Letter To My First Born

Inspired by the 2pac song by the same name — a letter to you my son, Massimo. Love, baba.

The contractions started on a Tuesday night at one thirty in the morning.

Your mother wasn’t sure if it was the real deal yet. It’s best to try to relax in these early stages of labour — but she couldn’t sleep. The contractions continued so she downloaded an app to time them. They were about one minute long and five minutes apart, but not that strong. She decided to call our doula, EeVon — a cool, calm Malay lady from Sudbury.

Half-awake, I heard your mother talking about something that seemed really important. And it was. It was about you.

Once I pieced together what was going on, I leaped out of bed thinking, “OMG. This is it. The day my family gets a tiny third member!”. And just then I pulled an old kink under my right shoulder blade that pulsated down my hamstrings. Baba’s got some back issues, Massimo. As I reached for the Tylenol, I could already feel your big brown eyes rolling — sucking your teeth at me ten years from now when I need another break while we’re wrestling.

While your mother was breathing through her contractions, I spent the next few hours on a Persian rug with my legs elevated cursing my achy bones. The smell of Tiger Balm leaked up my nose hairs. I fibbed to your mother about how much it hurt and centred her.

Eevon said it still seemed early and told your mother to rest and relax — which to her of course meant: clean the home…