13 Days...13 Days...13 Days...
It's all boiled down to this. In two weeks, I could be changing a dirty diaper. I could be washing a crib sheet. I might even be applying the mythical butt paste...ugh, no? We'll leave that one to mom.
Now that I've pondered that, please give me a moment. I need a Sunday night cocktail...
...Ice, check
...Woodford, check
...Down, down, into my belly you go.
Much better.
Over the last 29 years, I've learned a great deal about women. I've learned that the little things are ALWAYS important. I've learned that forgetting a Valentines day card equals new bedroom furniture. I've even learned that the phrase "big momma" is never applicable...no matter what...ever...even if "somebody" were to be pregnant...
However, nothing could have prepared me for Hurricane Krissie last week. Not even the always-accurate emotionalweather.com website could have predicted Wednesday's storm...
Indeed, my lovely, tight-jean wearing, waddling beauty had a "late-pregnancy" moment.
I'll explain: When casually chatting about pregnancy, women rarely tell you their horror story about delivering weeks late. No, an emotional, pregnant woman only hears the tales of 37, 38, and 39 week babies. Indeed, a pregnant woman can be convinced that doctors only give you ETA's for fun! Unfortunately, I bought into the hype.
Instead of waiting on your present until Christmas morning, the Millers were ready to unwrap at Thanksgiving. Because, you know, "everybody goes early."
In addition, two weeks ago Kristen had a dream that Price would evacuate her premises last Wednesday. Oh yes, a dream. My wife had turned into a fortune-teller. And no, I dared not remind her that it was a dream...for fear of being stabbed in my sleep.
At 6:15 on Wednesday morning, Kris' cell phone rang. Was this Price calling to say he was ready? Was this the mothership beaming in some contractions? No, it was Kristen's best buddy calling to say she was en-route to deliver my future daughter-in-law. What did that mean? The dream was real and there's double-excitement that Price and McCall are April 1st entries.
So at our scheduled 9:00 am appointment, Mrs. Cleo (a.k.a. my wizard wife) and I went to the doc for some lifting news. As the time progressed, we got the status report...
"Ma'am, not much has happened, see you next week."
The winds began to blow and the tears began to fall quicker than when Goose died - and I still cry everytime I see that. It felt absolutely terrible. And what would be the one thing to send the emotions into overdrive? This statement: "Don't worry, we won't let you go past 42 weeks..."
Advice for those who have yet to have a wife carrying around 30 pounds of ninja-kicking testosterone on the front of their body: Talking about going 42 weeks is the equivalent of being pregnant for 2,583,649 years....which can also get you stabbed.
But the waters have receded, and "little momma" is counting down the days till little man gets to come home...and sleep in the crib where his sheets have already been washed three times...
In truth, Kristen has been nothing short of wonderful, and she's given him a litte longer before handing him the keys to the Tight Jean kingdom. While I've gotten to experience a wide array of moods lately, I cannot fathom somebody being a better mother-candidate.
So the nursery is complete, and my cabinets are full of Desitin, Butt Paste, and Baby Powder. Who knew that Family Vacation 2008 would lead to this? Oh no, my life resembles the latest issue of Pottery Barn Kids....and oh no, I just realized I typed that...
To make it up, I present to you the greatest Michael Jackson remake ever made.
Until next time,
The Weatherman and his 15 Diaper Changers
