So we’re having a baby… tomorrow… at 1 o’clock. Still trying to get my head around that.
I won’t be diving into the prevailing wisdom or lack thereof regarding planned C-Sections. My as of yet unborn, yet insufferably stubborn daughter refuses to assume the proper position. Can’t blame her—I also hate being upside-down while in the dark and covered in goo. So a few weeks ago, we applied for a birthday and got September 27th… tomorrow… at 1 o’clock.
My wife has done an excellent job preparing for this day; devouring books, attending classes, ignoring me—honing all the maternal skills she’ll need in the coming days. Me, I finally figured out how to get the car seat adapter into the stroller (it was a bitch). I despise preparation—it makes me feel so… unspontaneous. Granted, a baby has a different spectrum of cost/benefit as it relates to being unprepared. But I’ve set my objectives very low. All I want to accomplish is to not accidentally kill my baby—that’s all. If she grows up to be president of the United States, well that’s just swell. On inauguration day, I will look over at my wife as my baby girl strolls to the podium and remind her, “See, I told you I wouldn’t accidentally kill her” and “Do we have to pay taxes now?”
I will miss my wife being pregnant. Over the last 9 months, I’ve developed a series of nicknames for her that I will lament including: Pregasaurus, Pregatron (pregnant robot from the future), and the Mayor of Pregopolis… this list goes on. I’ve grown accustomed, to being replaced by Erica’s pregnancy pillow and having to flex my stomach muscles when pulling her off the couch. I’ve grown fond of watching objects balanced on my wife’s belly move around as if by telekinesis. I have involuntarily bonded with a pot belly. Is this how people fall in love in Wisconsin? But I digress…
In any case, people have told me that I can forget about anyone caring about my needs or feelings from this point forward. But I really think people fail to understand how self-centered I am. As soon as I see this baby, I will work on convincing her that this is really all about me—at which point I have no doubt she will literally poop all over the notion. Speaking of poop, I consider myself fortunate to have so many close friends with young children who have not displayed the slightest hesitation in regaling me with poop and pee filled stories--usually over dinner. As a result, I have been entirely desensitized. I can stare poo right in face and not blink. I can eat food and think about fecal matter at the same time… Thank you dear friends for this advantageous gift!
I feel like I should have something deeply philosophical to say at this point—an observation on the metaphysical and biological confluence of forces and chance that in roughly sixteen hours will graduate me from son to father, from independent to ‘depended upon’, from husband & wife to family… But I got nothin’. Well, that’s not entirely true I suppose. Yet, on the eve of this most momentously unique yet ubiquitous human experience, I struggle to put my feelings into words. Thank god there’s football on tonight—the seasonal cure for thinking too hard. Perhaps Al Michales will come up with something deep to say…
To my daughter; if one day you should google me out of boredom after I’ve grounded you for staying at the mall two hours later than you were supposed to an not answering your cell phone when I called, just know that there was a time when you were the most exciting thing that ever happened to us. And if you insist on dating boys we don’t approve of, we will lock you in the basement forever.
