Preggo My Eggo – Part 2 – The Tour
Mrs. Donk is the most uber-ly prepared person I’ve ever met. I’m convinced that had she been put in charge of FEMA, the Katrina disaster never would have happened (damn Dubya for turning down her application). She is, in fact, so prepared, that here we are still nine weeks out from the big day and she already has her hospital bag fully packed and ready to go. I looked in there the other day. She’s got so much stuff in that bag that should we want to go directly from delivery to the Cayman islands for a one week getaway, we should be good to go.
It’s no surprise then that last week she had us scheduled to go on a tour of the maternity ward of the hospital where she will be pushing our child out of her vagina (I’m a helpless romantic). It seemed a bit early in the game to me for us to be checking out our hospital, but Donk learned long ago that the key to a healthy marriage is to just shut his mouth and nod vigorously.
Upon arriving at the hospital we found that we were part of a much larger group of knocked up broads and their husbands. This was a huge indignation and awakening to The Donk, who had been laboring under the delusion that his precious wife was the only one in at LEAST our county to be with child. What an insult to see these teeming masses with their unimportant baby bumps. Their presence seemed to diminish my magical sperm’s glorious accomplishments. I spent the rest of the tour sizing them up like a prize fighter before a big match: Well, they’ll certainly have an ugly baby…Wow, she’s sure to have stretch marks…Why are any of them even bothering since my child is clearly the second coming of the messiah?
As we began touring the different areas of the maternity ward, it became clear to me that the idea of birthing this child was finally hitting home for Mrs. Donk. Speaking for myself, being there was certainly a slightly surreal feeling that made my head pulse with expectation. But when I glanced at Mrs. Donk I noticed her face was pale, her eyes like saucers: she looked like she was going to make a number two in her pantaloons at any moment. I tried to ask her if she was OK, but was met with a guttural noise that may have been some sort of ancient caveman language.
I noticed a particular change in her mood when we entered the actual delivery room and the nurse began demonstrating all of the different ways the bed could contort, showed us the stirrups and the little handlegrips to grab onto when pushing, and gave us insightful, upbeat information on such uplifting topics as catheters, vomiting, vaginal tearing, and baby’s first, tar-like bowel movement. As we stood in that room, it was becoming real for both of us: we were really going to have a baby. That thought was scary enough for me; I can only imagine how it made my wife feel, as she stared into the face of one of the most challenging, primal human functions with no option to back out.
It was at the moment of our greatest tension, when the nurse was telling everyone about the jacuzzi bath in the bathroom that could be used by the women while they were in labor, that one of the wives raised her hand and asked sheepishly:
“Can daddy get in the jacuzzi bath as well?”
This hilariously out of left field comment, with its accompanying visual, punctured the tension in the air and made me stifle a laugh. I mean here Mrs. Donk and I are freaking out, and the most pressing question on this woman’s mind is whether or not she can share a hot, romantic bath with her man as her body constricts like a boa on a gazelle. It kind of put things into perspective.
Later, as we walked out to our car, Mrs. Donk said: “I shouldn’t have done that. All it did was scare the shit out of me.”
“Well,” I said, trying to be helpful, ”you may feel that way right now, but when the time comes, we’ll both be glad that we familiarized ourselves with the place. It will seem less foreign.”
Seeing that this sage advice had had little impact on my wife, I couldn’t resist adding: “Now let’s get you home and into a piping hot bath.”
It was a long car ride home.
