What child is this? Birth of a fourth blessing

So the baby enters the world the way we’d all like to be-- naked and skinny as a goal post--at 8:59 on a hazy Thursday morning. Profound is probably too weak a word.

Right away, two women wipe him down with gauze, as if to assure him he’s come to a good place.

“He’s a clean baby,” a nurse says.

“We stress that,” I say.

There’s a little slime behind his ears, but otherwise he is indeed a clean baby, born with a clear conscience and the kind of wide-open arteries that usually come only from virtuous living and a bland diet.

That’ll all change quickly enough. Soon, the stain of the world will be upon him.

“We want him to cry,” the nurse says.

“Show him my Visa bill,” I say.

“When he cries, it gets the oxygen deep in the lungs,” she explains.

“I’ll tell him about the Cubs,” I say.

The day began early--too early, even for two parents used to chronic sleep deprivation. We rose before the bread trucks, just as the newspaper thwacked the driveway.

“I’m already tired,” I say on the way to the hospital.

“Look at that star,” my wife says, pointing to the east. Seriously, the east.

“I think it’s a planet,” I say.

“I think it’s a star,” she says.

It doesn’t occur to me till later the significance of two people off to have a baby, spotting a bright star in the east. Talk about historical baggage.

But what better time for a little religion, a couple in their mid-40s having yet another child, with a house already full of kids and pets and bills, sitting on the desk like a pile of leaves.

“Your Verizon account is past due,” a voice on the phone had said the day before.

“We’ve been busy,” I explained.

On the way to the hospital, the car brakes squeak. Notice how your brakes always seem to fail around the holidays? December: good for babies, bad for brakes.

“If you park on the street, you won’t have to pay,” my wife says, as if reading my mind.

“I’ll drop you off first,” I say.

In a few minutes, we are inside the hospital preparing to have another child. The other three are home, dreaming their Christmas dreams, fantasizing about all the stuff we can’t afford. Snowboards. Concert tickets. College.

And here we are, having yet another one, following some strange predawn beacon to this little hospital on the hill. Does God know what he’s doing? Let’s hope someone does.

“Have you taken Lamaze class?” the nurse asks, going down her checklist.

“Sure,” I say. “About 20 years ago.”

Dad is a walk-on

Despite the best intentions, a dad is merely a walk-on at these events. In a maternity ward, the fathers all blend into the background. To the doctors, the dads are invisible. To the nurses, a source of amusement.

“I remember one time, I had the surgical mask on upside down,” I say. “The nurses thought it was hilarious.”

“One time, we had a dad put his surgical boots over his arms,” a nurse says.

What a riot we dads are. Just don’t let us near the babies.

“Want to cut the cord?” a nurse is suddenly asking, bringing us back to the moment.

“Sure, “ I say, then snip the umbilical cord with a pair of scissors.

“He OK?” my wife asks.

“Nearly perfect,” I say.

A few minutes later, the baby and I wait in the room for his mother to return from delivery. He’s wrapped like a burrito. His eyes try to find focus. He’s probably hoping to see a Rockefeller. Instead, he sees me.

“Your mom will be here soon,” I assure him. We wait. We look at the door. We wait some more. The phone rings.

“What’s he weigh?” a friend asks.

“Thirty-four pounds, 11 ounces,” I say. “That’s pretty big,” he says.

“I’ve had bigger,” I say.

I hang up the phone and tell the baby about the mom he’s about to meet. The longer we wait, the more excited he gets.

“Wait’ll you see her,” I whisper. “She’ll take your breath away.”

He lifts his chin. He rolls his eyes. He yelps a little, then hiccups.

“The first time I saw your mother, wow,” I tell him. With that, the baby cries. Another kid, another open mouth, another blessing.

Wow.

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Chris Erskine’s column is published Wednesdays. He can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com.