This evening, on the phone with my brother Chris's mother-in-law, I found myself turning my unborn boy into a racehorse. I bet her $5 that our kid would be born before Chris and his wife Michelle's (whose due date is a few days later than ours). I've found a way to make even childbirth competitive.
Wednesday, March 5
Liza just sashayed her nude baby factory past me. Her belly has gotten round and hard. I've mastered the phrasing of reassurances like, "It's the perfect size." And I mean it. Still, perfect size or not, it is big.
Saturday, March 8
Liza and her hormones are on the warpath. Being the husband of a pregnant woman is a great exercise in riding the estrogen bronco. But when we've both ridden the thing without having been bucked off, Liza slinks over and hugs me and apologizes for her mood, and I mouth vaguely sincere words of comfort.
Thursday, May 1
Mayday, Mayday. I'm a zombie, trudging soullessly through my duties at work, mind affixed to my failings as a prospective father. Last night Liza said, "Mark? I'm worried about finances." I made a mollifying sound and tried to shove the issue back into the dank room where it belonged. But later I was inspired -- in a misguided effort at reassurance -- to draw up a rough weekly budget. Average weekly earnings on one side, round numbers of prospective expenses, postbaby, on the other. The columns didn't add up. The columns didn't come close to adding up. And the larger number did not appear under "income."