Hey Jude?
Being the daughter of divorced parents is all I have ever known. I was just a few months old when my folks split up so I never had the heartwrenchingly tragic experience of knowing my parents as a loving married couple one day, and bitter feuding exes the next.
I even remember meeting my Dad for the first time when I was about four years old. I know that we had actually "met" before; I've seen pictures of my birth, and I see him in them so I know he was there.
My birth.
They planned to have me at home all along, and even found a doctor with a midwife who did that sort of thing. I was born on Tuesday, June 23, 1970. It was game day. The LA Dodgers were playing the Atlanta Braves at the Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium. The reason that this game has any relevance is both because my Dad loves the Dodgers, and because his buddies did too; in fact, they all came over to hang out and catch the game - regardless of the fact that coming to watch the game meant walking past the delivery that was taking place on the dining room table.
Mom and Dad had a weirdo mutt named Robin the Rotten Dog. While my Mother lay spread-eagled on the table, her focal point was that of Robin; barking and jumping straight up and down like a pogo stick outside the sliding glass door directly in front of her. Every so often there would be a neighbor, a friend, or some hanger-on sauntering through. They'd pause and say something congratulatory like "Oh. Hey, havin' the kid? Right on." and proceed to the idiot box to enjoy the sights and sounds of Vin Scully, organ music and the popping of bats mixed with the roar of the crowd.
I hear that I was turned around inside there kinda funny with the cord wrapping itself a way that it ought not to. The good doctor poured olive oil on his hands; slid them in, turned me right, and out I came. DODGERS WIN 7-0!
Picture taken by Dad.
I'm wiped down, suctioned, spanked, and handed to my Mother. She and I are taken into her and Dad's bed for drinks. Mine is milk, and hers is an entire glass jug of Tropicana orange juice which she guzzles straight from the container. "It's not sterile in here." she says to the doctor "Best she get used to germs right away" he said "she'll be healthier for it." With that, the doctor leaves them with some paperwork to fill out as soon as they figure out a name for their second daughter.
Yes, I'm a girl. A girl? They were assured I was going to be a boy. They had been expecting a boy. They had the name Jude all picked out special for me - their son.
No name comes easy. They consider Veronica, but quickly veto it assuming I'll be teased as being a character from the Archies comics. I'm called "Baby" for weeks. By the time they finally fix on a name for me, Lorelei (pronounced Laura-lie, no possible teasing to be formed there right?) they are unable to part with Baby. So I become Baby Lorelei for years and years and years.
I even remember meeting my Dad for the first time when I was about four years old. I know that we had actually "met" before; I've seen pictures of my birth, and I see him in them so I know he was there.
My birth.
They planned to have me at home all along, and even found a doctor with a midwife who did that sort of thing. I was born on Tuesday, June 23, 1970. It was game day. The LA Dodgers were playing the Atlanta Braves at the Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium. The reason that this game has any relevance is both because my Dad loves the Dodgers, and because his buddies did too; in fact, they all came over to hang out and catch the game - regardless of the fact that coming to watch the game meant walking past the delivery that was taking place on the dining room table.
Mom and Dad had a weirdo mutt named Robin the Rotten Dog. While my Mother lay spread-eagled on the table, her focal point was that of Robin; barking and jumping straight up and down like a pogo stick outside the sliding glass door directly in front of her. Every so often there would be a neighbor, a friend, or some hanger-on sauntering through. They'd pause and say something congratulatory like "Oh. Hey, havin' the kid? Right on." and proceed to the idiot box to enjoy the sights and sounds of Vin Scully, organ music and the popping of bats mixed with the roar of the crowd.
I hear that I was turned around inside there kinda funny with the cord wrapping itself a way that it ought not to. The good doctor poured olive oil on his hands; slid them in, turned me right, and out I came. DODGERS WIN 7-0!
Picture taken by Dad.
I'm wiped down, suctioned, spanked, and handed to my Mother. She and I are taken into her and Dad's bed for drinks. Mine is milk, and hers is an entire glass jug of Tropicana orange juice which she guzzles straight from the container. "It's not sterile in here." she says to the doctor "Best she get used to germs right away" he said "she'll be healthier for it." With that, the doctor leaves them with some paperwork to fill out as soon as they figure out a name for their second daughter.
Yes, I'm a girl. A girl? They were assured I was going to be a boy. They had been expecting a boy. They had the name Jude all picked out special for me - their son.
No name comes easy. They consider Veronica, but quickly veto it assuming I'll be teased as being a character from the Archies comics. I'm called "Baby" for weeks. By the time they finally fix on a name for me, Lorelei (pronounced Laura-lie, no possible teasing to be formed there right?) they are unable to part with Baby. So I become Baby Lorelei for years and years and years.
posted by MimiLolly at 8:58 PM
2 Comments:
Does this mean i can call you "Hey Jude?" I kinda like that.
That picture is crazy! I don't remember ever seeing it. I like how moms crotch is facing the window, which has no curtains.
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