Re: Generation

I'm out of it.

I'm writing this on three hours' sleep. Last night, my sister gave birth to a healthy baby boy, even though he was about a month early. (Guess the little guy isn't meant to be a journalist when grows up.)

I wasn't there. Instead, I stayed home with our own two kids while my wife drove down to the hospital. So I paced back and forth in front of my cell phone. Word came shortly before 1 a.m. that all was fine, even though they had to open my sister up and deliver the baby like toast.

Around 2 a.m. I decided to lie down and try to read for a while, keep myself awake until the wife returned. Before I knew it, I had drifted under the gentle shroud of sleep for about six seconds before my cell phone rang. I flipped it open. Part of my brain — confused as to why I suddenly and violently decided to kick it back to consciousness — sent commands to my body to make it tremble uncontrollably.

Mmrrrrpf, I said.

My wife told me she was coming home soon.

Ummpf, I said, which translates to: I'll try to wait up for you.

I tried to wait up for her.

And I succeeded, until the last six seconds before she arrived. Again, the gossamer quilt of blissful repose drifted down over my head ...

The front door opened.

My brain was like, Fuck you, dude.

We stayed up and talked for a while — the kind of talk you have when you're both way too tired.

Do they know who the father is, I asked.

Stop it, my wife said.

(My sister is actually married to a great guy. Polish. From Bridesburg. What's not to love?)

Still can't believe my baby sister had a kid, I said.

Both of them, my wife reminded me.

(My youngest sister, Marcy, gave birth to a little boy just one month and 11 days ago.)

When that happened, I asked the same question:

Do they know who the father is?

Stop it, my wife said.

We also talked about how crazy it was that my parents, who are only in their mid-50s, now have seven grandchildren. Stranger still that my grandfather, who's 81, can claim 12 great-grandchildren. Whenever I look at the Ben Franklin Bridge, I think of my grandfather, because they were born the same year.

But forget them. I think this is crazy for me. I was 10 years old when my sister was born. I remember it well, because my dad was out playing a music gig (he was the guitarist in a cover band called False Teeth, even though he was only 33 at the time). My dad had to leave before the final set and rush over to Rolling Hill Hospital in Elkins Park to meet his firstborn daughter, Jamie.

I don't know if anyone's ever told my sister this, but I'm fairly sure my parents named her after a Van Halen song.

My little sister Jamie was my first experience with a real live baby. Like, one that could die if you didn't take care of it right. Sure, there was my younger brother Gregg, but I was 3 years old when he was born, hence not quite eligible for baby-sitting duties. And one of the objects of being an older brother is to try to kill your younger brother every once in a while. Toughens him up.

So Jamie was my first hint of what raising a baby was like — the sleepless nights, the crying, the feeding, the changing.

I wanted nothing to do with it.

Only crazy people had babies, I thought. They're too much damn work.

I was 30 when our son was born; 31 for our daughter.

But I knew the deal back when I was 10: they are too much damn work.

The passage of time between 10 and 30, though, is really startling. I have vivid memories of being 10, as vivid as my memories of sitting up last night, pacing back and forth in front of a cell phone. Twenty years, in a flash.

Generations are like waves slapping against a beach. You can see those who have gone before you, and if you're lucky, spent time with them before they disappear into the sand. You can look back and see the wave behind you. Bigger and bolder than any other wave.

I guess I'm midwave right now. And maybe I should spend more time looking forward and backward. Because it doesn't take too long before...

I'm out of it.

(Simulcast at www.citypaper.net.)