How to Make a Baby

How o Make a Baby
by Robert Levin

I was, I suppose you could say, in a PREpartum depression.

It started when my wife, Connie, decided it was time to have a baby. I
was thirty-one and she was twenty-eight, a circumstance which, I
reminded her in my argument against the idea, was no cause for alarm.
But after she'd voiced her ambition--and thereby made it real to
herself--the achievement of motherhood became an obsession for her, and
she would not leave me alone about it. Finally, after several months,
my reluctance to enlist in her project compelled her to resort to a not
so veiled threat: "Steven, she said. "Either we have a baby now or I'm
going to leave you."

All right, I told her, get off the fucking Ovril then.

Now it wasn't that I never wanted a baby, and not that, when I had one,
I didn't want it to be with Connie. Strong of character and will,
nurturing, quick-witted and sometimes uncannily perceptive and
discerning (not to mention pretty), Connie was a terrific wife and more
than qualified to be an exceptional mother. The notion of one day
having a family with her was hardly repugnant to me.

No. What troubled me, what troubled me to the point of
discombobulation, was a consequence inherent in the making of a baby, a
consequence that I could not stop recognizing. Fathering a child would
tie me into the hideous plan that Creation has devised for everything
corporeal. I would be, and by my own hand, replacing myself. Once the
deed was done, once I had accomplished the only thing we know with any
certainty Creation wants of us, I would be, in Creation's estimation,
expendable.

If Connie, born Catholic but now earnestly New Age in her faiths and
sentiments, calmed her fear of death by believing in reincarnation, I
had only the void to anticipate. And if I'd always been keenly tuned to
the perils of existence, and lived in a perpetual state of medium-grade
anxiety as a result, my heightened appreciation of my mortality
destroyed any semblance of internal equilibrium I could claim. With
Connie's demand, the sinister underside of nature had turned itself
toward me, and it wouldn't turn away. Indeed, my now all too acute and
persistent consciousness of what it ultimately meant to be flesh made a
vista of extravagant pullulation, albeit as manicured as Central Park,
grotesque to me. On the most festive of occasions I would look up and
see what William James saw--"the skull grinning in at the banquet." And
I understood what William Burroughs meant by "Naked Lunch"--when I ate
I perceived exactly what it was on the end of my fork. I mean, I could
not listen to the most bathetic of popular love songs anymore without
hearing the primal terror that its simple rhymes were, I knew now,
intended to blunt and mask. I felt altogether fragile, that I could
come apart in the slightest breeze.

And much of the time I was also in a small rage about the new burden
I'd be taking on. I'm referring not to the responsibility of child
raising per se, but to the fact that no matter how large was the
contempt I'd developed for humanity over the years, having a child
would force me to give a shit about what the world might be like after
I died.

Seriously tipped over, I even began to think about homosexuality;
about, that is, the solution it afforded to the problem of getting your
rocks off without spinning what Jack Kerouac called the "wheel of the
quivering meat conception." Though a less than appealing option for me,
there were hours when--oddly and perversely--I could not help but
feel...well...TITILLATED by the concept of having sex that was
unencumbered by procreative implications.

In the petrifying absence of contraception, I found myself avoiding sex
with Connie. And when I could not avoid it, my performance was
uninspired and frequently impeded by occlusions in my circuits that
would leave the both of us in a condition of considerable frustration.
Worse, my very biology joined in the protest, forcing me to suffer the
embarrassment of a sperm count that a lab, visited at Connie's
insistence, twice reported was "virtually negligible."

Compounding these miseries, locking me deeper into paralysis as it
increased my sense of urgency, was Connie's evident disappointment in
me; a disappointment that was evolving into disdain. Terms of
endearment like "honey" and "sugar," for example, were routinely being
replaced by "washout" and "loser." In my timorousness, my cowardice,
I'd become, in her eyes, something less than a man. Recalling her
admission to me, shortly after we married, that she'd bought into the
myth about Jewish men being extraordinary providers and great
fathers--and having long before disabused her of the former illusion--I
knew that I had no choice now but to keep the latter one alive.

Then, reasoning that a change of scene might turn the trick, Connie
came up with the idea of spending a few days in the country together.
When I agreed, she arranged for us to stay with our friend Betsy, who
ran a little print shop out of her ramshackle house in a Catskill town
not far from Kingston.

With Connie's patience rapidly disintegrating, it was, I knew,
something like now or never for me and I geared myself as best I could.
Scrupulously adhering to a plan we devised--a month of wholesome foods
and regimented exercise; no sex or masturbation for a fortnight; I made
ready to win a war with myself.

But arriving upstate, I felt like a German soldier must have felt upon
arriving at the Russian front. It was the middle of winter, the sky was
low and gray, the snow drifts were thigh-high and the temperature was
near to zero. It was not exactly an atmosphere conducive to a
successful completion of the undertaking at hand--especially not when,
in the back bedroom to which Betsy assigned us (and which she used to
store old printing equipment and bound stacks of yellowing posters and
flyers), you could see your breath and needed to wear your coat.

But as inopportune and unlikely as the setting may have been, it was on
our second afternoon there that a child was conceived.

I should say, first of all, that I was feeling not a little physically
ill--and it wasn't only that I was on the edge of a cold. A city
apartment dweller, I've noticed that country people, who pay for their
own heating oil, tend to be flinty about using it, and Betsy was
obviously no exception. On this day, however, in an extremely generous
and woefully misguided demonstration of support, she had pumped the
thermostat up to steam bath levels. The oppressive heat, coupled with
an unfortunate effluvium of cedar, pine, musty furniture and nasty
chemical compounds, threatened my ability to both keep my lunch and
remain conscious.

In any case, with Betsy at work out front, Connie, after giving me a
thumbs up sign, took off her robe and arranged it carefully over a
chair. Deliberately presenting her bottom to me as she bent to the bed
to pull away the quilts, she followed this maneuver by abruptly turning
around and flopping onto the bed on her back. Then, reaching for a
pillow, she propped it under her buttocks and spread her legs.

"Stevie, do you feel it too? It's as though there's a spirit hovering
near us waiting to be born."

"Great," I said, removing my pants. "I hope it's the spirit of a
heavy-duty bond trader who happened to have a coronary while he was up
here for a weekend. Please don't let it be one of the local yahoos who
ran his pickup into a tree."

I entered her immediately--it had, after all, been two weeks. But just
as quickly I knew I was going to wither. My deprived penis's rote
reaction to a welcoming vagina notwithstanding, the gravity of the
occasion continued to undermine me--the longer I put this off, the
longer I had to live. Still, I had made a compact which I had to keep,
and I began to leaf through bodies, shuffle through poses, postures and
configurations in my personal mental Kama Sutra file--then, starting to
panic and sweating obnoxiously, to ransack my memory and imagination.
But no one and no thing I could remember or think to want would keep me
up, let alone elicit he participation of my gonads. I tried, with my
hand, to STUFF it in. I would happily have settled for a premature
orgasm.

"Stop." Connie said. She squeezed out from under me and, her hair
trailing along my chest and stomach, ran her tongue down the length of
my torso to the numb thing between my legs.

Practicing Catholicism devoutly until her late teens--and though she
had still not permitted a man inside her until she was
twenty-three--less so thereafter, Connie'd had more than a little
experience keeping boyfriends with her hands and her mouth. In seconds,
despite my mental state, she got it half way up and we tried again. But
once more I evacuated her ignominiously and she was obliged to root in
me again. Ten minutes must have passed before she raised her head. I
was expecting an expression of scorn. Look, I was prepared to say, I'm
sorry. This is really out of hands. But Connie was grinning at me.
Crawling backwards a little, she reached her arm under my legs and
lifted them until they were almost perpendicular to the bed. Then,
holding my haunches up and steady with both of her hands, she lowered
her head to my starkly exposed ass and drove her tongue as deep as she
could into my rectum. Lingering there for a while, she finally came out
from under me and, brushing it against my nostrils en route, brought
her mouth to my ear.

"You little Jew bastard," she whispered hotly. "I wish you'd be the
lesbian you are right now because what I really want to do is eat your
pussy."

Score one for Connie's acumen and her resourcefulness in an emergency.
"Harder," she was instructing me after no more than a minute had
elapsed. "Go deeper. Yeah. Oh. Splash."

Cody was born nine months later, almost to the day. Nature being
oblivious to human expectations of justice and symmetry, he had,
contrary to the circumstances of his conception, both a proper
allotment of toes and fingers, and a countenance that was amazingly
genuine in its sweetness and innocence. I mean, there was nothing
unhealthy or freakish about him; nothing that was even remotely
DAMIENISH. By every measure he was a wonderful specimen.

And me? Well, I was worn by then to a physical as well as emotional
nub--I lost fifteen pounds during Connie's pregnancy that I didn't need
to lose. But not dropping dead with Cody's arrival had a salutary
effect on my nerves that was almost immediate. I was still filled with
trepidation, of course, but--my panic significantly less clamorous and
debilitating, my not-so-quiet desperation much quieter--it was,
relatively speaking, a manageable trepidation.

Within just days of his birth I was, in fact, as close as I get to all
right again.