This Kid is Never Freaking Coming.

For those of you without the direct experience of pregnancy, the final month of the process is about the least comfortable any human being can feel outside of a third world prison or a Waffle House bathroom stall.

To say nothing of how the woman feels.

Undoubtedly, some of our Constant Readers are thinking – “thanks, I still have to go through this one day and you’re making it sound so bright and shiny for me.” Others are thinking “shut up – you two haven’t even hit your due date yet. Come back and complain when you’re carrying an eleven pound bowling bowl at 44 weeks.” To both camps, I can think of no more apropos response than to give you a giant raspberry.

If your first thought was “Only one man would dare give me the raspberry…. Lonestar!!!!!” you are definitely in the right place.

My wife, like most pregnant women, is subject to the “rule of eight” – that being, eight months of pregnancy makes you so ready to no longer be pregnant that you would literally punch your own grandmother to get labor started. Fortunately for grandmothers everywhere, there is no actual connection between receiving such a punch and triggering labor in the puncher. Therefore, only the most irritable of pregnant women suffering through the rule of eight actually follows through on the punch. (Get it? Follows through?) My wife has mercifully avoided many of the common pitfalls of pregnancy – overwhelming nausea, swollen feet, sore backs, etc. have mostly been absent from our household for the last eight months. Still, try carrying a concrete block that kicks you in the ribs periodically and you’ll see that even a relatively “easy” pregnancy isn’t a job for weaklings and pansies.

We have officially reached “term.” I don’t really understand the technical meaning behind the various stages of pregnancy, but “term” is good. I gather it means the baby is pretty much good to go at any point. It also appears to be the time when women who have sworn off pharmaceutical inductions and other medical interventions will start using folksy medicine as a metaphysical crowbar to pry the baby out of the womb. Our plan for the first night the baby was term was a dinner of eggplant parmesan and pineapple (both reputed to encourage contractions and possibly trigger labor), followed by a long walk (which can also help encourage labor) around the neighborhood. I hate eggplant, and Publix was out of pineapple (what the hell, Publix?!), so dinner was thwarted. Also it was hot outside, so the walk was postponed until September. But in theory, we are implementing all means at our disposal to encourage our baby to arrive early rather than late. Other suggestions that have been made to us include Mexican food (I fail to see the logic here) and bumpy car rides (same principle as long walks, I guess). Yes, we are also aware that sex can help trigger labor, but it would be really crass of me to dwell on that here.

Still, anything to help my wife in a time of need…

Statistically, first babies are not swift in arriving. I say “statistically” even though I’ve never looked at the stats, but accept as truth that first babies are more often late than they are early because I was late, and that seems right to me. I’m pretty sure it’s true. In any event, most women in my experience would prefer their babies arrive early (see above re: the last month of pregnancy and discomfort). This desire may also have something to do with the hope that, should a baby be a week or two early, he or she will have a slightly lower birth weight and be a commensurately easier delivery. Don’t get me wrong – most mothers aren’t looking for a low birth weight baby. If they were we’d see a tobacco section at Buy Buy Baby – that’s just capitalism. But given the choice between a seven pound baby and an eight pound baby, both otherwise perfectly healthy, I think most moms would say less is more. I don’t know how much of a difference those ounces would make, and barring a rather disturbing change in physiology, I never will. But I do kind of doubt a week or two one way or another makes a huge, or even a predictable difference in birth weight. I apparently lost weight in the two weeks after my due date before I was born. I’m reasonably certain my wife would not take an extra two weeks to shed a few ounces off of our daughter.

What I do know is that however long or short pregnancy feels, the final month seems to stretch on endlessly when you’re in the midst of it. In retrospect, I’m certain it will appear to have happened in the blink of an eye – that’s sort of the nature of things at this stage of life. But right now, it seems time is slowing to a crawl. We are ready to meet our daughter. My wife is ready to have ten minutes where I can hold her for a change. I’m ready to have the thermostat set above “arctic.” We are, in short, ready. Still scared as hell, but ready.

And, in the true spirit of foreshadowing our lives to come, our child is going to keep us waiting.