It’s OK to be freaked out
There’s a picture of my wife (like the one above – but that’s obviously a free use internet image) and I holding the pregnancy test grinning like idiots. Full of emotion, wondering what the hell is going on. Both of us full of love for one another and both of us freaking the fuck out.
You know what – that’s ok. Let’s face it – at that point there was a small bundle of cells in her belly that would in 7 months turn into a rolling, kicking demonstrative belly monster who is placated only by constant feeding of his mother, my voice speaking directly through my wife’s belly button or the playing of David Bowie music – yes – David Bowie lives on as the placator of unborn children.
At some point this sleep stealing uterine acrobat will turn into a noise monster, a milk hungry demon who spends a year crapping in-between five minute bursts of looking cute.
Then he’ll toddle, and fall, and toddle and walk and then school and puberty and before you now it he’s a six feet six inch man asking to borrow fifty bucks to take a girl out.
I think it’s fair to freak out. I think it’s fair to worry – because I feel like I’m responsible – which I am. But the thing is – it happens every day. Looking outside I’m heartened by the fact there’s dozens of kids who are still happily bouncing along the road with parents who are seriously not paying attention. They’re outside bars, they’re swinging on gates, and they’re getting themselves into all sorts of trouble. If these fuckers can keep a kid alive long enough to borrow fifty bucks, I’m damn sure I can.
So now, rather than freaked out I’m finding this whole thing rather cool. I unconsciously reach for my wife’s belly, I like to feel it when he’s rolling around, I’ve even started to read stories occasionally – I know – but he quietens and maybe even listens – if he is going to be anything like his parents it will probably be the only time in his life he does.
I don’t know what kind of father I’ll be – but I know from this point here – I’m not going to be freaked out by him.
C-sections on the other hand – that’s another story…
PS – 7 weeks to go…..Fuuuuuuuuuuuucccccccckkkkkkkkkk!