Thu Apr 24, 2008
Henry Clinton Goodwin was born at 8:40 AM on Tuesday. The operating room was very cold, with the vaguely futuristic air you might expect. I sat behind the curtain during the short procedure and detailed the various possibilities remaining in the NBA playoffs to an interested Clancy. The doctor called my attention to the cyanotic Henry being pulled out (these babies are surprisingly tough—Henry has the wiry strength which currently characterizes his mother and formerly characterized his father, before po’ boys and gumbo rendered him a gelatinous mass). He was then wrapped, and I was invited to escort him to the cutting table. Not much trust was invested in my ability to step over the various wires on the floor.
I then declined to cut the cord, thinking that operation better left to the professionals. It seemed to have the texture of tie-dyed telephone coils. I walked Henry over to the nursery, where I then sat watch over him for a certain period. Other than being a reluctant latcher, he’s done very well, weathering the trauma of the third quarter of the Suns-Spurs game with only mild distress. The first film Henry watched was Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. He was curious about Mia Sara’s subsequent career and doesn’t understand the role of advertising in society.