The little thing is long and skinny. Its blue in the harsh morning light. The umbilical cord is wrapped tightly about its neck. It doesn’t move, doesn’t cry, doesn’t breathe. I see all of this, am shocked to blankness to see all of this. But the hands, they work steadily, unwinding the umbilical cord. The body is slippery. Don’t drop it.

Now it begins to gasp a little, but something still prevents it from drawing breath. The pointer finger of my left hand prods the tiny mouth open, scoops out bile and goo. The hands turn the baby onto its stomach. While the right hand cradles it, the left hand gives a quick slap to the tiny rump. The baby gasps, begins to draw in more breath, bleats like a lamb. The bleats turn into wails. The blue skin begins to turn pink.

I watch as one hand gently wipes some blood from the child. The other hand makes a nest of the mothers robe on her puffed stomach. Both hands lay the baby gently in the robe to keep it warm. The baby screams full-fledged now, its lungs clear and obviously strong. Its mother lies back with eyes closed, breathing easier, passed out. The new grandmother honks her way through traffic and speeds into the emergency-room entrance of North York General. I haven’t even noticed if my child is a boy or a girl.

We settle, two days later, on the name Jacob. Despite the protests of family on both sides, I decide that his middle name will be Buick. I like to drive him through the dark streets of my neighbourhood at night. He is loud, healthy, and only calms each evening to the hum of car tires on pavement.