I’m writing this for my sake. To post it so I can read and reread until my eyes wither. To return to these words whenever life demands, and refresh my relief as often as I need to. So that when I’m feeling particularly stressed, I have this post to remind myself that no matter what it is, it could always be worse—we could be having another baby.
Without going into too great of detail, Jill and I had a very minor scare recently. Essentially, Elsa,* the Oracle of the Midwest, was upset with Jill and said “You’re just doing that because you’re pregnant.” It was completely out of nowhere and when Jill told me I dropped down right there on the floor and completely died.
Once I left my body, I ran my ass off for the light. My life flashed before my eyes, making me run even faster. The light was so warm—like perfect room temperature. And bright, but not stepping-out-of-the-movie-theater-in-the-middle-of-the-day-HOLY-SHIT bright. It was perfect.
I don’t think God was there, but someone was. His bouncer, St. Pete? I hope it was St. Pete, because that’s what I called him.
“Hey Pete, I’m here, open up! And hurry!”
“What do you mean, no?”
“I mean no. Now is not your time.”
“Okay, Hell then.” I looked around but all I saw were foggy clouds. “Is there an escalator I gotta take? Or do you pull a lever and drop me down there via a trapdoor like in the cartoons?”
“You’re not going to Hell either. You’re not dead. You’re just fantasizing about this for a stupid blog post.”
“Well, I can’t go back.”
“ . . .”
“ . . .”
“Quit wasting my time.”
I opened my eyes and Jill was standing there with a pregnancy test strip that showed we were not expecting. Also, she had already remarried.
Relieved, I jumped up and declared “THE BABY BAKERY IS CLOSED!”
Jill just looked at me, like St. Petey did moments before.
Jill turned away and went out on a nice date night with her new husband. I think they went to Francesca’s on 95th.
* I LIKE “Essentially Elsa!” Maybe when she’s old enough to have a blog of her very own.