I don’t know how else to say it except to come right out and put it down on paper — I’m going to be a dad.
Yeah, that’s right. The world shall receive another Thompson, quirks and all. The due date is Dec. 23, and a masterstroke of planning for two people who like to think out everything, but could mis-schedule French toast. This should be one heck of a holiday season.
I want to tell you everything, but these writing waters are treacherous. Why? The woman is pregnant, man! You don’t make her mad in a column. I might die. Careful, I must be.
So where to begin? Not the beginning, I’ll tell you that. How about this …
It all began with a scream.
It did. I thought there was a mouse loose in the bathroom, or that she had dropped something important (like the title to our house) in the toilet again. Little did I know the pregnancy test stork, the modern day harbinger of good news, had arrived.
I ran into the bathroom, with tongs ready for the fishing expedition, only to find I’m going to be a dad. What a pleasant surprise. The eloquent stick made a proclamation worthy of Shakespeare — “Pregnant,” it said. Glorious!
I wish they sold tape recorders that can capture emotions, the feelings of a moment. I want forever that joy, that excitement, the overwhelming sense of pride, the crumb-size bit of fear, the surge of energy through the room like it had been struck by lightning, and that … wait a minute, so you didn’t drop anything in the toilet? I get easily distracted.
But there is nothing in life I’ve experienced as exciting as this. And I hope there never is. I’m sure there will be times I will need a gentle reminder, but for now, it’s all blue skies and white fluffy clouds.
Life is changing quickly at the Thompson house. I am busy wrecking a room that was perfectly fine before, but substandard now that a kid is coming. Oh, I’m going to make it wonderful so she has the best room in the house. The wife, the dog and I will stare in like poor people gazing into an upper east side mansion. We’ll wonder why we don’t have heat, smooth walls and nice window treatments.
Oh, yeah, did I mention? We know it’s a she.
Yet, we still call her by her informal name, “Baby T.” My wife came up with that and I like it because it makes me think of Mr. T, as if there is a little gold-chained, muscle-bound, mohawk-topped black man in there saying things like, “What you talkin’ ‘bout, fool”?
That aside, it’s incredible how this all brings clarity to your life, and puts everything in perspective. I tear-ed up at the first sonogram I saw of her — so tiny, so fragile, so scary at certain angles. Is it a baby or an alien?
She grows quickly and time races by. They say it speeds up when you have kids, and I don’t even have one yet. What’s it going to be like when I do?
So much to think about. So much to plan for. I’ve never changed a diaper in my life. The sight of a breast pump makes me feel woozy. I think I will be fine in the delivery room, but if my wife doesn’t take the epidural, I will. There are birthing classes to go to so I can learn to breathe, and cribs to research. We have 22,000 books on pregnancy, and I’ve only made it through the jacket covers. There’s so much to learn and do!
But it’s all so exciting. To tell parents they will be grandparents, or siblings they will be uncles and aunts, and therefore are now officially old.
Oh, and to know the little one is coming. How exciting, how exciting.
Life is about to change for the Thompsons. Nothing will ever be the same again. And my column well already overflows with material. Too bad it’s all designated off limits.