At the preparatory course you repeat it continuously:"It won't be like movies". So you get used to the idea that everything will have a certain gradualness, that contractions will come first once every hour, then get closer and closer until it is time to hold your partner's hand and encourage her in the push. It is quite reassuring to know that you will have plenty of time to prepare, to rationalize the event that will change your life forever. Really, all this would be beautiful, and it happens in most cases unless.... you break the water.
My partner happens to my companion at around ten and a half on any Monday night, when sleep has come to a head and the day seems to be coming to an end. When it emits that sound, I perceive that this is not the case. I swear that I do not know how to reproduce it or describe it. If I had to try it, I would tell you that it was a sort of sigh thrown up. As when you remember when you stumbled like a den in your sleep, you risk breaking your neck bone. Inside me, when I hear it, it's as if something breaks up.
She gets up feeling:"I broke the waters" and a biblical downpour falls on the floor. Time slows down and contracts. I remain immobile for a moment, I feel the need to focus on what is happening. Then I move on trying to do what seems to me most logical to do in a situation I have never faced and that I would never have thought I had to face. At least not so early, as there are still a dozen days left until the end; and then it shouldn't be like movies.
But Morena doesn't stop gutting and we have to move, we can't waste too much time. I accompany him in the bathtub and it seems to me to swim in a milky substance that makes every gesture, every movement muffled. The legs are slow-moving, soft and flickering. The head covered with an unceasing buzzing hum loads a program whose instructions I execute automatically. I lift the rolling shutter, go out onto the balcony, recover the rags, dry the floor. Fuck but how wet is it? From the bathroom I feel his laughter and I cling to get out of the vortex.
LEGS ARE SLOW-MOVING, SOFT AND SHAKING.
Mica I can do it altogether, but recover enough lucidity to find the things that are missing in the delivery bag and to fill it in bulk. If I could now look at the mirror, I'm sure I would see myself white like a rag, the dark black circles traced under the eyes that are deep trenches.
We climb by car and leave for the hospital. The night is clear and cold, the streets clear. We go up to the first aid department and the midwife on duty has Morena on the couch, attaching it to the car that will make the track. Our son's heart beats regularly. Shortly afterwards they leave us alone. While she is resting, I am joining two chairs and putting them on top of me. The contractions are scarce, irregular, and after two hours the midwife invites me to return home. Ettore was born five hours later, at nine and thirty-nine. And I learn that you are never really ready to become a father.