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the auntie-slack

I’m craving a cigar.

It’s 1:45 pm on Tuesday, October 19 and I’m pacing the Labor & Delivery Reception Area like a 1950’s dad, minus the plaid pants and a comb-over, stuck somewhere between nervous excitement and dread. SlackBaby j., defining the term fashionably late, is 15 days overdue. Slack S.-i-L. M. has a C-section scheduled at 2pm today.

Half of the Labor Refugees in the Waiting Area sit with arms crossed, face pulled in an anticipatory frown, while the others chit-chat at the pace of an auctioneer. People fret, fiddle with keys, tap their feet and bounce their knees, as if practicing horsey for a later date.

I check my watch once, twice. Suddenly it’s 2:30pm, and I should have heard something by now. I approach the Help Desk, manned by a trio of what appears to be TV Grandmas –each has a cloud of curls perfectly shellacked to their powdery skulls, thin lips feature peach lipstick that you know comes in a gold tube and smells like lavender. They’re Charlie’s Angels - a redhead, a blonde, and a brunette, and they buzz excitedly behind the desk. I pick the strawberry one.

Can you tell me anything about a patient who’s in for a C-Section? I ask.

She shakes her head. I’m sorry, honey, we don’t get updates on the surgeries. Just the labor rooms.

I thank her and sit down.

A stooped, grey woman pats me on the hand.

A baby being born, it’s an exciting thing.

It is, I agree.

She leans in conspiratorially. Her breath smells like peppermint candy. She puts a wrinkled hand over mine.

So is this you and your partner’s first baby?

It takes me a moment to decipher her meaning.

Oh no, I laugh. My brother and sister-in-law’s first.

Oh, I’m so sorry. She lifts her wrinkled hand and places it over her mouth.

I tell her not to worry. It’s very hip of you, I say.

She smiles, revealing yellowed teeth, and pats her coiffed bob. She takes it as the compliment that it was intended to be.

I notice everyone in the waiting room sneaking peeks at me. I wasn’t sure what to wear to a baby’s first day, having never been through one before. Perhaps the four-inch platform boots and the lavender pleather jacket were too much. But it’s hard to go incognito when you’ve got crayola red hair.

I check my watch again. 2:52. I was told the surgery would begin at 2pm, and wouldn’t take longer than 20 minutes. I make my way to the nursery. Through the blinds I can see a baby wheeled in. The notecard is pink, and she’s got a shock of brown hair. This has GOT to be her. I make sure my flash is off and lift my camera to take a picture, then wonder to myself if this isn’t my niece, will I get put on some list? A nurse notices me and comes by.

Is that Baby B.? I ask.

She checks the notecard. That’s baby Chin, she responds.

Oops.

Finally, at 3:17, SlackBrother J. comes out of the double glass doors. Everything’s fine, he says, she’ll be out in a couple of minutes. He disappears, and three minutes later I see J. and a trio of nurses push a cart through the door. A small bundle resembling a fat, pink worm is encased in blankets. Baby j. has arrived, fashionably late.

When people hear that I do not desire children of my own, I have always been told you’ll change your mind. Upon news of SlackBaby j.’s impending arrival, they would insist the moment I held her, I would want one of my own.

M.’s room was ready. I went and kissed her on the cheek, asked her how she felt. Fine, she kept saying, I really do feel fine.

Suddenly j. was wheeled in. M. looked at me.

You hold her.

Are you sure?

Yes.

I haven’t held a baby since I was probably 12 years old and babysitting. For some reason, from a frighteningly young age, parents trusted me with their children. Now, twenty years later, the only thing I can remember is support the head.

I approach the cart. j.’s face is scrunched up, mottled pink. She sticks her fist in her mouth and lets out a bellow.

I hesitate. I thought about what people had said. Would I be sucked in by the Baby Tractor Beam? Upon first touch would I crave pink booties and teeny-tiny mary janes and jammies with Yodas and shit? Would I wake up in a bathroom four years later, covered in baby powder, a pacifier in one and a blanky in the other, wonder what in the hell happened?

Would I get drunk on new baby smell, and want one of my own?

I leaned over and gingerly lifted her from her plastic cart. She gurgled and shot out a fist, then opened those incredibly big blue eyes and looked at me, her crazy Auntie SlackMistress.

I looked down at her and thought okay, I get it.

But I still don't want a child of my own. Why do I need one when I've got a fabulous little one right here?

And Auntie Slack is gonna teach her how to tear this shit up!

I’ve been told no tattoos, but Hair Dye 101 is gonna be a blast.