T-minus 10 … 9 … 8 … 7
Just waiting for blast off here at the Thompson house. Today, Dec. 23, is the due date El Doctor set all those months ago for young Baby T’s arrival. As you read this, one of three things will have happened.
Could be I’m at home with the little one, learning how to change diapers and swaddle, as well as saying things I’ll get punished for like, “She spits up like a drunken sailor!” and “Would the baby like some roast beef?”
Could be I’m in the hospital uttering the often repeated, “Now, honey, remember what we learned in birthing class … ‘cus I forgot everything.”
Could be the baby hasn’t come yet and Nancy’s on the sofa with that look on her face that screams, “Call the paramedics and ask if they’ll bring the jaws of life.”
Who knows? As the doctor tells us: “Baby’s gonna’ come when baby’s gonna come.”
You went to medical school for that?
The wait — the anticipation! — is killing me, and I’m not even the one with a baby in my belly. (Although Nancy has suggested duct taping a 60-pound bag of cement to my front so I can get the full experience.)
It’s all frustrating, but also very exciting.
Not that the kid is late. As I’m writing this column, she’s still 3 days from her due date. But I’m worried we’ll have to deliver on Christmas Eve when I hear it’s all do-it-yourself at the hospital. (My nightmare is pulling up to find a self-serve instruction booklet and a key to a room. “Some assembly required,” the instructions will read. “Batteries not included.”)
So we’re all in a tizzy here in Thompson Central. Any little pain, any little sensation and we analyze it, discuss it, look it up in the books, consult the neighbors, jump up, run around, grab the bags, head for the car … and then realize it was just the washing machine with an unbalanced spin cycle. Whoops!
Not that we know what a contraction feels like (although I’ve been getting these whoppers as if a butcher is tenderizing my kidneys.) They say contractions are a wraparound sensation from the back to the front, like a boa constrictor eating you for lunch.
But what concerns me is my wife is so linear — so textbook — that she doesn’t always put the pieces together and see the big picture.
“So, are you having a contraction now?” I expect I will say before getting this reply: “No. Right now it’s just some intense lower back pain. And my sides are extremely tight and hurt pretty bad. Plus, my stomach is all squeezed up like a water buffalo sat on me.”
“Oh my God, honey! THAT’S A WRAPAROUND CONTRACTION! Get the bags!”
Most tell me we will know for sure when the real ones start, and there are two telltale signs: 1) Her face will scrunch up like a pitted prune; and 2) Her hands will wrap around my neck and she will blame me for world hunger.
We’ve been told all manner of things, and we don’t know what the heck to believe. So, we’re not believing any of it. She feels great, has a lot of energy, looks fantastic (aside from the VW Beetle parked in her belly) and we’re having a lot of fun with it.
We laugh a lot. We point and blame each other for the financial ruin this will bring us. We go to the Alligator Farm and throw gator food to the lethargic reptiles. We make diaper origami — “Look, it’s Santa Pampers!” We work on our new Web site, totallythompson.com, where we hope to announce the birth of our child, and raise money for her college through sales of hair-growth tonic.
It’s Christmas and we’re expecting a baby! How exciting is that? We’re going to enjoy every minute of it, especially since no one knows when the contractions will start and the hands will reach for my neck. Which reminds me: Back to the countdown … 6 … 5 … 4 …