WOMEN OF THE WORLD

I pulled out Jim O’Rourke’s Eureka to play for some friends as we navigated our way to Georgetown for lunch last week.

“He’s a post-rockin’ genius!” I exclaimed, with two parts enthusiasm, one part consciousness that they were staring at the CD cover of a rotund bald dude coyly hiding his genitalia behind a stuffed rabbit.

What I didn’t mention was that O’Rourke’s version of Women of the World was the soundtrack to my daughter’s birth...

It was around 11:30 pm on May 29, 1999 when my wife went into labor. We tiptoed out of our bedroom, each tipping of her toe punctuated by a heavy breath.

Her parents were visiting from Japan and sleeping on the floor in the living room, and as we stepped out the sliding door, her mother lifted her head slightly and watched us exit into the darkness.

It was a Saturday night, but the Long Island Expressway was uncharacteristically serene and cooperative. We made it to the hospital in about 30 minutes.

Our daughter was born—quivering, beautiful, and from another world— at 6:47 am on Sunday morning. My wife’s blood pressure spiked right after the delivery, so she was moved to critical care as a precaution.

For the next three days I shuttled back and forth from the house to the hospital, bringing visitors and gifts.

In quiet moments, I held my daughter to my chest, and brushed the hair from my wife’s forehead with my fingers.

And as I drove up and down the Expressway for those three days, I listened to Women of the World almost exclusively.

“Women of the world, take over, for if you don’t the world will come to an end, and it won’t take long...”