Ramblings of an Expectant Dad: Part Four

Three months, a week, and a wake-up. One hundred days.

 

One. Hundred. Days.

 

Dear holy poop on a Pringle, I'm going to be a father in one hundred days.

 

(Poop on a… *shakes head*)

 

What? It's kind of like crap on a cracker, only worse. Because Pringles aren't quite as hardy as crackers.

 

(How many cups of coffee have you had this morning?)

 

*gives stink eye* Anywhoos…. Okay, I fully understand that the countdown isn't exact. She could take after her mother and be a little late, or take after her father and be a little early. The fact remains that there are only one hundred days remaining until my daughter's due date, and I'm freakin' right the f*ck out. A little. A smidge. A skosh, if you will. I'm keeping it together, really.

 

*twitch*

 

(Alright, bucko, take a deep breath.)

 

Easy for you to say.  And I'm sure you realize that for the purposes of humor I tend to exaggerate on these pages sometimes.

 

(Sometimes?)

 

Will you BE QUIET! Yes, I tend to exaggerate, but with any other piece of my writing, whether it be prose, poetry or music, there is always a hankering of truth in the words I write. In this case, I'm not really freaking out, but I'm freaking out. Do you know what I mean?

 

(Sadly, yes, actually.)

 

Good. So you get it. This path on which my beloved and I currently find ourselves is obviously a bit more strange and harrowing for her, admittedly. While I recently got to experience the joyous sensation of feeling my daughter bump and kick through her mother's belly, her mother feels her bumping and kicking on her inner bits from the inside. I cannot even begin to imagine how that would feel. Honestly, I shouldn't try to imagine it, because every time I do my mind goes straight to John Hurt on the Nostromo in 1979. If you don't know what I'm talking about 1) seriously, how young are you readers??; and B) Google it. But watch it with the lights on.

 

In all seriousness, I challenge you to find me any father in this country born before 1980 that hasn't thought the exact same thing the first time he felt his child move beneath a mother's flesh.  I bet you can't. And now I'm imagining trying to explain this phenomenon by paraphrasing Tom Hanks from Sleepless in Seattle: "Did you see Alien? Well I did, and it scared the shit out of me. It scared the shit out of every father in America!"

 

(Have we mentioned lately that there's something wrong with you?)

 

*sigh*

 

Yes. But you also know that my eyes welled up and a grin leaped across my face the moment I felt my little girl pressing against the palm of my hand for the first time. You also know I've been talking to her in the womb so that she will know my voice when she leaves her mother and comes into this world. I mean, of course, I talk to her while she's in the womb, I'm not in there. That would be weird.

 

(*bangs head on desk*)

 

I diffuse with humor; you should be well aware of that by now. It helps me cope. If I didn't I might truly freak out over the fact that the baby shower is seventeen days away and every big ticket item, such as the car seat, stroller and other things, remains on the registry. Now don't get me wrong – this is not a plea for you to rush out and buy stuff; that's not the point. The point is that I have a tendency to worry about things I can't control or things that will most assuredly work themselves out. It's a struggle I've faced my whole life, and one I consciously attempt to control, especially now. I can't go into parenthood worrying the way I have in the past. I'll give myself an aneurism. No, I'm not really worried about the registry… but feel free to message me if you want to know where we're registered. You know, in case you're curious.

 

(You're killin' me, Smalls.)

 

Yes, there are things that worry me. Conversely, there are those things that fill me with serendipitous joy. And yes, I wrote that just to use the word "serendipitous" because "serendipity" and its derivatives are some of my most favorite words in the English language. Although, motherf*cker is also one of my favorite words. So is kumquat. My verbal palate is as diverse as Mike Pence's underwear drawer is not. Seriously, I bet that guy has a drawer full of tighty-whities with the days of the week written in the waist bands. And I bet "mother" irons them for him.

 

(That aneurism you mentioned earlier? I think I'm getting one trying to figure out how your brain works.)

 

Sorry. If other people's brains are like, say, New York City, with paths set and marked in an orderly fashion so you can always figure out where you're going, my brain would be like Boston. If you've ever seen aerial photos of New York and Boston, you know what I mean.

 

(Wow. That… wow. That's probably one of the best analogies for your brain I can think of.)

 

There are others, but that's a post for another day. Getting back to my serendipitous joy – I'm going to start painting the nursery this weekend.

 

*insert gigantinormous grin HERE*

 

I've waited a long time to say something like that. I'm going to paint the nursery. In my home. For my daughter. Where I and her mother will rock her, feed her, change her, play with her, and watch her sleep just because we can. I get to do that. I get to make a room for my child. I get to paint it and decorate it and fill it with furniture and then step back and grin some more and say "I did that. For my daughter."

 

*more grinning*

 

To answer the question that I imagine you to be thinking, no, it will not be pink. I am grateful that as parents my fiancée and I share the sentiment that too much pink is too much pink. Some people love pink, and that's totally cool. We're subtle pink people. There will be splashes of color, and I'm sure pink will finds its way into her teeny tiny wardrobe, but pink walls? Not in this nursery. Besides, it would clash with the fluorescent orange furniture.

 

(Haha… wait, what?)

 

I'm KIDDING. Give me some credit, jeez. No, the nursery will be tasteful, relatively neutral, and calming, but will also have a little pizzazz. Like a little, bright green, ceramic donkey that trekked all the way from Amalfi.

 

(You're… not kidding about that one, are you?)

 

Nope. Her own little ciuccio… which, ironically, can be translated to "pacifier" in American English. But don't worry; I won't let my daughter suck on a ceramic donkey. It's just for decoration. We'll have plenty of pacifiers. They're on the registry. Have you seen the registry???

 

*sigh*

 

One hundred days.

 

A century of days.

 

An average basketball score of days.

 

A dollar's worth of pennies of days.

 

They'll be spent rapidly, too rapidly, but still, in some ways not rapidly enough.

 

One hundred days until my daughter.

 

 

 

© 2017 J.J. Goodman. All rights reserved.