THE SON WILL RISE

The countdown is on.

For me, it is a countdown to when I have a son.

For my wife, it is a countdown when “that child stops stomping on my bladder and quits punching my pancreas and how did you get a foot lodged under my collarbone!?!?!?!”

Ah, the beauty that is pregnancy.

We still have over a month to go, but my wife is convinced that not only is he coming soon, he is very possibly going to walk out of the womb, perhaps playing the trombone she is convinced he has in there.

We already know that he’s a big dude. At the last check-up, he was tipping the scales at over six pounds, and they were forecasting him to top the nine-pound mark. I don’t know about you, but my thought upon hearing that was, “I am so glad I am a guy.”

I think we are almost ready for the baby to arrive, however. The room is almost finished, which was something that is apparently crucial to a successful delivery. To hear my wife tell it, if we had not finished the room, the doctor would just refuse to see us, and she would have to give birth out on a park bench.

I, of course, put up no objections when she issued the room decorating orders. I have no objections at all these days. I am not allowed objections. I just sit and comply, like the frightened sheep I am.

Now, some of you childless guys out there may think that I am being a spineless rollover. And you would be correct. But as you other dads out there can attest, the last month of a pregnancy is a dangerous time to try and have an opinion. She is miserable. You are to blame. Just let her loathe your very being until the baby is born and the hormones can rush from her system, probably back to the awaiting mother ship.

My wife decided that the room would be decorated in a blue, with cars painted on the walls. She bought several decorative wall hanging thingees that I believe are intended to be coat racks, or perhaps hat racks. I didn’t ask. I just hung them.

I, of course, made no attempt to paint anything that required the remotest amount of talent. I can only paint enormous sections of wall that can freely accommodate a wide roller. Anything that requires a brush or some concentration is well out of my range. I am to painting what Monet is to roller hockey.

Once the painting was completed, I was very excited since that meant that (a) the painting was over and, hopefully, I would never, ever have to paint again and (b) did I mention the painting was over?

But a freshly painted room is not enough for a baby that is still a month away, nosiree. At that point, it’s furniture time. We had a dresser that had been in my daughter’s room that we were planning on using. As I was moving it into his room, I noticed that the drawer knobs were all painted like ladybugs. Or strawberries. Or maybe flowers. Whatever they were, they needed to go. I consider myself a progressive guy, but no self-respecting dad could board his son in a room with a dresser that matched his older sister’s room.

I suggested that my wife paint over them with something more appropriate, such as power tools, sports equipment or Pamela Anderson. She opted to paint them blue. I consider it a compromise but definitely leaning towards me.

Next into the room was his new bassinet. We have a bassinet that we used for our daughter, but it was explained to me that the old bassinet would be used downstairs. The new bassinet would be the upstairs bassinet. My wife seems to think that our son will be sleeping most of the time. She apparently has forgotten our daughter, who did not sleep until shortly after her second birthday. Quite frankly, one bassinet may be overdoing it.

There are still some items, I am sure, that will go into the room. And on the wall. And over the windows. I will take it all in stride, and just do as I am told. I do want his room to be right. For one thing, those park benches are pretty uncomfortable.