We at DadWagon write against the clock, knowing that one day—maybe a few years from now, maybe just a few months—our kids will realize what we’re doing and ask us to stop. Soon after that, they’ll probably learn how to Google their own names and ours, and then we’ll really be screwed.
This post is one of the ones that will get me in trouble.
So, yesterday morning Jean and I went in for her 20-week anatomy scan. You remember, the one where they do an in-depth ultrasound to examine all the parts of the baby, and reveal its sex? Well, actually, I didn’t remember this at all, and when I pointed out to Jean she reminded me that I wasn’t around for it—I was wandering around Europe that summer. Oh, right.
Anyway, the scan went fine—ten fingers, nose where it should be, heart thumping away—and so then we did (or Jean did) amniocentesis. This was definitely new. Last time around, we were under 35; now we’re over. But it took some deciding on whether to do it. Jean and I are both in good health, with no family histories of birth defects, and the tests so far have indicated no problems (or 90–95% chance of no problems). So there was no real reason to do it other than peace of mind—and the fact that everyone around us was encouraging us to take it.
So we did. At a certain point, we shrugged our shoulders and said, Eh, whatever. Which has pretty much been our approach to the pregnancy overall. This will surprise none of you who already have multiple children, but the hope, anxiety, thrills, and concern that rollercoastered us through the first round, four years ago, have flattened out. At worst, Jean’s being pregnant is an inconvenience. At best, we forget about it entirely.
Oh, the baby’s kicking? That’s neat, I guess. That’s our attitude now. Naming the kid, too, feels less urgent than the first time around—I’m sure whatever we come up with will be fine, since we’ll just end up giving her a nickname like Pinky-Poo anyway. And Jean, you will be horrified to learn, has not only eaten sushi and raw oysters but has also had the occasion to sip a microglass of wine now and then, or have a glug or two of beer. (In preparation, of course, for immigration to France.) Yeah, we know, the alarmists say you shouldn’t. But it’s just too hard to get worked up about these things. And besides, it’s not like Jean’s smoking meth.
None of this is to say we’re not looking forward to the new child. Au contraire! The September day that Sasha’s little sister bursts forth from Jean’s womb (like something out of “Prometheus”?) will be a joyful day indeed, whatever we decide to call the little critter. (Maybe just Critter?) But the point is, we cannot fucking wait for that day to arrive, at least so we can have a couple of gin-and-tonics to celebrate.