Why, oh why, do I do the things that I do? There is a precise moment (quite frequently of late) I realize something has come out of my mouth and all I want more than anything in the world is to stop time and hit the reset button. I don’t need to go back a few days, or hours for that matter, all I’m asking for is about 5 seconds. Why would I want such an ability you ask? To play the lottery perhaps? Not on your life bub, I would take those precious few seconds to stop my pea-sized brain from sending instructions to my vocal cords to formulate anything even closely resembling words. Forget about higher level stuff like sentences, I would stop using actual words, maybe move to only grunts. And moans. That way I would never feel the withering look and stinging rebuke from the belly.
Saturday started fine enough, got up, headed immediately to breakfast. Prioritization is key with the belly, food first, always. As a matter of fact I’m a little worried I need to make sure we have a route to the hospital that has multiple food service options available 24 -7 just in case labor strikes right before the next scheduled feeding. Then it was off to the baby stuff sale. I have discovered there is an active sub-culture of commerce that exists amongst bellys whereby they rent massive ballrooms and send out secret e-mails alerting one another to these extravaganzas of all things babyish. We were on the hunt for maternity clothes, which is another way of saying I am supposed to stand there quietly and hold the stuff the belly picks out. Do I behave in the proper way? Of course not! I, in my zeal to be a supportive, interested hubbin’, jump right in, and start perusing the racks in order to aid my darling wife in the search for something that will go around the belly and most of all “look cute”. Now “cuteness” has clearly replaced anything even close to what I once knew as “sexy” . We don’t use the word “sexy” any more, after all, the “sexy” must have worked, or otherwise we wouldn’t be in this pickle. “Sexy” has been replaced with “cute”, “comfortable” and “not constraining”.
Looking for “cute” I held something up and mentioned to the belly it “looks cute”. Big mistake, I mean, really big. Colossal, gigantic, almost epic in scale. You see, I take the small clues that the belly gives to gauge displeasure, and in this case the belly took one look and said, “Why are you trying to dress me in a potato sack?” See, I just need 5 seconds. This led to many reassurances that she was indeed still a beautiful woman, and that if anything she was just a bit “more round” and may I please be forgiven for ever even thinking I might have any idea about what would constitute a “cute” article of clothing. I escaped with my life by changing the topic immediately to where the belly wanted to go for lunch and a near crisis was diverted.
I have heard that women are blessed with something that allows them to forget the pain of childbirth almost immediately after the deed is done. This way, so say the experts, a woman is not dissuaded from procreating again. No memories of the south of the border agony to dim the enthusiasm of subsequent critters. This is definitely a good thing. We have both been to this rodeo before, albeit some time ago, and we should avoid these fears, doubts, and mistakes, shouldn’t we? I wouldn’t be surprised when the belly says in all seriousness, “don’t kiss me, I’m so hungry I might try to eat your lips off your face” would I? Clearly us pre-poppas have a selective memory as well, we forget the pain of pregnancy right after the birth, all 9 months of it.
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