Waiting for the Son: A Countdown to Home Birth

Waiting for the son.

Waiting for the son.

Well, it’s almost time.

Around these parts, along these beat-up winter roads and the frozen sleeping forests where my wife and I live out our days, we’re going about our business anxiously awaiting the arrival of a brand new little boy into our world.

If you’ve ever experienced the final few weeks (days?!) of a pregnancy, well, then I don’t have to tell you how life becomes a magical jumbled-up duct tape wad of anticipation and wonder and frayed patience. Plus, this time around, for us at least, you can throw in a 55-gallon drum of cabin fever, too.

No matter though, the fact of the matter is that we’re almost there.

And we’re ready.

I think.

The funny thing is with a home birth — or with any birth, really — toward the end of a long nine months you end up spending a good part of your time really wondering who it is that you are about to meet. WHO the hell is it exactly who is about to drop into our laps and need us and depend on us for his very survival?! It’s a wild fistful of grist for the old mill; it really really is.

For us, for my wife and me, knowing that we’re about to have a little fella, I find myself driving the Honda down some salt-pocked road, listening to a little music, a little Cure/a bit of jazz/whatever, and then, all of the sudden, certain themes climb back up out of my guts, out of my subconscious, and just like that, I am wondering about very serious questions; like whether this baby boy beaming down to us from some galaxy far, far away is going to look more like me or his mom. I mean, when you think about the fact that the very newest member to the human race might just be your doppelganger, that’s heavy cosmic stuff, my friend.

One curious thought crashes into another then, and before long I’m daydreaming about all sorts of things, wondering to myself  whether our lad will be all fiery and intense and seriously crazy a little crazy like me… or will he be super chilled-out and temperamentally coolio like his mama?

Will he be a good sleeper?

Will he get a twinkle in his eye when our two big black labs, Max and Milo, wander over to his crib side and peek on in?

Will he want to go fly fishing with me?

Will he like ketchup or mustard? Or a mix?

Will he be a world famous paleontologist digging dinosaur bones all over the world?

And, most importantly, will he be a happy kid who tends to just bust out frequent smiles to the world-at-large, free of charge, without even thinking about it? Will his mom and dad be able to bring peace and harmony and love into his world from the get-go? Will we manage to get it right, to allow him the sweet freedom that comes with growing up to feel secure and confident?

Will my son always know that he was adored to the stars and back from the moment he slipped out into the ether of our little rural Pennsylvania town until the fleeting final moments of his natural born life?

Hmph. I get to thinking and pondering, and it’s a damn miracle that I don’t just drift the Honda right off into a snowy field of miserable cows these days.

But that’s kind of how it should be, right?

I mean, that’s how these things go.

Waiting on a baby, counting down the final days, knowing that for the first time in a long time you can finally look at your partner in all of this beautiful madness and say, “Hey, you know what? This time next month, we’ll be changing 3 AM poopy diapers for someone we’ve never even met yet!”

I don’t know about you, but I find that notion magnetic. It pulls me hard into the future, as simple and disposable as it seems. It excites me and invigorates me and hurls lightning bolts through my chest. And, no matter who you are, no matter where you’ve been or what you’ve seen or done in this lifetime you’re living, you have to admit, when something is hurling lightning bolts through your chest, it’s got to be something really, really good.

So, hurry up, tiny dude. We love you, man, and we’re as ready as we’ll ever be.

And basically, we just can’t wait to meet you.

 

Image:  flickr.com/photos/superman_ha_muerto

You can also find Serge on his personal blog, Thunder Pie . And on Twitter.

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