It Was 30 Years Ago Tonight ...

So let's see, it was the sixth night of Chanukah -- as it is tonight, as was my grandfather's birthday many years earlier -- a Friday, and the Hubs and were in our first apartment, one town over from Bizarro Town. I think we had already had dinner, and I had just lit the candles, when there was a phone call: my sister was in labor.

Now, this was not right. The baby's actual due date was around January 3, but they had scheduled a C-section for sometime between Christmas and New Year's. Her three and half year old had been born by emergency C after nearly 40 hours of labor, so this one was planned ahead. She was not supposed to go into labor on December 9. But she felt fine otherwise, and her doctor had told her to come to the hospital to see what was going on.

Easier said than done! The OB/GYN that my sister and I both used at that time, for various reasons, had his office over the state line in New York, and so the hospital he worked out of was also in New York, in Rockland County, a good 30 to 40 minute drive from B-Town. By the time we got to her house, she and her husband had already left, so it was just my parents there with little JJ. (We hadn't been sure what to do with the lit menorah at home, but it didn't seem right to just blow out the candles, so we had set it down in the bathtub before we left, figuring that if it tipped over there, no harm done.)

In short order, the call came from the Sibs' husband that the doctor had decided to deliver the baby that night! We were astonished, because it was so early, but by all estimations, this was going to be a huge baby, so I guess he knew it was safe. But now we were faced with a dilemma: who was going to the hospital and who was staying with JJ? We had all been there when he was born. (Well, the Hubs hadn't been in the picture then, but my parents and I were there, and her husband's parents, who had both since passed away.) My father decided to stay home, and the Hubs drove a very excited Shirl and me to the hospital.

And did I mention how cold it was? And that it was snowing? And that when we got to the hospital, the front entrance was closed? The three of us had to walk around the outside of the building in the snow, until we finally found an open door -- the emergency room -- and then quietly snuck our way up to maternity.

(At one point during our around-the-building trek, the Hubs said to me "You know, I would never ask you to leave a doctor you really like. But if you find a doctor you really like a little closer to home before we have kids, it wouldn't be a bad idea." Which I did.)

As we got to the outer door of the maternity ward, we saw my sister's husband step out of a phone booth and turn to face us. I will never forget the incredible shit-eating grin he was wearing. So we knew that the baby had been born. My mother said "Well?" He nodded. "What is it?" she asked. (Now you have to remember here that, having a grandson, my mother was itching for a granddaughter.) Anyway, he said "Guess." And my mother said, a bit less than hopefully, "A boy?" And he smiled, and nodded, and said "And?"

My mother lost it then. "And a girl? Twins? She had twins?" and she staggered back into the wall and let her feet go out from under her, sliding down to the floor. By this point, we were all jumping up and down and hugging and kissing. We got it that everyone was fine, and no one had suspected twins until the doctor took out the boy and saw that hey, there's another one in there! (They were each over five pounds at birth, so yeah, that would have been one big baby.)

So. I've written before about the insanity that followed their birth, and that their father, so happy the night they were born, proceeded to have very little to do with them, both before and after his divorce from my sister when they were about 7 years old. That one night was his shining moment. But no more of that.

They are so extra-special to me, the nephew I call Good Guy and his sister, two minutes younger, whom I call Wonderful Niece. Happy Birthday to them, and happy sixth night of Chanukah to them, to Grandpa Sam, to all. We never ever referred to them as "the twins", but first as "the babies" and then "the kids." So, for the babies:

They were a few months old here.

One of my all-time favorite pictures, with my father at a July 4 barbecue.

The "buddy" picture they had taken at their Senior Prom.
(No, they were not each other's date.)

WATCHING PBS :: ENTRY #1643