Praising the births of new Ferraris

DAVID SILVA

My nephew, Andrew, called the other day to tell me his wife had just

given birth to their third son. The couple had gone to the hospital

at 11 p.m., and an hour and five minutes later, the child was born.

When it comes to babies, my family doesn’t mess around.

I asked Andrew what he and Susanna had named the baby, and he said

they named him David.

“Uh, does Susanna have any relatives named David?” I asked.

“No, tio, we named him after you,” he replied.

“Oh, well done!” I said.

The news pleased me so much that I made it a point to tell

everyone: my co-workers, my boss over the phone, my friends through

e-mail, the girl who takes my order at Starbucks. “Hey, guess what?

My nephew named his new baby after me!”

“That’s nice, sir. Did you want a grande or a venti?”

By the end of the day I had completely run out of friends and

acquaintances to share my joy with, and on my way home found myself

shouting the news to strangers on street corners.

“Hey, you! Yeah, you!”

“Huh?”

“My nephew named his new baby after me! Isn’t that great?”

“What?”

Not 24 hours after hearing from Andrew, my best friend, Elizabeth,

called. Elizabeth was in the last two weeks of her third trimester,

and the moment I heard her voice, I knew why she was calling.

“Guess where I am right now,” she said, her words slurry. “Man,

these epidurals are great stuff.”

The next day, following 26 hours of labor, Elizabeth and her

boyfriend, Chuck, were delivered of their firstborn. They named him

Benjamin, which I suppose is a good name too.

It’s just raining babies around here.

A day later, I drove out to see the little people. It was a hot

day, and as I idled my way across two counties in my poorly

air-conditioned Honda, I kept telling myself that the little

jellybeans had better be cute. If they weren’t, I planned to bill

Elizabeth and my nephew for mileage.

But I had to see them. For nine months, I had been kept in the

loop on every major development of the baby-manufacturing process.

Blue “plus” signs on EPTs, HMO anxieties, swollen ankles and acid

indigestion -- no pregnancy-related subject was too mundane or

unappetizing to keep me out of the know. And now, after all those

long weeks of worry and preparation, two new heirs to the American

experience could be heard wailing in the background when I called to

get directions.

I had to see them. I had already spent $290 on baby clothes and

other assorted items, and I needed to look in on my investment.

But pulling off the freeway in Santa Monica, I spotted what struck

me as an alternative version of every parent’s worst nightmare: a

group of regrettably tattooed teenage boys whaling on one another at

a bus stop, while two Christina Aguilera wannabes stood on the

sidelines and cheered them on. Meanwhile, sitting on the bus bench

and seemingly oblivious to the chaos around her was a well-dressed

young girl in glasses, focused intently on the open textbook in her

lap.

Let’s face it: Babies are a crapshoot.

Suddenly, I found myself filled with wonder. How do they do it?

How do expectant parents deal with the anxiety and uncertainty that

comes with having a child?

I come from a large and highly fertile family, and according to

the Silva Table of Statistical Probability, I should have at least

two children by now. But for reasons largely related to questionable

marriage choices, I remain childless -- a condition my mother views

as a tragedy on the order of the Chicago fire. Having never

experienced parenthood myself, I just couldn’t understand how parents

do it. How is it that people can spend the better part of a year

arranging every aspect of their lives to accommodate their pending

blessed event, with absolutely no guarantee that this blessed event

won’t one day burn down the house?

When you think about it, having a baby is like waiting 270 days to

buy a $200,000 car, with payments spread over 18 years -- sight

unseen. Sure, you have a good idea about the make and color of the

car. But will it be a Lexus or a Yugo? How many parents do I know

dreamed of a Ferrari, only to find their garage occupied for 30 years

by a decal-covered Volkswagen van that simply refuses to work?

But even greater than the anxiety over whether one’s baby will be

a good egg or a bad seed has to be the anxiety over keeping the

little ham loaf safe. We live in troubled times, in a world filled

with danger and telemarketing, and babies are the most defenseless

life forms on Earth. In the United Nations of mammals, human infants

are Luxembourg. How do parents get a moment’s rest from worry? I just

couldn’t understand it.

I arrived at Andrew and Susanna’s and, I confess, was a bit short

with them when they tried to make conversation.

“Hey, Uncle Davey! How was the dri ... “

“Yeah, yeah, later. Where’s the little namesake?”

Little David was lying on his stomach on his parents’ bed, out

cold. I sat next to him and shook my head at the sight of his tiny,

peanut-shaped body and curiously cone-shaped head. I marveled at the

peaceful stillness of a life yet unexposed to telemarketing.

“Hey, little dude,” I whispered, touching his thumbnail-sized hand

with my finger. “You’re lucky, kid. You’ve got a proud and honorable

name. That’s a big leg up on things. Your parents could have named

you Rutherford. Imagine that. But here’s some advice, OK? Don’t let

anyone call you Davey, at least not after you turn 9. You need to

trust me on this one, kid.”

Little David gurgled and opened his eyes, and his tiny hand

suddenly took hold of my finger. I lifted his hand by crooking my

finger, felt the strength in his grip. And again I marveled, because

there was something in that grip that helped me to understand.

This is how parents do it, I thought to myself, studying David’s

perfectly formed fingers. This is how they deal with the fear and

worry, how they are able to close their eyes at night while in the

next room, Luxembourg sleeps.

Babies are all about hope. They’re the most hopeful things we do

as a species.

Susanna, who had been standing beside the bed watching, said that

the baby was much more animated back at the hospital.

“Now that he’s home, all he wants to do is sleep,” she smiled.

I stood up, cleared my throat.

“Well, life is tough,” I said at last. “He’s resting up for it.”

* DAVID SILVA is an editor with Times Community News. He can be

reached at (909) 484-7019 or by e-mail at david.silva@latimes.com.