Is It a Few Days Yet?
written by: Nick Di Carlo
Giovanni turns five tomorrow, and the prospect of starting kindergarten in two months thrills him. A curious kid from the crib on, he wants to know how everything works and never runs out of questions. So, I’m surprised it’s taken him this long to ask my wife, Lucinda, “Ma, hey Ma, where do babies come from?”
Lucinda, at the stove, stirs the sauce for Sunday’s pasta.
The aroma makes me hungry. I tear a hunk of fresh-baked bread, dunk it, and take a huge bite. The sauce, hot and savory, burns my tongue; warms my heart.
Lucinda swats me with her wooden stirring spoon, then turns to Gio, “Babies come from God, Gio.”
“God? In heaven? How does He get ‘em here? If we can’t see heaven and we can’t see God…?”
I watch him puzzle out the just-right way to ask Luci the question. I intervene. “God gets a little help from mommies and daddies down here.”
Luci scowls. I shrug.
“God needs help? How do you help? Can I help, too?”
I look at Luci. Luci shoots me the look and says, “He’s so young, I’m trying to keep things simple. At least I didn’t say, ‘the stork.’ Can we go with babies come from God?”
“Right. I could never explain the stork.”
“Dad, where’s the stork? I’ve never seen a real stork. How do babies come from storks?”
“Mom’s kidding about storks.”
“Then how does God bring babies?”
“It’s complicated. I gotta think about how to explain it. If you’ll be patient now, we’ll talk about it in a few days.”
Luci shoots me the look number two.
“Okay, Dad,” Gio says, surprising us both.
But I see the wheels turning behind those bright brown eyes.
Then Gio asks, “Dad, can I have some sauce bread, too?”
Two days later, Gio runs into the house, lets the kitchen screen door slam, scares Luci, who’s preparing supper, out of her flip flops, and shouts, “Ma, Mama—I know where babies come from. Babies come from inside the mommy’s tummy. Richie took me to his house, and his mommy has a big, round tummy, and Richie says, there’s a baby in there, and I say, no—God brings babies, and Richie asks his mom, and his mom says, yes there is a baby inside her tummy. She tells me it’s moving, that it’s kicking its little legs and asks if I want to feel it, and puts my hand on her tummy and I feel the tiny feet going thump, thump inside her tummy and—”
Luci calls out, “Paul,” without realizing I’m standing in the doorway, laughing my ass off.
“Hey, buddy. You’ve had an exciting day.” I wish he’d gone to the library and stolen some books about babies. But no. We’ve got the thump, thump of tiny fetus feet.
Gio runs to me, says, “Dad—Dad, I felt it, I felt it move inside Richie’s mom’s tummy and first it felt weird and then I thought Wow! and I asked, ‘how does he get out?’ and Richie’s mom says I gotta come home and ask you and mom, so you gotta say how does the baby get out?”
“Hey, pal. Calm down.” I walk to the sink and pour a glass of water for him. One for myself. Since it’s near suppertime, I suggest we calmly finish our water, wash up, and have dinner. I say, “We’ll talk about this—”
“In a few days?”
“After supper, smarty pants.”
After supper, we go outside and sit on the back porch stoop. I try to gather my wits. The sun sinks low in the sky, dipping below the neighborhood rooftops. I feel the evening chill coming. One of the neighbors had barbecued meat over mesquite. The smell of wood smoke makes me crave cheeseburgers.
Gio wraps his short arms around my bicep, stares up at me, and says, “Well—is it a few days yet?”
“Gio, today you discovered an interesting, wonderful thing. A mysterious thing. A miracle, you could say. But it’s a complicated thing, not easy to explain to someone so young. I’m gonna need a few days more, but I promise—I’ll try to tell you whatever you need to know.”
“I’m five years old. I’m not young.”
“I know. And you’re smart. That’s why I want to explain everything the right way for you.”
“About how the baby gets out of a mommy’s tummy?”
“Yes, that. And I’m sure you’ll have more questions, and I will do my best to answer everything. But you’ve gotta promise me one thing—don’t ask mommy about this anymore until I talk with her.”
“Alright. But Dad? How does the baby get inside the mommy’s tummy?”
After supper, I read three stories to Gio. None has anything to do with birthing babies. Two are about horses. Gio asks, “Can we go to Uncle Pete’s ranch and see your horse, Paulie?”
“Sure.”
“In a few days?”
“We’ll go before kindergarten starts.”
“Can I ride him?”
“You’re about the right size.”
Gio asks for another story. I consider the irony: he could be reading to me. He’s been reading beyond this level for a year. I read one and one more—to avoid talking to Luci. Fortunately, Gio falls asleep. Unfortunately, Luci doesn’t.
Lucinda loves Gio more than life. Awestruck but frightened by the depth and breadth of his intellect and curiosity, she worries he’s growing up too fast. She worries that soon the school will have him skipping grades, putting him with older kids. She wants him to enjoy his childhood; she wants to enjoy his childhood; she wants to mother him, baby him a lot longer. I don’t blame her. So, I promise I will not tell Gio more than he needs to know, and I won’t dare mention the ‘s-e-x’ as Luci puts it. “I’ll be discreet.”
I get the look again and realize that ‘discreet’ is the not-quite-right word.
“And you’ll tell how God loves us and gives us babies so we can love them.”
“Of course. But he’s gonna want—details. I’ve got to figure out just how many, which ones, then the just right words. But if he asks about that stork again….”
Thanks to my older brothers, John, the priest (I call him John the Baptizer), and Peter, our family’s rock, I believe in God and don’t want to shortchange His role in birthing babies. But I figure whatever role God plays, it’s from a distance. Luci believes that God’s got His hand in everything, making bad people get paper cuts and good, God-loving folks get babies—preferably babies who don’t ask about ‘s-e-x’ until they’re maybe forty-five.
I’m having a bit of fun here, but still I’d never tell Luci that on the night we conceived Gio, I wasn’t thinking about God, and if I had thought about Him watching over my shoulder, we might still be childless.
I sit on the back porch stoop in the dark, inhaling the evening musk of the now damp soil, the commingling fragrances of our garden and lawn, breathing the world deep into my being. I’ve got no clue how I’ll explain anything to Gio. For all I know, he has stolen library books and might teach me a few things. Funny, but when I was young, I stole many things, but never library books. Searching among the stars, I ask, “Hey, God—I don’t ask for much, but can you help me out here?”
Luci tells me how God hears our prayers and acts in mysterious ways. And the next day, I behold one of His wonders when my brother Pete calls. Pete lives on what he calls a ranch about forty miles from me in Ramona. He’s building an addition onto his house and asks if I’ll help him this weekend. I say okay. We talk a bit, and he says, “Our mare, Myss Tery, shows signs of foaling.”
“How soon?”
“Maybe this weekend. But you know mares.”
“Okay if I bring Gio?”
“And Luci?”
“Only Gio.”
Pete laughs. “Sure, bring your little smartass.”
“We’re spending the night.”
Saturday morning, Pete and I are installing windows in the new addition. Gio, being my helper, questions me nonstop, “Why are you doing it that way, Dad?” Or “Can I use the power saw?” and “Can I ride Paulie now?”
“Paulie’s having a sleepover up the road with Mr. and Mrs. Rodriguez’s herd.”
“Is Paulie really a wild horse?”
“He was a real wild mustang when Uncle Pete gave him to me.”
“Why did Uncle Pete name him after you?”
Pete answers, “Your Dad was a wild thing, too. He and that crazy horse helped each other to grow up.”
Pete’s wife, Theresa, comes by. “I think today’s the day.”
“The foal?” I ask. “Gio, I’ve got a surprise for you.”
“A surprise? Today is what day? Is it a few days yet?”
“Yes—it’s a few days now.”
Foolishly, I ask Theresa, “When?”
“Mares rarely share their foaling schedule with me. But she’s waxing, and her pelvic ligaments feel relaxed. She can’t decide whether to pace around her stall or lie down. She’s wiggling around, trying to get that baby into position. And she’s peeing like, well, a pregnant horse.”
I tell Pete, “Let’s take a break. Gio and I are gonna have a chat.”
Pete says, “Ahh, you want Gio to see.” He shakes his head and laughs. “Does Luci know?”
“Yes, she does.”
“Really?”
“She has mixed feelings. But she has, well, faith.”
“Faith? In you fratellino?”
Pete and Theresa trot to the barn to check on Myss Tery. I kneel before Gio and say, “Myss Tery, the mare, is having a baby horse. A baby horse is called a ‘foal.’ It might happen tonight. If you want to, and if we’re patient and quiet, we can watch. It might take a while for the baby to be born, and some things might seem gross or scary, but mommies having babies and mares having foals is natural. Happens all the time. I’ll explain some things while we wait, and everything else as it happens. We can talk more afterwards. Want to watch?”
“I’ll be quieter than a mouse. Honest.”
“Remember—any time you don’t want to watch anymore, you tell me, and we’ll go outside, okay?”
“Okay.”
After lunch, I explain that Richie’s mom’s baby isn’t growing in her tummy, but in a different organ called the ‘uterus,’ well below the tummy. I act as a model to show him my best approximation of the position. “A mare and other mammals also have a uterus.”
“I know mammals and reptiles and frogs—and marsupials.”
“Every month, a mare makes a tiny cell—you need a microscope to see—called an egg. Sometimes another tiny cell connects with the egg, and together they attach to the uterus, like a flower seed planted in garden soil. When that happens, another very special organ called the ‘placenta’ grows around it. As the baby grows, it gets oxygen and nutrients through a tube that goes from placenta to the baby’s belly button.”
Gio lifts his shirt, stares at his navel, then at me.
I hope he doesn’t ask me to explain how all that works, so I say, “That’s how your mom fed you when you were growing inside of her.”
“What happened to my tube?”
“The tube is called the ‘umbilical cord,’ and after babies are born, they don’t need it anymore because they breathe and eat and drink—normally.”
Gio stares at his navel again, grins at me. “And the foal has a tube and a belly button, too?”
“If you watch the foal being born, you’ll see it all. Still interested?”
“Oh, yeah. Dad? Where does the other tiny cell come from? What’s its name? How does it find the egg cell?”
“Mom and I will tell you about all that—”
“In a few days?”
“When you’re older.” Of course, for Gio, older can be as soon as tomorrow….
In the barn, we see Myss Tery standing, calm—at least for the moment. She’s gorgeous, a red roan, nearly sixteen hands. I set Gio onto some hay bales so he can see.
“She’s beautiful. Will the baby look like her?”
“Don’t know. But we’ll see soon.” So far, I’ve avoided talking about the stallion’s role, the father, the source of the second cell, the sperm cell. So far, Gio has cut me some slack, but sooner or later, he’s got to ask, “Who’s the daddy?” I want Luci to be there when that conversation happens. For now, I try to keep him busy with mare and foal.
I enter the stall, speaking softly to the mare. I continue to tell Gio what the mare will do. I explain further that in the uterus, the foal is safe and warm inside a sac, like a skin that’s filled with a protective fluid that acts like a cushion.
“What’s it called?”
I go for the gold and say, “It’s called the ‘amniotic sac,’ and it’s filled with ‘amniotic fluid.’”
We talk about udders and nursing. I press on the mare’s hindquarters to show Gio how the pelvic ligaments are relaxed so the foal can pass through. I hear Gio whisper the words: ‘uterus,’ and ‘placenta,’ and ‘billycal’.
“Tell me once more, Dad. Say the words again and how the foal gets out.”
I watch Gio working to keep everything straight in his beautiful little brain. Again, I can’t believe I’m explaining about amniotic sacs, afterbirths, placentas, and the two holes under the mare’s tail, one for pooping (oh, she will poop) and the other from which the foal will emerge. I’m using mostly clinical words to describe the process. How else can I say ‘placenta,’ much less explain its function?
Gio’s eyes and grin go wide. He’s softly enunciating the words, ‘um-bili-cal’ and ‘pla-cen-ta’ and ‘u-ter-us’.
Myss Tery startles Gio as she stomps the ground and shakes her big body. She paces. She whinnies and snorts. I tell Gio, “She’s feeling uncomfortable because the foal wants to get out, and she wants to help it come out. Myss Tery’s muscles are contracting, tightening, and loosening to push the foal upward and forward and help it come out.”
Theresa comes in to check her mare and wraps the horse’s tail with a cloth.
“Why is her tail wrapped up?”
“Aunt Theresa wraps the tail, so it doesn’t get in the way.”
Myss Tery kicks, stomps, then rubs her hind end against the stall wall. Then she pees; an eye-watering cascade drenching her stall shavings and straw.
Gio has tolerated that barn smell well, even this recent urination. I say, “Let’s leave her. Your aunt will call us when it’s time.”
Gio sleeps until supper time. While he sleeps, I phone Luci. “It’s tonight. Gio and I talked. He’s fine.”
About eight o’clock, Gio and I are sitting on the front porch, talking more about how baby horses get born.
“Her water broke,” Theresa says.
“Dad—what broke? Is the foal alright?”
“Everything’s fine. Remember how, when the foal is growing inside its mommy, it stays safe and warm inside a special sac?”
“The automatic sack?”
“Right. Amniotic sac. Full of amniotic fluid, keeping the foal warm and safe. When the foal is ready to come out, the sac breaks and the fluid flows out. People say her ‘water broke.’”
“The baby’s sac broke, and am-ni-o-tic water came out?”
“You got it.”
We get to the barn to see Myss Tery lowering herself onto her side with the first hint of the foal’s front hooves emerging. I can’t wait until Gio sees the foal’s ‘fairy slippers’ on the bottom of its hooves.
Gio’s eyes go wide. He mouths the word ‘Wow’ without a sound. He whispers, “Now, Dad, remember we keep very quiet, okay.”
“Thanks, Gio, for reminding me.”
The mare’s body spasms. She rocks, shifts a bit, then a big contraction exposes more of the foal’s legs. Her breathing sounds harsh and deep, her midsection expands and contracts over and again. For a few minutes, she’s still, then another contraction. A push.
Theresa taps Gio’s shoulder and whispers, “The baby’s nose.”
“The sac is still on it.”
“It’s okay for now. Daddy told you about the umbilical cord, how blood and oxygen go to the foal?”
“To the baby’s belly button.”
“When the cord breaks, we’ll make sure the foal breathes on its own.”
With another contraction and a strong push, the foal’s shoulders are visible. The mare, fatigued, snorts and blows, gives a soft whinny. She huffs and blows and pushes her baby farther out. The foal lifts its head and lowers it—lifts and lowers again. Theresa walks into the stall and peels the membrane from the foal’s head, pulling it back past the foal’s shoulders.
“The cord broke. He’s breathing fine.”
She wipes the foal’s head, eyes, and ears with a towel and clears its nostrils.
Gio looks at me, then at the new life before us, the foal—shiny, copper-colored with a tiny white star on its forehead. “Oh, Dad—look.” His grin wide as a crescent moon. Then, he asks, “Is Myss Tery okay?”
“She’s fine. Having a foal is hard work. Myss Tery needs to catch her breath. She’ll have to push a time or two more before the whole baby comes out. But she’s doing great.”
“And the baby’s okay?”
“He’s fine. He looks eager to get himself born. How are you? Tired? Do you want to leave or stay and see more?”
“I want to see the baby—see it stand up. I want to watch the mommy lick it and clean it—and feed it.”
“You’re excited by this.”
“I’m gonna remember this—forever and ever.”
For a second, the horrifying thought that something still could go wrong gives me cold sweats. I check my watch. Forty minutes have passed. I think, oh, God—have I done something wrong? All those words, the ‘right’ words, the proper, clinical words buzzing in his beautiful baby brain. I wanted to show him a mysterious, miraculous thing. And he’s so happy now. But what about tomorrow? Or nightmares tonight? Come on, God—give me a sign, show me I haven’t harmed my boy, that I’ve done the right thing.
Myss Tery gives another push, and all except the foal’s hips are visible. Theresa strokes the mare’s neck, her side, and hindquarters and speaks softly, “You’re doing fine, mama. A few minutes more. One big push. We’re home free. Come on, sweetheart. Take a breath and push.”
Gio whispers, “Push, mama. Push, okay?”
The mare pushes and squirts the foal free from her body. The mare relaxes, her full weight presses deep into the earth.
The foal stirs, moves its head side-to-side, up and down; rocks its body, using its front legs for leverage. It whinnies.
Gio giggles at the sound. “Is it gonna stand now?”
“It’s too soon. Its instinct tells it to stand. In the wild, they must stand and run soon after being born. But it takes time to learn.”
“What happens now?”
“At some point, the mama will stand and sniff and lick her baby.”
“To give it a bath?”
“Yes—to clean and dry it. And when mama licks it, she and the baby are learning each other’s smells, so that they know—by smell—that they belong to each other.”
Theresa kneels by the foal, lifts its tail, and says, “It’s a boy. A colt.”
“A big boy. I’m betting one hundred pounds or darn close to it.”
“Dad—he’s a boy. What did Aunt Theresa call him? Does he have a name?”
“A boy baby is called a ‘colt,’ and a girl is called a ‘filly.’ He doesn’t have a name yet. Your uncle and aunt will watch him a while before giving him a name that’s right just for him.”
Myss Tery stands, the afterbirth hanging from her behind. She turns to her colt, lowers her head, nudges him, and licks. And licks. The foal responds, grows more animated. The mare licks the colt’s face and moves down his body to his hind end and licks vigorously.
“See, Gio, she’s encouraging him to stand.”
The foal tries and tries again to stand. His legs buckle beneath him, or he stands, loses his balance, careens about, and falls.
“Watch him, Gio. He’ll keep trying to stand. He won’t quit. He will not quit until he stands and walks to his mother to nurse.”
Gio, mesmerized, watches Theresa tie a knot in the afterbirth, so the mare won’t step on it. He urges the colt, “Stand up, Baby Colt. Come on.”
In an hour, the colt finds its legs, stands, and holds its balance. Theresa puts antiseptic on the colt’s umbilical stump, being sure that Gio can see. The foal takes its first unsteady steps. Eventually, he finds his mother’s udder, and Theresa sighs in relief when she hears his vigorous sucking of the colostrum-rich milk.
Gio presses his face to the stall door and, awestruck, watches the colt nurse. Then, the dull thud of the placenta and afterbirth onto the floor startles him. He recovers, looks at me, whispers, “pla-cen-ta.”
We watch the foal walk awkwardly about the stall, trying to understand how his legs work, how to make all four of them work together. Myss Tery lies down. Her foal lies beside her. Theresa strokes them and calls Gio into the stall.
“Young man, let mama smell your hand, then pet her on the neck, soft and smooth, so she’ll know and trust you.”
Gio pets the mare. “You’re a mama now. With a baby boy. I have a mama. I’m her boy.”
Theresa says, “Kneel next to me.”
Gio kneels. Theresa shows him to let the foal sniff his hand and how to pet the foal. Gio and the foal sit together for a long time. “Can I name him?”
Peter and Theresa say they’re sorry, but the colt already has a name.
Gio, looking crestfallen, asks, “What’s his name?”
“See that shining star on his forehead? We’re naming him after another shining star. We call him Gio.”
Midnight. Back at the house.
Gio says, “Gotta call Ma.”
“Aren’t you tired? Let’s call in the morning.”
“Gotta call Ma.”
I put the phone on speaker, and Gio calls.
“Ma. I saw a baby horse, a boy, a colt get born. It was… (Gio glances up at me) It was a miracle. I petted the colt until it went to sleep. I didn’t fall asleep. Tomorrow he’ll play outside. Uncle Pete says I can pet him again. Aunt Theresa and Uncle Pete named him—after me. His name is ‘Gio.’ Will you come tomorrow?”
“Gio. You sound so happy. I’ll bet you learned a lot today.”
“Dad and I learned so much.”
“Dad, too? Well, what did you learn?”
“I learned where babies come from.”
“That’s exciting. Will you tell me? Where do babies come from?”
Gio looks at me, smiles, then turns back to the phone. “Ma—you’re silly. Everybody knows that babies come from God.”
- Is It a Few Days Yet? - September 22, 2026
- Mercury - December 7, 2025
