Prenatal Penultimatums

I wish we could tell you everything was aces and applesauce.  I'm actually happy, and not in a humblebraggy kind of way, that things were as normal and lacking any real drama or fear.  Sorry if that makes for a weak editorial.  Boring, IMO, was pretty good.  We'd been enjoying the growth and development process, the ultrasounds, the kicking and movement.  (Her cell falling off her belly after a massive kick when we were in bed was hilarious.)  Navigating well-meaning advice and navigating intimacy while there's an obstacle was all a lot of fun, actually.  It was even worth the side-eye she was getting at the gym while doing her stretches and squats.

Seismically the mood and emotions shifted from joyful anticipation to something entirely not like us about a month or so into the third Tri, which took me more by surprise than I'm used to.  The guest room y'see, our future nursery, was still the guest room.  And my wife needed it done very soon.  And while hoping to remain a patient and sensitive partner, the requests started getting my hackles up.  A common example that we'd repeat every few days:

"Honey?  We have GOT to get the bed out of there and the crib assembled.  I just don't want it to be a week before the due date and it's still not done"

(Quietly) "I'm sorry, what's the Gee Dee hurry again?"

I mean...reeeeeally...

Her point of course, was valid.  Far enough along in any pregnancy, and you;ll get to a certain point where anything goes.  Kiddo gets impatient, something biological is amiss...suddenly you've got a preemie and not a lot of time to mobilize furniture while you're busy caring for an early bird.  We had also been on this kick where we had been replacing/investing in new furniture, so we were lousy with box after box of disassembled (fookin' 'eavy) furniture on the porch, in the upstairs hallway.  And I'm a procrastinator, so it's not like as soon as they showed up I had a toolbelt and willing mind.  (And I'm such a "don't bother them" type that I wasn't about to ask friends for help.)

In between all of this, I found a new job, yay, so the change from one place to a new place, and training and commute and the culture and remembering new names and my old co-workers surprised me with a going away happy hour which went late and things got fuzzy and...and...it was all taking up a lot of headspace.

For my part- I mean, the kid can sleep in a drawer for the first 2 months, right?  (my wife did, she'd joke).  And while it is a joke, I had already gotten rid of a ton of stuff, organized closet space so that my wife and I were sharing one closet (it...it was a feat.  Guess which one of us has more shit?)  but the big thing was the goddamn guest bed.

See, my wife's preggo acid reflux was getting bad enough that she'd frequently need to get up in the middle of the night and wait until it subsided.  I, me, was still drinking wine.  And when I drink, I tend to snore, loudly.  And also get reflux.  And insomnia.  Ergo, we sort of shared in the rotation of the guest bed refuge.  And my thought was that the bed should be the bitter last thing to go.

"Pregnancy hormones...amirite?  Nesting syndrome, RIGHT?!?!"   And no.  I guess I wasn't really willing to concede to that.  Yes, it was and is a thing.  It's a thing that's real.  But here we were, not only at an impasse where I was trying to be sensitive and acquiesce to her requests...but now this one BIG ASK was staring at me...and moreover, this one felt like we needed an actually minute to wait to finish the Gee Dee nursery.

And for fuck's sake, the bickering...it just...it just didn't feel like us.  That switch was too fast and unfair and unreasonable.  And I was getting pissy in spite of myself and trying not to snark or condescend to my very pregnant S.O. ("You are going to be a GREAT dad!!!"  Oh stuff it...  "YOU ARE GOING TO BE GREAT PAREN-!" I SAID GO TO HELL!!!  YARRRRR!!!!  "YOU THINK THIS IS TESTING YOUR PATIENCE WAIT TILL YOUR BABY IS 3!!!")

Breathe.  Take a step back.  Take a couple of days to steam, eat vegetarian, go for long walks, and take a break from alcohol.  After all, only one of us could use it as a crutch.  Unfair.


I threw out my dad's old desk that still had unremovable pipe-ash and coffee rings and reminded me of him even though it was disintegrating.  I took the bed apart, switched out the rugs, cleaned the hardwood floors, and made room for baby swag we got from her baby shower.  I managed to get the TV room furnishings assembled after taking a few days for myself between gigs, and was graciously offered help by my wife's best friends to assemble the daunting Ikea couch and nursery furnishing.

Things were coming together, more or less.  The big picture was I wanted to, and always have and still want to take a load off her worrying mind if I can.  That's all.  I wasn't going to let 3rd trimester emotions and a pending due date cause us to mute ourselves and stew.

Not us.  The royal we.  We're a Team. 

The days start speeding up, yo.  Like calendar dates ripping off in a movie, faster and faster, to show the passage of time.

3-4 weeks or so before the due date, my wife needed to put the kibosh on working out.  The swelling in her feet and ankles became so much that it made her miserable.  (We attempted neighborhood Spring jaunts as the weather improved, and I'd wince as I helped her into her shoes before we left as I heard her moan in pain.  The one weekend we were in front of a shoe store I saw a big SALE sign and blurted "Maybe it's time to get some Crocs!?"  So she went in and purchased herself some comfy foamy slides.*)

Her back pain was pretty steady- a heavy load pressing in her guts, and still the heartburn, nightsweats, and insomnia were starting to get to her badly.  Most night's I'd hear her get up to change her sleeping clothes to a dry pair, then go to the hall closet to grab some Tums before hearing the cap slip, bottle shake, and "Crunch Crunch" of temporary relief before she'd either meander to the couch or slowly crawl back into bed.

As all this was happening, I noticed I was eating more and slowing down too.  I was so busy being in caretaker mode and pre-cooking up meals to get us through the days and nights I didn't even stop to think her tummy would be impinged on- so she'd often times need to skip or peck at things before being done-done.  Leaving me to feel it wasteful to let it go soooooo...I ate it.  When we got our first professional maternity photo proofs back, it was all I could do to not get really angry at myself.  Or cry.  I looked like...a guy...who'd just sort of been eating his way through this beautiful, radiant woman's pregnancy.  A perpetual "Are you done with that?" coupled with some binge-wine-drinking while watching Netflix.  Healthy.  Seriously, you won't see me in the proofs.  I don't recognize myself.


Easter Sunday preceded week 39. including a trip to mom and dad's for dinner and a chance to visit with her brother and sister-in-law and their smiling drooly lovely five-month-old daughter.  And me with my very very tired wife.  While we were talking about the impending birth, my wife was hopeful that kiddo would make an early entrance before the May 2nd due date.   My experience with friends- your mileage obviously will vary...doi...and one my BIL and SIL both sort of echo'ed was that 1st kids can, sometimes, take their own sweet ass time.  This did not sit well with my wife.

More apologies.  A fairly quiet drive, punctuated by more apologies from me.  "It could happen early, but let's just hope for the due date.  And let's just be ready in case she decides to cool her heels for another week?"

"Ugggggh.  I just want her out." 

I yet I wasn't sure if I was, and boy if that's not another sexy selfish moment from yours truly.  There was a due date.  And even though we were about as ready as we could ever be (I had packed the overnight hospital bag around the same time as we finished the nursery.  Don't ask me why I felt THAT was super important...having snacks and clean undies.  Hey, the hospital GIVES her undies.  I have to fend for my SELF!)   I just...I wanted the assurance that I had another week of just us.

And then I saw she'd been crying a little while we cruised up Central Ave towards home, and I felt like a jerk.  ("You're going to be a greeeeeat dad..."...-rolls eyes and makes jerk-off hand gesture)

We set our alarms for work.  I stayed up late watching some nonsense on the boob tube with a glass or two of wine while my wife hunkered down for the night.  The next day at work, my boss would ask (by way of a reminder) when the baby was due.  Funny enough, on THAT day, I had to say "May 2nd.  But it could be any day now.  I mean, even last night my wife said something felt shifty and different, but she's at work today, and so am I.  So, when it actually gets around to happening...did you want me to call you?  Text?  Is there an attendance line?  What?"

That was the afternoon of Monday, April 22nd.   12 hours earlier, in the wee...wee hours before our alarms went off...my wife says "Honey?  I think it's happening..."

"Are you sure?  Do you want me to call the Babyline?"

beat...
beat...
beat...

"Naw.  It's gone.  Go back to sleep."
"Ok."








* ("Could you *please* tell them that I got the Croc sandals and not the ugly gardening shoes?" )