“I can’t stop wondering about who this new little person will be!”
My wife was talking to me across the table in the buffet joint that we had come to for lunch.
“A little guy or a little baby girl! I can’t believe we will have a tiny new person around.” She was exhilarated, her eyes twinkling with the hours-old knowledge that we had done it.
Monica was pregnant, two plastic tests with a little blue plus sign on them were the proof, and we were both staring at each other in minor disbelief, all grinning and twitchy and blown away.
“Yeah, I know!” I mumbled through a mouth full of spring roll.
Then, because I am me, I added quietly. “I just can’t believe it happened so fast.”
It was a time to celebrate, no doubt about it. We were both on the lucky end of things, what with finding out that Monica was going to have our third child. It was something that we had discussed in detail for a long time and now here we were!
Get ready, internet. Get ready to judge me. Get ready to take me down.
See, buried underneath my genuine fatherly joy, there was a pile of my dirty ugly thoughts kicking around my guts. Back when we had decided to go for #3, I had gotten horn-dog crazy anticipating what might be the last natural period of my Earthly existence when my beautiful, sexy wife couldn’t keep her hands off of me.
It had been that way with the other two kids, so why shouldn’t I have been thrilled to be staring down the barrel of another series of months when we were in heat like crazy elk again? What guy doesn’t look forward to that sort of thing, huh? I’ll tell you what guy… NO GUY, that’s who!
Hell, I remember a time or two a few years ago when my wife was ovulating, back when we were trying to make Henry (he’s 2 now and he says, “Hello!”) when I honestly had to fake myself a deep, force-field slumber just to try and avoid her savage 3 AM advances. I was so sore and worn out, I tell you. Things had gotten well out of control and I just needed a little rest, a little “me” time.
But no. I swear she didn’t even care if I was asleep. I don’t even think things were legal half the time. Looking back, it was one of the best times of my life.
Is that so wrong?
Part of having a baby, unless you’re a trout or something (WTF?!) is all of the hanky-panky/romance/good times you get to look forward to having when you’re trying, right?
I’m sorry, I know that some people try to get pregnant so hard for so long and it doesn’t happen and I’m seriously not trying to be insensitive to them at all. But still, I have to get this off or my chest somehow. I thought I was going to be getting lucky a lot. Using rough science (i.e. no science at all) and taking a fleeting glance at the percentages (how things went with my other two kids), I really kind of assumed that I would be getting romantic at least a couple times a week for at least a couple of months, you know?
This whole thing was witchcraft, I tell ya. This time around, just as I geared up for the long scintillating trek across the Prairie of Forbidden Fruit, things halted as swiftly and as recklessly as they began. There was a short, thunderous storm and then: boink. Nothing. Nada. It was almost as if she knew, my wife. She had to have known something. Two or three lightning strikes and then it was all over. I don’t get it. I was robbed.
Still, to be fair, that was a great couple of days down at the Jersey shore.
For maybe the last time in my life, I was a piece of meat, man.
And I loved it.
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