Ramblings of an Expectant Dad: Part Half-Dozen

Sooooo…. Using the dog to practice swaddling may not have been the best pre-parenting idea I've ever had….

 

(HAHAHAHA… wait… you didn't, really, did you?)

 

 

 

(Dear sweet cripes, you did.)

 

In all honesty, she really was a good sport about it.

 

(Yeah, we're thinking not so much. Look at that look on her face….)

 

Don't let her fool you. She's a cuddler. In any event, this isn't the first time we've utilized the local canine for parenting practice. She's taken quite the active role in preparing us for this whole raising another human being thing. Here she is, enrapturously listening and following along as mom-to-be reads her the most incredible book one our more incredibler friends gave to us: The Feminist Baby.

 

 

 (Wait, your fiancée is participating in this nonsense now? And… that sentence made my brain weep. Enrapturously? Incredibler??? )

 

I'm very makey-uppy-wordy today. And of course she participates! She's crazy enough to procreate with me. What did you expect? Yes, I've finally found the perfect partner. And the best dog. And now we're going to have a daughter. In sixty-five days or so…. … holy crap.

 

HOLY. CRAP.

 

HOLYCRAPHOLYCRAPHOLYCRAP I'M GONNA HAVE A DAUGHTER IN LIKE TWO MONTHS AND I DON'T KNOW HOW TO SWADDLE AND HAVE YO EVER TRIED TO ASSEMBLE A DIAPER GENIE AND WHERE AM I GONNA PUT ALL THIS STUFF AND I STILL WANT TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS IN THE BABY DOME AND…..

 

(Dude! Breathe!)

 

*breathes*

 

Okay, I'm better now. I joke and jest on these pages, and of course there is some truth to my anxiety as we've discussed, but in reality, as anxious as I am… I'm ready. I'm ready for this. In some ways I've been ready for this for a long while. If you ask my mother, I've been ready for this since I was fourteen.

 

(Awwwwww!)

 

Let me be clear: I was NOT ready to be a parent at fourteen. I barely talked to girls at fourteen. I was skinny and wore ginormous glasses and had a mullet at fourteen.

 

(BWAAAA HAAA HAAAA!!!! I could totally picture that.)

 

I was a hockey player, and it was the eighties. Don't judge me. Point being… As a person who has long suffered bouts of depression and anxiety throughout my life, and one who's been insecure and often questioned my own abilities, there is one thing, one constant, of which I've been certain: I am meant to be a dad. This is something I was made for. This is what I am supposed to do.

 

For years my dogs have been my children, both by desire and by necessity. I have lost track at the thousands of dollars I've spent on my pets, because I don't care: my dog is a party of family. I love her, and I will care for her until her far too short life span prevents me from doing so any longer. And yes, as much as I love and cherish this pooch o'mine, I am a little nervous, too. How will she react when this screaming little poop factory comes into our lives and invades our home? Will she resent the child? Or will her maternal instinct kick in and she’ll protect my daughter as one of her own pups? Will she want to eat her, or will she lick her and clean her and snuggle her? My gut instinct tells me the latter. My hear tells me that she'll be curious, and nurturing. Because that's how she's been with momma. I swear she sensed the hormonal change. In the last seven months, the dog has at times been more attentive to my beloved than she has been to me… little turncoat.

 

(Hey now…)

 

I joke. I'm overjoyed that she's come to love my love as much as I do. And that tells me that everything is going to be just fine. She knows something's up, too, because we've spent the last couple days sorting baby clothes and organizing the nursery for this afternoon's furniture delivery.

 

And don't you worry, my dear readers: when I finish assembling the crib, step back, and take in the room where my daughter will sleep, the changing table where I will change my baby girl, the dresser where we'll keep her tiny little onesies and swaddling wraps and dresses and hats… babies have a lot of hats… I'm gonna ball my eyes out. I have no shame in that. I've earned it.  

 

(We're going to ignore the sentiment and instead focus on this seemingly unhealthy obsession you have with swaddling.)

 

Okay, first of all, "swaddle" is just a fun word to say. Go ahead. Say it. Swaddle. Swaddle. See? Fun, right? And b) it's just such an odd concept. I'm actually supposed to take my child and wrap her up like a little burrito. That's not weird to you? Burrito baby. But no. I'm going to be different.

 

Chimichanga. She's gonna be Chimichanga girl. Because, you know, Deadpool.

 

(Um, you know chimichangas are just fried burritos, right?)

 

Again, funner word. Chimchanga. Chim-eeee-channn-gaaaaaa.

 

(I give up.)

 

You don't. Because I'm entertaining. You know it. I know it. We've been through this already. Anywhoos…. Yeah. Two months and a work week. If she doesn't come early… Which is entirely possible. A friend swears she'll come to us on a Saturday. And here's the thing:  My betrothed and I operate in factors of thirteen.

 

(um… Lucy, you gots some 'splainin' to do….)

 

 Her birthday is the thirteenth. While my birthday is the twenty-fifth, so close enough…. twenty-six has always been my number. My hockey number. My soccer number. I took and passed the bar examine on the twenty-sixth. And, for those strong in the mathiness, twenty-six is, you guessed it, twice thirteen. Our daughter is due, as of now, on January, yes that's right ladies and gentlemen, January twenty-sixth. Care to take a guess what day she'd be born, if our friend is correct and she both comes a little early and on a Saturday?

 

(*checks calendar* Holy shit!)

 

Right??? Or she could be born on the 27^th and muck the whole thing up. Po-TAY-to, po-TAH-to. I honestly don't care.

 

Because I'm going to have a daughter.

 

I'm gonna have a daughter.

 

Two months and counting.

 

 

 

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