“My name is not Cowie!!” I screamed in frustration, for the four hundredth time. Why would these idiots let their terrible two-year-old pick my name? Everyone knows that big brothers are jerks, toddlers are punks, and girls named after farm animals are not happy. It’s possible they couldn’t hear me clearly through the amniotic fluid and layers of mommy, but I had to try.
Somewhere around midnight, roughly eight hours and fifty minutes before I’d see my first light of day (light of an operating room anyway), I subtly suggested to mommy that she pick a better name than any of the losers they’d previously considered, and particularly Teddy’s suggestion of Cowie. Something good; no, something great, like Alexander (wait, that’s a boy’s name), how about Catherine? Daddy sounded intrigued, in his weird echoey voice from outside. Luckily for me, Teddy was asleep at this time so he couldn’t object in his own brattish voice (“no, her name is Cowie!”). As soon as I can control my bodily functions, he’s my first target.
A few hours later, I heard a series of new voices outside, which was a surprising change. For the last month it had only been the three clowns mentioned already (mommy, daddy, and the unbearable Teddy). At the time I had no idea what coronavirus meant or why daddy kept joking about naming me “Covidia”. I just figured my parents were losers and that’s why they were not around other people anymore.
These new people were very bossy. I couldn’t understand much of their muffled voices but mommy seemed to follow every one of their instructions. Except when the one woman hurt her hand with a needle. Mommy really did not like that and complained to daddy, who told her to be grateful because it was a good distraction from the bigger hurts her body was about to be inflicted by those mean other people. No wonder they were staying away from others.
I heard one man talk about stabbing mommy in the back and asking her how far she wanted it. Spinal or epidural? They both sounded scary to me. If he poked too far, would he hit me?
Things got really quiet after that, until suddenly I saw a sharp thing flash by overhead (how many newborns know what a scalpel is when they’ve never seen anything beyond the inner workings of mommy?). Suddenly I was looking up at a bunch of big people in blue masks and gowns, and my first thought was that I’d been born a Smurf. You’d cry too thinking yourself a rare girl in that pathetic blue patriarchy.
They pulled me up out of mommy’s belly so quickly that I couldn’t get in one last kick for old time’s sake. Then they cut the cord and I was floating freely, no longer chained to anyone, which was nice, except that they were still holding me up, which was annoying, except that I couldn’t seem to lift my own head anyway, so I guess it was okay for now. Catherine’s days of freedom are coming, I tell you.
After wiping away my purple film and revealing a slightly yellowish hue (much better than blue), I was handed to a guy with tears in his eyes who looked like he had no clue what he was doing in the room. It didn’t take too long to realize that the clueless guy was daddy. Just like mommy always said.
And the pretty woman’s head next to daddy? From daddy’s unusually sensitive words I learned that this is my mommy! But she was not saying hello or crying like daddy. Was she, yes, I couldn’t believe it, but mommy was sleeping! I recognized those snores! Here I am, naked for the world to see, looking adorable (if I do say so myself), and mommy is sleeping? Okay, if that’s the way she wants to play it, I’ll play along and sleep all day and stay up all night, like a Slaughter song that she would hate.
(You’re probably wondering how a newbie like me would know Smurfs and Slaughter and other silly dated pop culture drivel; ask my daddy. From what I’ve gathered in my few days on this diseased planet, I inherited from him some worthless knowledge and an unsubtle sense of sarcasm. My good looks, big brain and small stature all come from mommy. And don’t worry, it is my intention to forget most of daddy’s trivialities in time to learn more valuable skills like math and science, probably by the age of two; funny, mommy doesn’t look like a tiger…)
Some not so nice ladies took me from daddy and put me on a sterile table where they poked and prodded, weighed and measured like they’d never seen a newborn girl before. Is it any of their business what temperature my armpit is? Again, I was too weak to physically fight back, but my voice was loud and I could tell I was getting to them, even if I couldn’t tell them off with real words.
After a while I heard the big man with the knife say something about staples, and then he told mommy he was done. The nosy ladies then pushed mommy’s bed back to another room with daddy pushing me in my own special cart right behind. I felt bad to see and hate to say but mommy looked terrible. Sure, she was beautiful, but wow, she looked like hell! (Does that count as my first profanity? Something else to be blamed on daddy’s DNA).
Nurse Danni (she politely announced herself each time she entered our room) surely had good intentions when she mentioned something to daddy about “skin to skin.” I didn’t know what she was talking about, when a minute later daddy had me tucked under his shirt, zipped against his hairy chest! Disgusting! The single worst moment of my life so far. I swear (I’m good at it, you know), I will never like fat, hairy old guys after that. No offense Grandpa.
When mommy revived a little, I was finally able to get to the good stuff.
We moved to another tomb I mean room that would become our home for the next three days. I was not allowed to go anywhere. They even put an electronic ankle bracelet on me, as if I was a flight risk parolee or something. I played along for the rest of the day, closing my eyes and biding my time. After midnight they’d learn what I thought of being grounded.
Mommy kept complaining about being hungry, but no one would give her any food. They’d give her ice chips, which mommy would throw back up in their faces. I took notes on projectile vomiting. That looks like a useful skill.
The doctors and nurses kept coming and going, poking me and mommy, putting a cold disc against my chest, still obsessing about my armpits. I heard daddy tell someone that he didn’t know my middle name yet because mommy forgot her phone. Come on people, you knew I was coming! I was really on edge that these jokers would still incorporate the word Cow into my name.
Daddy took his leave of us for a few hours to go tell Teddy that he was now the least favorite child. After handling my svelte six pounds twelve ounces, Teddy’s thirty plus pound load would probably break the old man’s back. When daddy returned, he was wearing a silly blue mask. He told us that the hospital had changed its rules again, and everyone coming and going now had to wear them. Mommy and I, the pretty prisoners, didn’t have to wear them because we couldn’t leave the cell.
As much as I wanted to scream my frustrations at the world outside, I really was too tired to do too much. Like mommy and daddy, we all just slept off and on between nurse visits to talk about my pees and poops. Really, is nothing sacred?
Day 2 was a lot less eye-opening and exciting than Day 1, since there really was nothing new in our little hospital room. At least mommy was able to eat without throwing up. Some people ran more tests and said I failed, but what do they know? The tests were culturally biased. I don’t know who Billy Rubin is but I know I don’t like him. Daddy said I had more pricks underfoot than Trump’s Cabinet, but I’m not really sure what he meant by it. Politics aside, I think it was likely just a weak analogy.
Because things were so boring, I slept most of the day. Nobody seemed to mind. Mommy and daddy talked about my middle name and mentioned a bunch of funny sounds in a foreign language. Boonyapha? Nutwara? Thipkrita? Natnisha? All better than Cowie, I’ll freely admit. Daddy liked Verada, which means verity, truth. Catherine means pure. Pure Truth. But mommy said that it was not a lucky name at this time. I’m guessing this was more politics.
That night, I woke up and let them know it. Enough of being timid, I wanted out! Daddy did his best to bounce / rock me to sleep, but all it did was to show me that despite my lithe limbs, with his genetics I can never be a dancer. I cried out in disappointment!
Sometime around 4:30, our new nurse Maame took pity on the parents and me, and let me escape for a short while to take a bath. Apparently in the old days, babies used to get to hang out together in a place called a nursery, but they said that the nursery was now closed for that Covid guy. Anyway, it was nice to get cleaned up and put into some fresh clothes. Until this point I’d been only covered in a flimsy diaper and a pathetic attempt of a swaddle. Daddy’s best efforts only lasted a minute or two before I’d break free and flail my arms away at the world.
On Day 3 I was ready to go home, but the big doctor with the knife told mommy that we should stay another day. The doctors kept clashing opinions, should we stay or should we go? That Billy Rubin jerk also wanted more blood from my foot. Mommy believed the man doctor after he complimented my perfectly round head. I believe this was his way of reminding her that his handiwork kept them from using forceps to pull me out by my cute noggin. Daddy thinks mommy just wanted more free jello, but I’ve figured out already that his opinion doesn’t count for much anyway.
The most exciting thing to happen today was that mommy and daddy finally figured out my full name, and I am officially not Cowie! Catherine Ramida Apfelbaum. Ramida means happy in Thai, or so I am told. It also means recusant in Urdu, but daddy doesn’t know what that means. He’ll figure it out soon enough. [Recusant = a person who refuses to submit to an authority or comply with a regulation].
CRA = Crazy Rich Asian! How cool is that, Urban Dictionary? I’m only half-Asian, but half-rich is better than poor, right? CRA = Child Related Absence as well, meaning mommy and daddy will be missing a lot of work to care for their new baby girl!
Mommy and daddy debated nicknames for me, and as per usual, couldn’t agree on anything. Cathy, Cate, Caty, Rin? We’ll see where they land. As long as it’s not bovine, I can probably live with it. But daddy, “Baby Cat”? Come on, everyone knows that’s a kitten. BomboCat!
Things took a turn for the worse that evening. First, daddy went back to see Teddy. I was really starting to resent big bro infringing upon my me time. When he was in this same hospital they never left him to see me. Then, while daddy was gone, some mean people in masks came in with a medieval torture device called a Catherine Wheel. Or not a breaking wheel, but a light table that I had to lay on, shining up from below, while another light baked me from above. For one thing, I was completely exposed! And I hate to admit this, but I had something of a rash all over my body (the doctors all said it was normal and would go away in a few days). Worse still, they placed a superhero mask on my face, which sounds kind of cool, except they forgot to cut out the eyeholes! Who am I supposed to be, Daredevil? I know mommy wants me darker like her, but isn’t it a bit early to put me on a tanning bed?
Daddy came back to my screams of protest, but mommy told him they couldn’t take me out except to eat and change my diapers. I’ll tell you, I never tried to poop so hard in my (admittedly short) life! I wanted out of that light cage.
Morning eventually came (at least I assume it was the next morning, since with my blindfold on and an inability to count yet I couldn’t confidently confirm just how long I’d been between the lamps), and they nipped my heel again! Was this payback for kicking mommy so energetically all these months? An hour later they told us that Billy finally had enough red Rubin and we could go home.
First order of business when we get there, I’m kicking Teddy with my non-bandaged foot. Move over brover. Cowiebunga dude!
Traipse Reports - Trips and Races 