Ramblings of an Expectant Dad: Part Cinco

I learned two things this weekend: 1) our friends and family are incredibly kind, caring, and generous; and B) babies come with a lot of crap.

 

(Well, for the first couple of months, pretty much all they do is eat and po—)

 

That's not what I meant! Well, okay, it's kind of what I meant, because we did get a whole lot of diapers. More specifically, the baby shower was this weekend, and the nursery, which yours truly painted and readied himself, thankyouverymuch, is now half-full with boxes and bags and onesies and wipes and swaddling cloths and burp cloths and cloths to clean the other cloths and more wraps and I'm pretty sure the Shroud of Turin is in there somewhere and stuffed animals and teething rings and something called a "Diaper Genie" and I do NOT want to know what comes out of that if you rub it and….

 

Holy. Crap.  

 

(Take a deep breath sport, this is just the beginning.)

 

I know. But… holy sweet bejeebus. Babies need a lot of stuff. And before you say "you probably don't need half of the stuff on your registry" let me just say that there is a definite benefit to participating in the parenting game a little late in the season – taking full advantage of the benefit of having so many friends and family that have gone through this whole creating-another-human thing before, we actually tempered our registry accordingly and avoid a lot of the unnecessaries. Trust me; I'm still bummed we didn't get the wipe warmer.

 

(*bangs head on desk*)

 

I kid, I kid…. Even still, with the bottles and nursing equipment and linens and diapers and… okay, I'm breathing. This is me breathing.

 

This. Is. Real.

 

We're having a baby.

 

I'm gonna be a dad and now I have an entire room full of stuff for my little girl.

 

My little girl.

 

Yes, it hit me, and hit me hard. Yes, I'm a sap, and late Saturday night as I stood in the room and looked down upon the literal heap of generosity our friends and family bestowed unto us… I cried. How could I not? And if there are any readers out there who want to call me a sissy or tell me men don't cry… fuck off. If a man doesn't get emotional at something like this, there's something wrong with him, not me. I bear no shame for my emotion. This is my daughter. My fiancée and I are starting a family. This is something I've wanted for far too long, and goddammit I'll cry if I want to.

 

(It's your party….)

 

Damn straight it is.

 

But… it isn't just my party.

 

(I… wait, what?)

 

This is a party that's been in the planning for some time, and there are a lot of party-goers invited. You see, I've intimated that having a family is something I've wanted for a very long time; the same is true for my fiancée. We travelled varied paths, sometimes in the wrong direction, sometimes following said paths despite our instincts telling us not to, until we finally stepped onto those that brought us together. But we were never walking alone. Every step of the way we were surrounds by those that love and care for us, urging us on, sheltering us when needed, offerings hands when we stumbled, and stepping back when a task was ours and ours alone.

 

I truly am humbled at the outpouring of love and support everyone has shown to us, because it’s the manifestation of something greater. Our family extends far beyond relationships born by blood. As important as what's happening is for us, it is, without exaggeration, equally important for them; their love for us has been incomplete knowing that our lives have been incomplete.  It amazes me, the amount of joy others are finding in this pregnancy, and it fills my heart even more. If you saw the number of people in attendance at the shower, and the pile of gifts… This kid has a lot of love to live up to. I'm confident she will; I mean, her parents are kind of awesome.

 

(*blink blink*)

 

What?

 

(*shakes head*)

 

*snicker* I jest. Sortofnotreally. Look, I have to be confident in myself as a parent. You know me. You know me. I'm anxious and I worry and if I don't build up that confidence I'm going to be sleeping on the floor in the nursery with a flashlight, and a stethoscope held against her tiny little chest, so I can make sure her tiny little heart beats through the night. I may overstate, but still…. I know we're going to be good parents. I know we'll freak out and worry and laugh and cry and test each others' patience… but I know we're going to be good parents through all of it. And if we ever think otherwise, there is an entire posse of people that will remind us otherwise.

 

We have some time to sort through the gifts, as the nursery furniture won't arrive for another three weeks yet. And you can bet your butt there's going to be another "holy shit" post when I finish assembling the crib, a post that will undoubtedly include a number of other colorful comments, if the online reviews are indicative of the ease, or lack thereof, with which I will construct my child's sleeping vessel.  As we go through, sort, wash and assemble, we will be again reminded of the love and generosity, and of just how well our friends and family know us. I mean, we got a Jeep made out of diapers, a bacon teething toy, a rubber duc—

 

(Wait, back the bus up. A Jeep made out of diapers??)

 

Yup. Courtesy of this writers own mother. Don't believe me? Feast your looky-orbs on this:

 

 

 

 

(That is fantastic! And… looky-orbs? Really?)

 

I could have said gazey-globs.

 

(*facepalm*)

 

Mental note – I'm going to have to keep my word-makey-upiness in check around the baby, aren't I? At least until she can make up her own. *snicker*

 

Yes, there's a diaper Jeep, bacon and Star Wars-themed gifts, books about girl power, one-of-a-kind art crafted just for our child, and so many other, thoughtful, personal, and meaningful gifts this child will have.

 

Eighty-one days. Using common core math, eight tens and one or ten tens minus two tens plus one or a ten plus four limes and a sperm whale minus a table lamp or for f***s sake nine times 9 days!!!!!

 

I have eleven and a half weeks to figure out how to swaddle and wrap, or is it wrap and swaddle? Eleven weeks and three and a half days to figure out how to set up the video monitor, put up and break down the pack-n-play, and what exactly happens in the baby dome. I'm picturing a post-apocalyptic, Tina Turner-esque baby sitter yelling into a rattle shaped like a microphone: "Welcome to another edition of BABYDOME!!!!"

 

(Seriously dude. Therapy.)

 

Shush it, you. Eleven and a half weeks. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go finish my coffee, take a deep breath, and see how many wishes I get out of the Diaper Genie. I hope it sounds like Robin Williams.

 

Less than three months until I'm a dad.

 

I'm gonna be a dad.

 

*grins*

 

 

 

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