"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.