephanie is the ultimate coach, motivating and encouraging Candace like she's running a track meet. "You can do it baby!" she says, attempting to hide the trepidation in her voice. My mother is there as well, gently brushing Candace's hair, soothing her with each maternal stroke. This stood out to me because everything around us was swirling at lightning speed, but here was my mom, Janett, living at her own pace oblivious to the commotion, guiding Candace through natures course, subconsciously transferring the motherly patience she will no doubt use in the future.


Aunt Cheryl is there, hovering around with a camera, trying to be respectful and not intrude. Leave it up to one of the most positive influences in our lives to act as if she shouldn't be there. Auntie Diane somehow makes her way in the room, she was not "pre-approved," not on the guest list so to speak, but how can you tell a sweet older lady to leave? You don't. With each passing minute the intensity grew and the large group of family gathered outside became more impatient, nearly knocking down the door to the delivery room. I kept my composure as I tried to help Candace breathe. Short, Short, Long.  This is what our Super nurse -- who gave us a crash course on Lamaze and any other pre-baby classes one can take-- had taught us earlier in the day.  Then it all happened so quickly. Dr. McAllister said she could see the head.

Decision time. Curiosity won. I took a peek. It was a glimpse, a quick glance “down there.” Wow! I see the head, I see all that hair. An inexplicable feeling came over me as I witnessed magnificence. That split second, the amount of time it takes to blink, is seared into my consciousness, imprinted there, branded to the day I die. I will never forget it. I see it as I write. A vivid picture sitting in a frame on the mantle of my memory.

I was wrong all this time. How could I almost deny myself the moment that changed my life and forever challenged me to dare to reach beyond even my own limitations and desires. I turned to Candace and wanted to tell her exactly what I was feeling. I wanted to explain how my heart pounded in my chest with confused raw emotion, how it fluttered with futile attempts to decipher what it was experiencing.  Instead I remained calm and supported her, encouraged her, through my eyes and tears attempted to transfer my energy, hope, will upon her. And so she pushed once, twice and three times. That’s all it took, so many dreams and aspirations brought to light with three pushes: Amazing, Inspire, Joy. I named them.

And with the ride those three pushes provided, Ezra Rey Sanchez took his first breath, not knowing anything more than the bond he already shared with his mother. A connection stronger than a placenta cord, beyond the womb, more alive than blood and flesh. Ezra somehow knew exactly where he needed to go, landing safely on his mother’s bosom ready for his first meal. I was struck by this profoundly, not by the instinctual action of him searching for his mother's breast, but how it personified trust and love in its purest form and how I was blessed enough to know the difference. He was content and in love. So was his father, proud to be associated with greatness and humbled by the power of life. I was there and there I will remain since a piece of my being is forever caught, snowglobed in that moment.  I’m so grateful I deviated from the plan. Scared, nervous, unsure, I decided to fight those fears and take a look and because I did, I will never turn away from him or her again.

His name is Ezra

Ezra is impatient. He curls his lip with displeasure. His eyebrows turn into Vs when he's mad. He likes to be held. He drools on himself occasionally. When he's calm it lasts a few minutes before he let's out a goo or a gee, which leads to a wimper that leads to a cry. He fights me to take the bottle. He seems unhappy. All of this brings on frustration. Am I not a good parent? What am I doing wrong? I forget to change his diaper. His mother is not happy. She breastfeeds him. He gulps as if it's his last meal. He is drunk.

Ezra is a good boy. Spoiled is a word used a lot by others to describe him. You can't spoil a 3 month old.  This is our belief and we reinforce it amongst ourselves. We love him. He is wonderful. He mesmerizes us. His cheeks make us laughs. His hair sticks up and we giggle. His random stares and half-way looks melts our hearts. We are captivated by his every move. We want to capture them with camera phones and video. He enjoys baths. He has the cleanest belly in the world. The warm water soothes him. His straight hair curls up when its wet. He's ready to eat. He's ready for bed.

Ezra has begun sleeping better at night. I am selfish because it is his mother who awakens whenever he does. She feeds him. Changes his diaper. She puts him back to sleep. I rub her back to show my appreciation. A weak attempt at support. I take her for granted. I appreciate all she does. Mothers have an innate, instinctive gene that allows them to do all things. They make life easier for everyone else but their own. Ezra has no idea how lucky he is. Neither does his father.

Ezra smiles in the morning. He stretches both arms as if a fitness instructor has taught him the proper technique. He looks like Winnie the Pooh, plump and plush, care free. He smiles when she does funny dances in front of him. He laughs when I tickle his breast-milk created stomach. I wonder if he's happy. I wonder if I can do better.

Ezra finds comfort on my shoulder. He loves hanging in his Bjorn. Ezra is special. He is more than I could ever ask for. He is my gift, one that I realize doesn't truly belong to me. I'll forever treasure him but he will stand as his own man in this world and in his life. That's not until later. For now, he's all mine.