Late last year, I personally witnessed the terrible pain a mother had to go through at childbirth. My friend got pregnant while working as fashion assistant in Milan. Her Italian husband was not around when she began to labor. So she called if I could accompany her to the hospital.
She was already in great pain. This woman was an ardent believer in natural childbirth, but at that time she begged for drugs to lessen her suffering. During each contraction, she''d squeeze my hand so hard you could hear my bones crack. At one point, I was afraid she was attempting to rip my thumb off.
Believe me, it''s true what they say that the pain of childbirth is really excruciating. I nearly passed out. I mean, staying by my friend and all the while witnessing her distress since we entered the hospital at noon the previous day was as draining as, perhaps, carrying a cross up Mt. Calvary on Good Friday. Little Ecko was born at 5 a.m. the next morning.
My friend lives in an apartment in a thickly populated section of the city, and only had a very young maid for company. I decided to stay a couple of days with them as we brought the baby home. I was feeling like a brand-new father.
During those few days, a new matter played a big role in my life-poo-poo. That''s what everybody calls it, this yellowish, creamlike thing that just pops out of a little baby, to the great dismay and horror of those who happen to be carrying the little angel in their arms at the time of the expulsion. But that''s only half of my poo-poo story. When we were leaving the hospital, the doctor told us that the baby should poo-poo three or four times a day. Otherwise, we should call her clinic. So after about a day and a half and nothing happened, we called. "Is it about your wife or the baby?" the lady at the other end of the line asked.
"No, not my wife," I answered quickly, meaning to say that I was not the husband. But the lady didn''t quite get it.
"Ah, so it''s the baby. What''s the problem?"
I detailed everything I thought the doctor should know. The doctor assured me that everything was probably normal, and suggested we give little Ecko a little more time to sort things out. We followed the doctor''s advice. It turned out to be right.
Shortly, the alarm turned from the probable problem with the baby''s health to the high cost of diaper. At four diapers per day, the monthly cost could easily equal that of a cell phone load for the same period. Diapers are as necessary. Many people won''t pick up a baby without a diaper.
On our second night at home, we were awakened by the baby''s crying at way past midnight. I got up, wanting to spare the still weak mother from any bother. I headed towards the kitchen to make milk, too sleepy that I poured hot water on my hand. The mark from the scald is still visible today.
There have also been poignant moments. It lifts me into bliss now when little Ecko wakes up and smiles when he sees me. And more when he stares right at me and mutters, "Dada." It really warms my heart. Sometimes I''d cry in my joy.
For all intents and purposes, I am a father to little Ecko. I have already learned to feel quite comfortable with his poo-poo that it''s okay for me now to carry him even without diaper-I mean his diaper. And, like a real father, I keep in my heart the best intentions and wishes for him, for now and when he grows up.
Yet my relationship with the baby is not at all one-sided. He''s not the only one getting all the attention. Carrying little Ecko around, I''ve found out, is a very good way to meet girls. Anytime, any day, anywhere - on the street, at the park, in the mall, even in the market - most women veer from their paths to approach a man with a baby, so long as he''s not with a woman. And they give you the same loving look they give the baby.
But I won''t give all the credits to little Ecko, either. Maybe it''s really me that the ladies come for, and the baby is only a convenient excuse. Of course, I''m not sure. But who knows? (E-MAIL: modequillo@hotmail.com)