Sunday, August 29, 2010

"Come Out, Come Out, Wherever You Are"

Everett texted me, “Just read the blog…Melissa had the baby I assume.” No Everett. I did the un-Jewable. I blogged about the baby before the baby was born. Jews don’t set up the nursery before the baby’s born. We don’t have baby showers and we don’t buy baby clothes. That’s bad luck.

But I couldn’t wait. Neither can Melissa. We got Red Zinger Tea and pineapples because we heard that they induce labor. I also heard that pizza and hot dogs induce labor. If you ask around, you’ll find that every food a pregnant woman ate on the day she went into labor induces labor. It’s quite the coincidence.

Melissa spends ten minutes a day bouncing on an inflated green pilates ball, trying to shake the McNugget free. That’s what we call the baby, McNugget. Calling her by her name would be bad luck. Trying to bounce her out on a pilates ball is perfectly safe. Melissa read about it on the internet.

We’ve tried everything. Yes, everything. Perv.

The waiting is agonizing. Every minute could be the minute, but none of them are. It’s a constant disappointment. It’s a new kind of waiting, not like waiting to graduate or for your wedding day. More like waiting for Godot, a play I was supposed to have read in high school.

I read about it today, on the internet.

Wikipedia describes it like this: “Waiting for Godot follows two days in the lives of a pair of men who divert themselves while they wait expectantly and unsuccessfully for someone named Godot to arrive. They claim him as an acquaintance but in fact hardly know him, admitting that they would not recognize him were they to see him. To occupy themselves, they eat, sleep, converse, argue, sing, play games, exercise, swap hats, and contemplate suicide — anything ‘to hold the terrible silence at bay.’”

Hmm.

At the end of the play, word comes not to expect Godot for another day. Though they’re disappointed, the men agree not to kill themselves, and agree to do so the next day, if Godot fails to come. Godot, where are you already!

Only, we know. She’s in there. We can feel her, more and more. A leg, a foot, a toe. She’s trying to get out, but there’s traffic.

Melissa got an “internal” exam last week. I imagine it felt like a prostate exam, with an English cucumber. Those are the big ones. Zero dilation and no effacement. Not even a little. Melissa looked down at her belly, anxious to get started working it off, using the pilates ball for - pilates. She looked at me. It’s been the hottest summer in history, we’ve heard. Melissa is getting more and more uncomfortable. She is ready to kill herself. Me too. Not because of Melissa. She is a perfect prego. It's the waiting. We agreed to wait another day.

Last night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept picturing Melissa rolling over and tapping my shoulder and telling me “it’s time.” I got up, walked out of our room, through the apartment and into the empty would-be nursery but for that Jewish custom to which we cling for the sake of our parents. My mother, mostly.

I stood in the McNugget’s room. It was black and empty, but I knew the walls were “polar white.” That’s purple. My eyes adjusted. I pictured where the crib would go and walked over to it. I couldn’t picture her there. I couldn’t hear her or smell her. I could only stand in her empty room, waiting anxiously for the arrival of a person I didn’t know and wouldn’t recognize when I met. Or would I? Guess I’ll know, with time – and a little luck.

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

"Any Second Now"

Melissa was five months pregnant, but she hadn’t thrown up once or asked for peanut butter and pickles or anything. All being pregnant meant was that Melissa had a cute little pot belly that made her look like she hadn’t taken a dump in weeks. Other than that, everything was like it always was. And really, that wasn’t so unusual. So, I didn’t think twice about asking. Yes, I asked.

“Can I go to Alex’s bachelor party?”

“When is it?” Melissa asked.

“August 6.”

"Do you care?"

“Not at all.”

She meant it too, at the time. Me going to Charleston a month before Melissa was due was no big deal. A month was all the time in the world. To both of us. Then, things started to happen, fast. Melissa went from a “b” cup to a “d.” That was nice. Soon, the belly caught up with the boobs. Not as nice. As I kissed Melissa’s belly goodbye, I noticed that it had gotten so big that her boobs looked small again. This pregnancy thing was getting serious.

“You have to have your phone, like every minute,” she said.

“I know,” I said.

“Seriously.”

I gave Melissa a list of guys she could call if she couldn’t get me. She put it in the little bag slung over her shoulder and rubbed her belly. She made the sad puppy face, and asked me to call when I landed.

“I’m in Charleston,” I said. “I survived. The others weren’t so lucky.”

“Thanks for not forgetting,” Melissa said.

Alex’s bachelor party was like all the others, and since I used Alex’s real name, I won’t get into it. I’ll tell you this, though. Lap dances are no way to celebrate the impending birth of your daughter.

“Dude, this is Heaven,” my buddy said, placing Heaven’s hand in mine. “Heaven, my buddy is having a baby girl in a month. I want you to show him a good time.”

Heaven leaned in close. She smelled like strawberry bubblegum.

“Hope she doesn’t wind up here,” Heaven said.

“Me neither, Heaven. And now that you said that, there’s pretty much no chance you’ll be able to get me hard, so I’d prefer if you just didn’t touch me at all.”

Of course, I didn’t say that. I’m too nice a guy. Ask my friends. Or my wife, depending on the day. Heaven was mediocre. As a dancer, I mean. Obviously.

The sun was coming up as I fell asleep, drunk. My phone was secure in the waste band of my boxer-briefs. At 8:00 a.m., my eyes shot open. The phone had been going off, ringing and vibrating in the crotch pocket of my underwear. I had thought it was a dream. My heart was pounding. It was time. I was still drunk.

I tried to make out the caller ID. “Kim.” My wife’s sister. I sprung up in bed, scrambling to get over the safety ledge on my top bunk. I answered the phone, and Kim said a lot of words, but the only two I heard were “Melissa” and “labor.” I rummaged frantically through a pile of dirty clothes and empty cigarette packs.

“Kim! Wait, hold on. Where the fuck is my wallet!”

“So, is she?” Kim said.

I froze.

“Wait, what?” I said.

“Is she?”

“Are you asking me, Kim?”

“Oh my god.”

“Shit, Kim!”

“I’m so sorry,” Kim said. “I had a missed call from her, I just thought-.”

“I hate you, Kim.”

Of course, I didn’t say that. I hung up on Kim before she could say anything else. The other three guys in my room were still sound asleep. I took two puffs of my inhaler and found a cigarette in one of the packs on the floor. I walked out front where the sun was getting higher and higher in the South Carolina summer sky. It was already hot. The door shut behind me and locked automatically. Only two guys in the house had a key. I didn’t know who they were, but I knew they were sleeping. I didn’t have a lighter, or my wallet. Just my phone.