No, I’m not coming out of retirement. Nor am I having a baby. But I happened by the blog today (the domain is about to expire and I needed to update my credit card information) and saw that I’m getting about three readers a day at this point. I know that Jesus says that one matters, but in blogland, anything less than 1,000 and you’re a loser. No matter what Jesus says.
Turns out, semen is in the water these days. Everyone is getting knocked up. And those who aren’t knocked up just haven’t had the chance because they’re too busy planning their weddings so that they can get knocked up. It’s insane. I know that it’s not unnatural, but it is hard to come to terms with the fact that the next chapter of your life is nipping at your heels. Or, in this case, a Doberman with rabies who is chasing you around a small, fenced-in space, reminding you that no matter how fast you run, you’re going to get tired and that doggy is going to eat. you. alive.
This weekend the hubs and I took a trip out to the Newton Wellesley Hospital to visit our dear friend (and fellow, though legit, blogger) Julie Q. In the two hours spanning the before during and after, the hubs and I became closer than either of us thought possible.
It started on Saturday night when I told him that I had rented a Zipcar for the following morning. He responded with his perfunctory “why?” the one that has been my constant companion these seven years. It wouldn’t matter if Obama gave me a signed note, allowing me to do whatever my heart desired, the husband would trample on it with that one word, “why?” The power it wields over me is other wordly. In a word, he manages to bring my ridiculous existence into question, force me to identify the least functioning parts of myself, and second guess everything I believe to be true. Rather than answer like an adult, I usually go straight to my sassy cheerleader. WHY? WHY DO YOU THINK? DO I LIKE HAVE TO HAVE A REASON FOR EVERYTHING? YOURE SO OPPRESSIVE. YOURE LIKE ONE OF THOSE HUSBANDS ON DR.PHIL. JUST LET ME BE! LET ME DO WANT I WANT.
Yep, Caroline, you totally won that one.
I digress. He “why’d” me and I responded like a child that I had told him like a million times that we were going to the hospital to visit the new baby. You know what he did then? Why’d me a second time. I nearly broke a bottle of Pretty Things Babytree over his head and left him unconscious at the bar.
“Because. These are the types of things that people our age do. We go see babies.”
He said something about how I made up rules and made him follow them, which is likely true, but it was too late the cancel the Zipcar and frankly I thought it would be good for us to go and do it. Babies, yay!
The car was reserved for 11:30, but after smoking pot out of a sink at 2AM in Dorchester and then falling asleep on the porch during my two hour wait for a taxi, the earliest I was able to get up was noon. Which I did. I put on clothes, decided not to say anything to the hubs about looking like a homeless college student since I was about to use Trident as toothpaste and was on my second round of trying to rub the Merlot off my lips. I asked him to figure out how to get there and off we went. To the Maternity Ward.
Oh man. You would have thought that we stumbled upon the floor fr infectious diseases. In route to the room, we got very, very lost. In an effort to get back on track we wove through every beaming baby room on the floor. With each “It’s a Boy” balloon it got creepier. I made the mistake of making some sideways comment about pregnancy that incited a father to point at his 34687 weeks pregnant wife and give me the “you have no respect for human life” look. I felt bad. I did.
We arrived at the room and proceeded to stand there awkwardly, waving off any attempts by the proud new parents to have us hold the wee babe. I think the hubs was holding his breath, both because he didn’t know what to do and because he thought the whole thing might be catching. (In the car, his questions had turned technical as he wondered whether she had “moaned and pushed or just cut it out.”) We also didn’t bring a gift of any kind, so we were basically intrusive statues. We may as well have been medical observers. No gifts, no help with the baby. Just standing there. Panic stricken.
When it was time to go, we walked through the halls like frightened sheep. The hubs looked over at me right as we were about to exit the floor and said, “I just need to leave. I thought we were going to come here and see a bunch of older people and grown ups with babies. The only thing here is a bunch of people our age with babies. And it’s fucked up.”
Noted. We were on our way out.
The conversation on the ride home was sparse at best. Occasioinally one of us would make a comment like, “wow. their lives are totally about to change.” or “man, can you believe that, they are parents.” all the while staring ahead, ignoring the conversation that was inevitably to take place.
When, young Beaulieus, do you plan on becoming parents?
I wasn’t going to breech the topic because, if you’ve ever met the hubs you know, he does not like surprise attacks. The vision of a friend with a baby was enough to push him over the edge and if I so much as HINTED to wanting to have a baby he would likely roll out of the car… on the highway.
The day continued with no mention of the 800lb baby in the room. When we crawled into bed, I thought maybe we’d have a profound regroup, make some decisions and go to sleep thinking about what the future held. But before the words could even come out of my mouth, he spoke.
“Don’t even tell me you want one of those.”