Fairytale Mixtape: Year 3 - 1993

In 1993, after three years of marriage, the boy and the girl have their first child. The song is Whoomp! There It Is by Tag Team.

On June 24, 1993, the girl gave birth to their first child, a little boy named after a great pianist. The boy had big plans for his son.  He wanted him to be a musician, a pianist, of course.  What better way to start him on his way than with a moniker to motivate him.  Their son got his first music lessons in utero courtesy of the boy’s headphones carefully placed on the girl’s belly.

Their son almost didn’t make it into this world. And on the day the he was born the girl almost ended the boy’s life.

When the girl went into labor, the boy secured the bag they had packed a couple of weeks before and drove the girl to the hospital.  Everything was going according to plan, smooth sailing all the way, except of course for the labor pains.  Once the nurse had the girl all situated in the bed in the delivery room, the boy was able to join her.

It became a waiting game.  So as they waited, the boy flipped through the TV channels in her room.  He found something that they both usually watched, but of course, the girl wasn’t really interested in watching television.  The boy was sitting next to the bed trying to be supportive.  The girl was having periodic contractions which were causing her to moan and groan.

The boy became engrossed in something that was on television.  A contraction came.  A big one.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaah,” exclaimed the girl.

“Shhhhh,” I can’t hear the TV,” said the oblivious boy.

That was strike one.

He quickly came to his senses.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.  I got lost in the moment.  Do you want me to get the nurse?  Do you need anything?”

“Why don’t you just go out for a moment to stretch your legs,” she suggested.

The girl had her hands full trying to serve an eviction notice to her short term renter, she didn’t have the patience or the energy to babysit the boy too.

“I’m going to run out and get something to eat,” he said.  Do you want something?”

“Does it look like I’m in the mood for a meal right now?” she said through gritted teeth.

The girl was actually famished, but was ordered by the doctor and the nurse not to eat anything until after the baby came.

When he got back in the room he came to the side of the bed and kissed her on her forehead. He smelled like her favorite sandwich in the world - a Hardee’s grilled chicken on sourdough bread. It took everything she had not to choke him out after she got a whiff of his breath.  But she kept her cool.  She had bigger fish to fry.

That was strike two.

An hour or so later it was showtime.  The girl’s obstetrician came in and officially began the process of delivery.  He was a black man with a certain style about him.  He was well known and respected around town. Most of the black children in the city under the age of 15 were delivered by this brother and his partner, another black man. All the nurses loved him.

Most guys would have a problem with a man like this surveying their wife’s woman parts, but not the boy.  He liked the doctor, mostly because at one time the boy wanted to be an OB-GYN.  The boy initially enrolled in college in a six year medical program, but quickly found out that he wasn’t really about that life.  The doctor was who the boy imagined himself being if he actually would have been about that life.

The doctor was in the throes of the delivery when all of a sudden the monitors started blaring.

“The baby’s in distress,” said the doctor.  “It looks like the umbilical cord is pressing up against him when she has a contraction.”

The boy and the girl both were alarmed and started to worry.

“Scalpel,” said the doctor.  After receiving the scalpel, the doctor performed an episiotomy on the girl to prevent the baby from tearing the curtain as he made his grand entrance onto the world stage.

“Forceps,” said the doctor as he reached his hand out to receive them from the nurse.

“On your next contraction I’m going to insert the forceps and pull him out as fast as I can.”

The monitors were beeping and pulsing. It took a few contractions, but the doctor finally brought the baby into the world by sheer force and might.

The baby was immediately rushed across the room to be examined and assessed with an Apgar score.  The girl told the boy to follow the nurses with their son.  After a few tense minutes, a normal Apgar score was reported out loud for all to hear.

The boy and the girl were relieved.  The girl had tears in her eyes. The ones further down her cheek were from pain and worry.  The ones welling up in her eyes were from joy.

After things calmed down the doctor retrieved a stool from across the room and lowered it. He pushed the stool between the girl’s legs which were still in the stirrups.  The doctor was right at eye level with the girl’s now vacant property.

“I don’t mean to brag,” said the doctor as he started to go to work.  “But I am the stitch master.  I make the best stitches in the world.  Never and I mean never, is there ever any scarring from my episiotomies.”

As he meticulously sewed in his perfect stitches, the doctor’s left hand and right hand were alternating as they came out from between the girl’s legs.  He looked as if he was going through a junk drawer looking for something and throwing things out behind him one by one back and forth with each hand as he searched.

All of sudden, the doctor turned around and looked at the boy who was sitting behind him across the room.

“Hey brother,” he said.  “If you want, I can put a couple of extra stitches in her and tighten it up.  Make it like brand new.”

The boy laughed.  The girl lifted her head off the pillow and scowled at the boy.

Just as the doctor finished and cut the last stitch, he jumped to his feet, pointed to his handiwork and shouted, “Whoomp! There It Is! I thought you knew!

That was strike three!