My Unborn Child is an Inconsiderate Little Jerk and I Can’t Wait to Get My Hands On Him
It’s the afternoon of March 15, 2018 as I write this. My pregnant wife, Katie, is sort of napping in our bed. She’s uncomfortable. Obviously.
Our midwife named March 14 as the due date. A due date, of course, is not a certainty. There’s always a margin of error in these things. Katie came a few days late. I came a few early. Katie, was confident our kid would arrive early. March 8, she said. A little under a week ahead of the midwife’s projection. It was a reasonable bet on her part because she and the goop-child in her guts were measuring a week ahead from the start. So why the 14th as the due date? Because the pros dole out due dates based on the mom’s last period. Conception and size be damned, apparently. Doesn’t matter. Due dates are just this side of arbitrary. Still, the sizing and timing made somewhere between March 8 and 14 a prize to keep our eyes on.
March 8 came and went. So, too, did March 14.
The birth ball where the author's wife sits and bounces bored while her unborn child remains willfully unaware of that awesome swing just for him taking up space in a once cool apartment.
This kid of ours isn’t late by medical standards. Also, it’s quite common for first-time moms to go past the due date. Labor can be slow to start and long to play out. Right now, there’s no danger of overbaking the skin bun in Katie’s uterine oven, yet. But at this point, the kid’s choice to remain unborn — and at this point, it really is mostly up to the kid — is only making things more difficult for his parents.
This is not the way to make a good first impression.
If we had our druthers, the fatbag imitating Pelé in Katie’s innards would have started making his way out any time after 5 p.m. on Saturday, March 10, which was about the time we wrapped up filing our 2017 taxes at H&R Block. That our unborn spawn didn’t come before then so we didn’t have to reschedule was a point in his favor. Now, however, the waiting game is problematic.
Katie is more beholden to the new roommate’s schedule than I am because, well, she’s the mom and I don’t make milk. Plus, her body is about to go through a marathon of physiological hell, and who knows what kind of condition that’ll leave her in. (We hope for the best. She’s ready for this.) As such, Katie has been turning down work — she, like I do, freelances. As the due date(s) approached these last several weeks, taking on new projects seemed silly because at any moment, she could be called away from the work to push a wrinkled shit machine out of her squat hole. And then who knows how long it’ll be before the New Normal takes hold and she can get back to her professional hustle.
By not showing any signs of coming soon, the future tax deduction maxin’ and relaxin’ on Katie’s bladder is costing us money.
Beyond the money, which we’ll be able to make up at some point, hopefully, this uncertainty is beginning to feel like psychological warfare. While the gestating Gerber monster punching Katie’s cervix from the inside enjoys the free room and board, our lives are happening.
Not only has Katie had to turn down work, we have turned down birthday parties, concerts, and a bachelor/bachelorette gathering in Las Vegas for friends where I’m the best man. What we have been able to do socially and professionally has been accompanied with anxiety and discomfort. Neither of us can be too far from the other for too long in case labor begins. When I’m in meetings, I’m constantly checking his phone because his pregnant wife may have called with the big news. I need a haircut but I’m afraid to get one just in case I get called in and have to dart from the chair with only half of my hairs cut. My son would never respect me if the Facebook pictures of his arrival had me holding him with a haircut known in the business as the Helen Keller Special. I’d like a second scotch but I might have to drive to the hospital, and I don’t want to be too bunglesome because my role in labor is to help Katie get through it. Not to detract from all that Katie will do to birth this amphibian — yeah, that’s what babies are until the water breaks — our birth classes taught us that I’m her coach and necessary to help Katie through the public defecation that comes with giving birth, according to our birth plan, anyway.
And Katie? Well, Katie is still pregnant, which means no matter where she is or what she’s doing, she’s uncomfortable. She’s tired, she’s bored, she’s ready to try breast feeding. The waiting is stressing her out. And stress is not good for kick starting labor.
He’s not even born yet and our child is negatively impacting our lives. And doing so with extreme prejudice. This is all good practice for when he actually graces us with his presence, I suppose. Helluva primer.
Katie and I are both aware that once he’s here, we won’t have as much freedom as we had even six months ago. But once he’s here, we can get on with that New Normal. That’s all we want.
Here’s the other problem, which is far more cosmetic than anything else: We run the risk now of our eventual human alarm clock being born on St. Patrick’s Day, and that’s worse than having it on Christmas.
Forever, the turd’s special day will be overshadowed by drunken idiocy and marketable racism. At school, the kids in his class won’t pay his birthday much mind because St. Patrick’s Day is once a year, therefore exciting compared to birthdays, which happen all the time. Even if he’s born on the 16th or 18th, his birthday will still be close enough to this wretched holiday that it will be overshadowed by, and be made sticky with green beer and vomit. Although, he would share a birthday with Kurt Russell, which would be cool.
Actually, being born on March 18 would be worse than being born on St. Patrick’s Day simply because that means I’d likely have to drive to the hospital on a Saturday in Chicago on St. Patrick’s Day. That’s a punishment Satan himself would cruel.
So, here we are. Waiting. Unsure of what to do. We keep doing all the things that can start and speed up labor like walking and massaging and having sex with spicy food. At this point, our lives are completely out of our hands and at the whims of the ungrateful terrorist holding my wife’s body and my need for a second scotch hostage.
Oh, God, shut the fuck up, you trite, unoriginal asshat.
They say that babies at this stage in utero can hear us, so I’ve talked to him at the place where Katie used to have a bellybutton. “Hey, little dude. We’ve filed our taxes. We got the car seats installed. Your room is all set up — that room that used to be my beloved office… Anyway… There are grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins and friends who want to meet you, Your mom and I are looking forward to meeting you. Plus, we have all this new stuff for you to use and play with that’s already collecting dust. So, what do you say? You’ve been in there long enough. Come on out, little fella. Let’s get on with living. And, hey, your uncle Steven is a magician. So that’s cool.”
But what good does that do us? The meat sack that is our unborn child doesn’t understand English yet. He doesn’t understand anything yet, especially what an inconsiderate little jerk he’s being right now.
Oh, sure, I’m gonna love this stubborn butt. I’m gonna love him to the moon and back. Ah, shit! Look at that. He’s already made me into one of those people who says dumb shit like, “I love you to the moon and back.”
Oh, and hey, kid… When you read this years from now, please apologize to your mother. She’s having a hard time with this. She needs you here, like now. We all do.
And, of course, by the time this is published we may already be in the throes of labor. There’s just no telling. That’s what makes all of this so terribly exciting.
