My wife's labor lasted through the night. Around 6:00 A.M.
, I left the hospital and walked down the street to pick up two dozen bagels, a tub of cream cheese, smoked salmon, and whitefish salad for the hospital staff who had been working tirelessly. By 11:30 A.M.
, Lulu came into the world healthy and screaming. Our baby girl was born on an overcast May morning on the Upper East Side. Everything was perfect.
I felt as hopeful as I was thankful, and I spent nearly the next twenty-four hours staring at this beautiful human my wife and I had created together. I don't recall sleeping, and I barely remember when day turned to night, but I did doze off for a little while. When I awoke, it was nearing noon.
My daughter was now a day old. She and my wife were resting, so I decided to take a walk. I had mostly forsaken booze over the past nine months out of solidarity with my wife, and I knew exactly where I had to go.
For years, I had a vision of how I'd celebrate a major milestone in my life—that milestone being the sale of my first novel. The vision goes something like this: It's the afternoon, and I walk into a bar. A mix of blue-collar guys and a couple of businessmen, three or four Manhattans deep before they head back to Westchester to resume their John Cheever existence, occupy the stools.
I post up at the bar, slip the bartender a Ben Franklin, and give a grandiose speech about accomplishing my dream. Then I buy everyone a round of drinks. I am sharing an intimate moment wit.
