Last November I wrote about our lengthy return trip from Germany, how it took us nearly two hours to get home from the airport. By the time we walked through our front door, it was roughly 3 a.m. in Germany but only 8 p.m. in Chicago. We vowed to stay awake for at least an hour to get back on a normal sleeping schedule.
I walked up to the corner drugstore to pick up a few essentials, counting the minutes until I could go to bed. When I returned, Renate was hovering near the front door.
“I got you a present,” she said, handing me a positive pregnancy test.
Which pretty much cleared up the fatigue (or at least relocated it eight months down the road).
Of course I am very excited, but also nervous and somewhat, well – shocked. As in, I knew this was the plan and all, but now this is really happening. Shouldn’t I be more Dad-like? More capable with tools? Able to build a crib with my bare hands and an axe?
Now, nearly four months in, this snowball is rolling down the hill with gusto. Plans are underway to turn the guest room into a nursery. We have kicked the tires on a few strollers and purchased roughly eight billion baby books. I mean we are informed, thanks in part to the web. Each week Renate sends me an update from babycenter.com that describes how the baby is developing.
“Your baby’s eyes have now moved from the side of its head to the front,” went one memorable update. That, to me, is solid progress. The baby is always compared to fruit. “Your baby is roughly the size of a kiwi.”
About a month after learning I would be a Dad, I began experiencing some serious anxiety. Most of it focused on the idea that I would contract a horrible disease and perish. I grilled my doctor at a routine physical in January.
“What are these red lines under my eyes?” I said. He shrugged. “I don’t see anything. You’re healthy. Go home.”
Hmmph. The dermatologist proved more cooperative, determining that a suspect mole needed removing. I now have three stitches poking me in the back, and I’ll have the results in eleven days. In that time, my baby will have grown roughly to the size of a grapefruit.
My baby. Holy cow.