Ramblings of an Expectant Dad: Episode IX

So, in case you haven't been paying attention, I'm going to be a dad.

 

(*shocked face* I had no idea!)

 

I know, crazy, right? I mean, it just kind of snuck up on me!

 

(*blink blink*)

 

Fine. It didn’t sneak up on me. I've been rambling about it like a crazy person for months. Still, I will admit I had a minor freak-out when I got to work on January 2^nd, flipped my calendar, and there it was, my daughter's due date on the calendar, right there in black and white. Now, as some of you have pointed out, babies don't always come on the due dates. And no, I didn't need you to point that out… It's not like I'm, like, a really smart, stable genius or anything *coughcough* but having that reference point now staring me in the face every day made things seen even more… real.

 

This is real.

 

This is happening.

 

In a matter of approximately eighteen days, I will go from being an expectant dad to being a… dad. Just a straight up, sleep deprived, getting spit up upon, gagging at the unholy terror coming out of my daughter's posterior, dad.

 

Holy f*ck.

 

Am I ready? Sure. I'm ready.

 

(Narrator: He was not ready.)

 

Cute. I see what you did there. Let me rephrase: Are we physically ready? Yes. The nursery is complete. The monitor is affixed to the wall and mobile apps are up and running on both our phones. Clothes are laundered, diapers are ready, and the diaper genie is ready to work its diaper genie magic. The car seat base is firmly affixed to my back seat, ready to receive its tiny passenger.

 

And by the way, I thought Subarus are supposed be the safest automobiles on the road…  yet the seatbelt in my betrothed's automobile won't ratchet down tight enough to hold the car seat in place. WTF Subaru. Of course, because of the way the split in the foldable second row seats in my ride falls, the car seat in my beast of a vehicle will be just slightly off kilter, but that seat ain't going anywhere. And let's face it, would it be my child if she wasn't slightly off kilter? I mean, you've met me. Well, some of you. A lot of you have only met me through these pages, but you know me well enough by the words I write to know that there's something just a bit off in this head of mine.

 

Anywhoos…

 

Hospital bags are mostly packed, preparations have been made for the dog, my vehicle has been inspected and brakes checked…. If this child enters the outside world tomorrow, we're ready for her arrival.

 

But am I ready?

 

By and large, yes. What I don't think I'm ready for is the tsunami of emotion that I know is going to wash over me. This has been a long time coming for me. The moment I see that tiny little face I know I'm going to lose my shit. I know it, so there's no sense in denying it. I'm going to ball my eyes out like a preteen girl watching that sparkly vampire guy die in Twilight.   

 

(Um, you've never seen the Twilight movies, have you?)

 

No, but, you know, I'm just guessing. There will be tears. There will be an onslaught of feelings, and those feelings are going to escape me like an erupting geyser. I'm going to be nervous about holding her, worried that I'll drop or break her, this tiny little life I'll literally take in my hands. Will my swaddling practice with the dog pay off? What if she gets my big Italian nose, or worse, what if she comes out looking more like a newborn chimpanzee than a human child, like her father did?

 

(hahaha… wait, what???)

 

Seriously. When I was born I had a full head of hair and that line of hair down my back. If National Geographic had a photographer at my birth I would have been on the cover of the next issue with a headline that read "Missing Link?" and people would have come from all around to see the spectacle.

 

(Okay, that's a bit dramatic.)

 

I know, but still…. Italian genes run strong in my family. My father has them. I have them, and yes, my daughter is going to have them. Hopefully she'll outgrow the hairiness. I mean, have you ever seen Sophia Loren? Monica Bellucci? Italian, and swoon-worthy.

 

Of course, I don't want my daughter to be too swoon-worthy, because, you know, boys.

 

(She's not even born yet and you're already worrying about her milkshake bring all the boys to your yard?)

 

Thanks for the reminder. No milkshakes.

 

(*facepalm*)

 

I can't help it. I'm a worrier by nature. I can only imagine what it will be like once she finally arrives, and the picture of emotion that will be yours truly won't be a pretty one. Thankfully I have a partner in her mother who keeps me grounded, and for that I am eternally grateful. I won't say she keeps me sane, because we all know that ship sailed for the horizon with no rudder long, long ago. But Grounded? Yes. And I'm going to need it.

 

Look, I know I'm not perfect, and I know I'm not going to be a perfect dad. There's no such thing as a perfect parent. Anyone who claims to be is a braggart and a liar. I will, however, be the best father I can possibly be, because that's what I have to be. That's what I need to be. And that's all I can be.

 

In the coming weeks I am going to engage the out-of-office assistant on my email, and I'm going to participate in feedings, changings, and what I expect will be hours just staring at my sleeping child with rapturous joy, because I can. I'm going to take a bazillion and a half pictures, I'm going to introduce my child to my dog, and the world. And I'm going to do it all with the perfect person for me by my side.

 

I am blessed, indeed. It's taken me a long time in life to finally get it right, and boy did I. And yes, honey, I used the word "perfect" again. Don't let it go to your head. I mean, you're still a Patriots fan, so you're not that perfect.

 

(Wait… you are having offspring with a PATRIOTS fan??? I… I… don't even know you anymore.)

 

Oh stop it. You knew that already. Patriots fan she may be, but she's a football fan that yells at the television during games. So….

 

(Okay, you got me there.  She's a keeper.)

 

This is what I'm saying. Together we are going to be parents to our beautiful daughter, Cecilia.

 

(Cecilia? You're naming her Cecilia?)

 

No. Good grief, no. I can't believe you fell for that. I would not name my daughter Cecilia if for no other reason than…

 

(WAIT! Please don't….)

 

I'd be singing….

 

(I said please… please don't…)

 

Oh Cecilia, I'm down on my knees….

 

(Beggin' you please to come… goddammit. I hate you. I'll be humming that all freakin' day now.)

 

You're welcome. No, we're not naming her Cecilia. You'll find out her name soon enough. Maybe this week. Maybe next, or the week after that. Hopefully not the week after that, because momma would not be happy about that. That little muffin has been baking for nearly thirty-eight weeks already….

 

Random tangent: It finally dawned on me why they say pregnancy last nine months when, in fact, the human gestation period is actually forty weeks. Do the math… four weeks in month… times ten, not nine, but ten, equals forty. Human pregnancy is ten months.

 

But…

 

On average most people don't even realize they're having a child until you're about a month into the process, hence… nine months? I could be wrong, but it makes sense so I'm going with it.

 

(This is the kind of stuff that keeps you up at night, isn't it?)

 

Yes. Stuff like this, how penguins got to Africa, and where people with two different sized feet buy shoes. I mean, do they just have to buy two pairs in different sizes? And what do they do with the extra shoes that don't fit?

 

(There is something seriously wrong with you.)

 

I know. And honestly, for all the things that I hope don't happen to my daughter, I do hope she inherit this side of me. Because my sarcastic wit is something on which I pride myself. It's an incredible coping mechanism, and an outlet for my creativity. I want my daughter to have that. I have a lot of friends with children, and often times those children do or say things that make me smirk or smile, and which have led me to coin one of my personally favorite phrases:

 

There is something delightfully wrong with that child.

 

Is it weird for me to want people to be able to say that about my daughter? I don't think so. I want her to be an individual. I want her to embrace her inner weirdness, let her freak flag fly, and be who she will be. Sure, it's a little early for all this, but still. For now her innate weirdness will probably fall along the lines of her trying to eat her own toes. I'm totally cool with that.

 

I'm going to be a dad soon. This, the ninth entry of my Ramblings of an Expectant Dad experience, will be my last as an expectant dad. I apologize in advance for the fact that, after today, it's going to be a few weeks at the earliest before you'll hear from me again, and begin reading the Ramblings of a New Dad. It's time to put down the proverbial pen, as the next days will be my last without being parent. I'm going to do some… more personal reflecting, and share the time we have left with my beloved as parents-to-be before we become parents-that-are. And then I'm going to enjoy the wealth of emotion that's going to follow. For as open and honest as I can be on these pages, there are some things I just have to keep for myself.

 

So, I sign off now, but before doing so, must share these parting thoughts until we meet here again:

 

I cannot thank you enough for accompanying me on this journey. The love and support momma and I have received as we venture forth to this remarkable milestone in our lives' path has been truly humbling, and at times overwhelming… in a good way. I've received words from friends, family and even strangers, words of love and encouragement, that have propelled me, calmed me, warmed me, and sustained me these last thirty-eight-some-odd weeks. I cannot wait to share with you that which is to come.  My love and thanks go out to all of you.

 

For the last time on these pages, I leave you with these words:

 

I'm going to be a dad.

 

~JJ

 

 

 

© 2018 J.J. Goodman. All rights reserved.