An Invitation to Baby

Attention Uterine Infidel: we've prepared a nice place for you to sleep, and arranged for milk. Would you please consider coming out of my wife?


This is Only a Test

In the event of an actual birth we wouldn't have come home again so quickly, and when we did come home we'd have come home with a pulmonary-enabled infant swaddled in a plastic bassinet instead of bringing home take-out freedom fries.

The infant remains within my wife. The knocking about her uterus had been doing was merely a part of the preshow stretch. She had suspected as much, but since the radio said a blizzard was imminent we thought we'd best get in the vicinity of the birthing pool just in case.

The birthing pool is at my mother's house in Leaside, because our old schoolhouse is too far away for the midwives to get to within their guaranteed time for hot pizza delivery or whatever.

We slept in the guest bedroom. The bed was too small and I fell out.

The blizzard was nothing to write home about. Meteorologists are wimps.


Inviting Baby to Earth

Littlestar is not yet overdue, but being pregnant loses its charm in the third trimester. Having somebody grinding their shoulders into your pelvis in the middle of the night becomes irritating rather than cute, for instance. Having your lungs squished into something the size of a kid's packed lunch makes mountains out of molehills. She's leaky and tired and the dog gets jumpy every time Littlestar's uterus quivers. Popsicle says she doesn't like the smell of pregnancy. She wants the baby to come out so she can give him a kiss.

The other day Popsicle was tobogganing with play-group. As Littlestar hauled a sled back up the hill one of the other mothers said, "Oh my god, you'll make yourself go into labour!"

"Sounds good to me," said Littlestar. "Oof."

For my part I'm always at the ready to stimulate her nipples, go for long walks, bring her to orgasm, pour her a glass of pineapple juice, or squirt jissom on her cervix. All of these things are supposed to help ignite the uterus into cycling up for the big expulsion. "Can I have another glass of juice?" she asks.

I feel too lazy to get up. "How about I just stimulate your nipples?"


A Rose By Any Other $NAME

The new child has been named. The endgame was not contentious. Never the less I am happy that I won't be facing this particular challenge again. From now on I'll only be deciding on names for human beings more fictitious than my unborn son.

The last hurdle has been cleared. Baby: come out! (Only don't do it on Monday because I have two meetings to go to.)