Baby Jo, Doh!

You’d think my mom going into labor with my sister would’ve been enough excitement for one day, but 7-year-old me kicked things up a notch by spiking a 104-degree fever at the exact same time. I’m sure my parents were thrilled to add “deal with delirious child” to the day’s agenda.

The original plan was for me to stay with the neighbors while my parents were at the hospital, but my illness shot that idea down.

That was too bad because I was looking forward to an overnight excursion across the street. The whole family was nice, but even more importantly, they had great toys. Best of all was a model of the Chitty Chitty Bang Bang car, with wings that folded out from the underside. I was so enamored with it I once stole it for about a week, but then I felt guilty, and snuck it back. The couple there had three kids: a classmate my age and two older girls who were my babysitters. I was extra fond of the girl who always let me stay up past my bedtime so I could watch The Mary Tyler Moore Show, which is the best show of all time and, I’m sorry, that’s simply not up for debate.

It seemed like a cordial, reciprocal arrangement, since my parents had once babysat those three kids when the neighbor couple went to the hospital. The husband thought he was bleeding internally. He was equal parts relieved and embarrassed to discover his “internal hemorrhaging” was just a result of eating way too many beets.

My parents had to quickly rally with a Plan B. They gave me drugs, put me to bed, and called my grandparents to come stay with me so my parents could then head out to the hospital. There were just a few issues with that plan. First, my grandparents lived about three hours away. Happily, that turned out not to be a problem. Spoiler alert – there are no home births in this story.

The second hitch was, not for nothing, my grandparents were in the middle of hosting a dinner party when my parents called. I can just see them, hanging up the phone, turning to their guests and saying “Well! Sandy’s in labor. We’re going upstairs to pack, and then we’re leaving. But by all means, stay. Eat! When you’re done with dinner, dessert’s in the fridge, coffee’s on the counter, and if you could put your plates in the dishwasher when you’re done, that’d be great. Bye!”

Knowing their friends, they were undoubtedly thrilled for my grandparents, and they probably really did stay for the full meal. I know I wouldn’t skip out on my grandmother’s cooking if I could possibly help it.

I, meanwhile, was feeling truly awful and hallucinating. Of course, I didn’t know hallucinations were a thing; I just knew I was seeing crazy stuff. Not only did my bedroom door seem to be impossibly far away, like my bedroom was now a bowling alley, but I was truly baffled and dismayed to see that the door was also on the wall up by the ceiling instead of down by the floor. I couldn’t figure out how I was supposed to climb up there to turn the doorknob to open the door and cross the hall to the bathroom. It wasn’t funny. I really had to pee.

I knew I must be pretty sick, because the designated family “barf bucket” had appeared. It was a heavy, ornately embossed metal wastebasket that had belonged to my great-grandfather. Although it usually served as a trash can, if you felt sick to your stomach, this is what got placed at your bedside. Also, we used it to mix concrete in. Look, I can’t explain it; I can only share it. My guess is it was because it was clearly a bit of vintage splendor, but it was also hideously ugly. When it was sold at an estate sale after my parents moved, it fetched a surprisingly good price.

I woke up the next morning feeling much better and beyond surprised to find my grandmother asleep beside me in my little twin bed. She hadn’t just kept an eye on me that night. She’d had me under full-time surveillance.

My fever had broken, so I thought the hallucinating was behind me, but then I looked across my (normally proportioned) bedroom and out the window, and saw my grandfather’s face hovering just inches beyond the glass on the other side. Since my bedroom was on the second floor, that seemed like cause for medical concern again.

Tentatively, I went to take a closer look, not at all sure what I might see. I’d seen some pretty strange things the night before. Was this going to be a disembodied floating head? Nope. It was indeed my grandfather, on a ladder with a paintbrush in his hand, live and in the flesh. I’m not sure if I felt relief that I was not seeing things, or concern over the realization, “Well, this is how my family is.”

It seems my grandfather had quite a bit of nervous energy from waiting for news of the birth. Not one to sit around and waste all that adrenaline, he did what anyone in that situation would do: he found some cans of paint in the garage and painted the exterior of my parents’ house. So there he was, painting his way around my window like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I guess it’s not quite as crazy as it sounds. My dad had planned to paint the house himself and had mentioned it to my grandfather, but I still wouldn’t blame you for thinking “pacing” is the correct answer to the question of what one should do with nervous energy. 

Happily, there was no need for nervousness. My sister, Joanna, was born with no problems, and I love her even more than that Chitty Chitty Bang Bang car.