What dreams may come

So this is weird. Last night I had a dream. A protection dream. That’s … well, ok it is actually unusual, but it’s less unusual than it used to be. Evolution ftw or something. Anyway, in the dream, Ms and I were at the mall. She was looking at shoes, I was looking at ties. A man—a creepy, pale, balding man—walked up to me, placed his hand gently on my forearm, and told me he had herpes. So I freaked out. I swatted at him and started yelling, “Oh my GOD, are you KIDDING ME?! Now I have to go tell my pregnant wife that I’ve been exposed to herpes!” And then I woke up. Strange anxiety. Very...

What a week

The week started at home. My old home anyway. We had gone to visit since Ms had never seen the place where I grew up. Strange, I guess, but it’s that sort of logistical quirk that comes into play when you’re friends with someone for 20 years and then, in the span of two years, end up dating, married, and pregnant. What’s even weirder is that I hadn’t been there for almost 10 years. Which means that in almost half the time I’ve known Ms, I never even visited the town I grew up in.  While we were there, we took a side trip to visit the place where Ms and I met two decades ago. Add to that the fact that Sunday represented one year, exactly, from the date that I moved here. This week has been the story of home.  It was a good trip. Lots of running and jumping and playing, which Ms handled with aplomb. You’d never guess she was pregnant, other than the visual evidence. Saturday evening we had supper with my dad at exactly the sort of nice but undistinguished restaurant that older locals consider “fine” because it’s been “fine” for 30 years. It was fine (no quotes this time, because I mean the word differently).  It was strange, really. I’d been driving Ms around, showing her landmarks, my navigation skills surprisingly (and depressingly) undiminished by their lack of use. Little changes in my hometown, even when things do. And so, driving around, looking at the same things I’d last seen in the same places, perhaps surrounded by marginally shorter trees, I was struck by how little impact the visit was having on me. It was like being in an unfamiliar city for which I had inexplicable geographic knowledge. I mentioned this in passing, but I’ve been chewing on the notion since. Sunday we woke up to head to the airport … and immediately realized that all was not well. We both felt awful in various horrifying gastrointestinal ways. I was, I’m told, much worse than Ms. Worryingly so, apparently. I don’t remember much. Scattered flashes in various bathrooms, a bit from the car ride to the airport. We (apparently) seriously talked about whether or not to even try to make it back. We (apparently) did. I remember a rough patch trying to hold it together and put a brave face on through security—TSA agents really don’t deserve to be barfed on—and I remember secretly grabbing barf bags from the seats around me so I’d have a good supply just in case. We made it to Atlanta, and made it (apparently) to our departure gate with plenty of time to spare. I made several trips to the bathroom, including one excruciatingly desperate one just as the plane was about to board (I received a text: “They’re starting to board. Don’t worry. Take your time,” my wife said).  I made it to the plane. We boarded, I hoarded more barf bags, we took off, we flew. And then we landed. At home. Home.  Things were foggy. I hadn’t been this sick in 30 years. Ms herself started to fade pretty rapidly after we left the plane. I found some reservoir of alertness and managed to drive us home. Home.  My six-months-pregnant wife managed to get us home. 99% of the distance anyway. She’s a remarkable woman. By Monday, I was feeling better. We both spent most of the day in bed. I was in...

Developments

Ms: I can make my belly button pop out a little bit. Mr: Don’t freak your husband out, dear. Ms: *disturbingly evil laugh*

In reference to the immediately preceding post...

Unexpected worries

When I found out we were having a child, I thought the thing that would worry me the most would be our child being a bowl of fingers or having a debilitating genetic disease. Something awful. And, of course, that’s still a worry. But it’s the kind of thing you have to put in the back of your mind a bit. Just to survive. So, no, what I’ve found is that the worries that preoccupy me, that I can’t set aside, that strike unexpectedly while we’re dusting … It’s things like: “I hope our child doesn’t have an asshole...