…is for Gabriella to come.
…is for Gabriella to come.
My thumbs are sore from the amount of twiddling that I have been doing this past couple of days and at this point the remaining days seem to be stretched out in from of me like so many hills to be climbed. Sleep still remains an elusive creature always remaining just out of grasp as the alarm clock glows an unsympathetic red shaving off minutes from when the next day will start. Granted my burdens are less than Management’s, particularly watching her struggle to pull herself out of a seated position or attempting to lower herself gently into a chair, but this closing days seem so much longer than any other I have watched tick by.
Since there is nothing left to do with Gabriella’s room I have begun obsessively organizing things around the house and have developed a nervous tic with regards to dishes in the sink needing to either wash them immediately or put them right into the dishwasher, “Are you done with that glass? Give me that spoon. I don’t care if you are still eating your cereal!” Very likely next on my list will be vacuuming every time I walk across the living room and dusting the wood stacked near the fireplace. At the very least it will give my thumbs a rest from working feverishly over each other.
I’ve managed, during this wait, to move beyond the anxiety of becoming a father to the anxiety of not being a father yet. Interesting transition that and I find myself looking very forward to celebrating our fist Mother’s Day and Father’s Day (Hallmark must love that, a curmudgeon converted). The idea of being called “Dad” has great appeal.
It is getting close. Probably very close. Management has been experiencing increasing pressure and contraction-like symptoms, which the doctor at today’s appointment said should be changing over to actual contractions soon. In the past week, the baby has dropped considerably and having spent the past month as a giant belly with arms and legs jutting out Management has cleavage again. So increased contractions and re-appearing cleavage all point to go-time.
Bags are packed and the nursery is nearly all set, just the valance needs to be hung and the bassinet assembled. Sleep is elusive. Every time Management rolls over, sighs, or just twitches in bed has me snap awake, hand on car keys, and feet slipping into my sneakers. I am primed for a Hollywood style labor, one that involves driving reverse down the highway, eluding befuddled mobsters, as we try and get to the hospital on time. For certain, I need sleep.
The toughest part for me is the waiting. I sit and I wait. I wait and I sit. Sure, I’m doing all of the cooking, cleaning, and general catering to, but overall I’m feeling pretty useless as if there is something more I could be doing. She has the tough job and I’m hanging around like some slack-ass K-Fed wannabe. Hopefully, she won’t be cutting me loose via a text message.
Back to thumb twiddling.