That’s just not a baby bump under my wife’s shirt. Apparently, it’s also her Gas Tank for Home Improvement. Pregnancy has turned my wife into a sexy Bob Vila, with just a touch less body hair. The bigger her belly gets, the more astonished I am at the house projects she takes on. In the last month I have seen my pregnant wife paint our little girl’s nursery, paint our bathroom, and steam clean the carpet in our entire house. To see her do it is amazing, and amazingly hot. I watched her pull a massive carpet steamer out of the back her car and I got weak in the knees. I suddenly related to those housewives that fawn over their pool boy. That hot pregnant blonde woman in yoga pants, powerlifting a Bissel Carpet Steamer is All Mine! I think I undid a few buttons on my shirt and held a glass of lemonade to my chest as she entered the house. “I declare Mrs. Hastings!” Preparing for the arrival of our child has really brought out Lindsay’s Mom Strength. Her desire to have clean carpets somehow pushed her to deadlift that machine out of her car, and I can only hope that power will transfer to me, should I ever need her to lift a car off my torso.
Lindsay has informed me that when this baby arrives, she’s going to need a break from some of her current household responsibilities. Being an enlightened, sensitive man I understand exactly what she is asking for and already have a plan in place for laundry. I’m going to start wearing less clothes around the house, which will in turn, help curtail the amount of laundry she has to do. I know, I know…all the good ones are married! But think about it for a second and you’ll see just how right I am. Babies vomit, pee, and shit on almost everything. If I’m not wearing pants or a shirt, then that spit-up can just be Clorox-wiped out of my chest hair, and someone (Lindsay) doesn’t have to do a load of laundry! Oops, diaper leaked some poo-water on my thigh, but don’t you worry sweetheart because I’m not wearing pants. Wet Nap that off my pasty white thigh, and don’t you worry about starting a load of laundry on my account. You’re welcome!
I’ve been trying to eat better, cut back on booze, and be healthier. I’ve been thinking about the future and how I’d like to be alive for it. My kid might turn out to be a real asshole and I won’t want to spend time with her, but if she turns out to be a super cool person, I want to be there for it. My grandfather died of a heart attack, my dad has had heart issues, and I was a fat kid. None of those factors make me optimistic for seeing 80 on this side of the dirt. I just want to be around for all of the good stuff, and even the bad stuff too I guess. So, health is now important to me. However, I’m still quite vain. Death will find me eventually, but when Death does find me, I’d like to at least not look like a big dough-ball of cake induced sadness. I am now placing my vanity issues onto my daughter. I don’t want to be the fat embarrassing dad. I don’t kids to ask my daughter, “Why does your dad’s chest look liked chewed gum with hair stuck in it?” “Do his thighs get cold? Is that why his gut lays across it?” Now, don’t mistake my vanity for trying either. I don’t want 6-pack abs. I’m perfectly happy to maintain my rotted-fruit, soft midsection. I just need to control it from being an absolute embarrassment. It’s like being drunk at a wedding. Sure, get drunk and have fun. Just don’t take your shirt off and complain loudly that the bride is wearing white when you know she shouldn’t be.
Lindsay said if we hold a flashlight to her belly, the baby could see the light. This has blown my mind for two reasons. First, what a horrible joke to play on a baby in utero. Am I being born now? What the fuck is that? Jesus, is that you? Secondly, it’s like turning Lindsay’s uterus into the world’s smallest nightclub. Which I imagine would be torture for any child of mine. If she is like me then she’d be sitting on the side of the uterus, talking shit about the god-awful music, and asking, “How can anyone enjoy this loud, crowded womb?” I would always blame myself if my daughter ended up loving techno house music and was one of that girls that just “has to dance”. I’m already concerned about how she’s going to dress. There is an epidemic of ass peeking out from the bottom of shorts today and I don’t like it. I’m 34 and it blows my mind when clothing options do the exact opposite of what they were intended to do. Why spend the entire day pulling down your shorts so your chicken cutlet ass cheeks aren’t on display to the whole world, when you could have just purchased a pair of shorts 3 inches longer? You are not Daisy Duke and be happy you’re not a redneck waitress that has to wear whore clothing to earn a couple of bucks at the Boar’s Nest bar.
I’m going to be a great, great old man.