Date Of Birth

Entry by: Martin Willitts Jr

29th October 2015
The night I was determined to arrive, come hell or high water, was the same night of a popular game show and the doctor was an avid fan. He was royally pissed at my inconvenience. He was cursing my birth, my parents, the foolish God who would allow this interruption. After all, the doctor had an appointment with a gameshow. How would he ever know the outcome?

The doctor tried coaxing me out faster. It did not work, so I tried encouraging me to take my time and wait for the gameshow to end. Either way, he had to know who won. I was ruing his life.

“Come on you little… (Explicative)”, he tried shaking me out. I was working on my own schedule. He tried soothing, “come on little guy, come to doctor.” I was not fooled. I had already heard the first blast of vulgarity.

“Don’t talk to my son like that,” demanded my father.

“I don’t care what you two want,” panted my mother, “I just…want… this… to… be… over and…done… with.”

The doctor was glancing on his watch. I had my own schedule. Neither one of us would budge.

The doctor tried pulling me out, but I held on.

Television show or no television show, I had my own schedule.

The doctor was thinking of buzz saws. My father was thinking of hitting the doctor. My mother was thinking, make it over with. I was thinking about playing chess in her womb. None of us was getting what we wanted. Compromises needed to be made and I was not interested in agreeing with the adults who were acting childish.

The doctor instructed, “Push. Push harder.” “Easy for you to say,” panted my mother. “Come on. I have a bet riding on when you are born,” suggested my father, “And you wouldn’t want a loser for a father.”

I was thinking of painting down in the womb. Perhaps I could paint some frescos like the Sistine Chapel, or the cave drawing in France; maybe a nice pastoral scene.

It was getting to the middle of the gameshow. The doctor was mad he had missed the first half. With some luck, and my willing participation, he could still see the ending. “Please, nice little baby, we are waiting for you,” cooed the doctor, still trying to deceive me.

I was not easily fooled. I knew he only had the results of the gameshow on his mind. I was also in the mood to mess up my father’s bet on my birth hour and minute. The way my mother was pushing was not convincing me to move any faster.

In the end, the doctor slapped me one minute after the show was over, and five minutes before my dad’s projection at the office pool. In the end, the game show was rigged. I could have told the doctor, but I did not know how to speak then. In the end, my mother swore that there would not anymore babies and held her promise for another five years.