The Test Run

So, now that we’re awaiting the arrival of our little girl, something else decided to show up. Something that we weren’t exactly expecting or wanting. It was Saturday evening when Heather started feeling a bit nauseous and by Sunday she was in the throes of a full on late-winter cold. Colds are never any fun no matter when you get them, but when you’re nine-and-a-half months pregnant, it is downright unfair. It’s not just that the mommy is coughing and sneezing with a nose full of gunk, but she can’t take any medicine. Well, not much, anyway. Tylenol isn’t going to do much for a fit of coughing that hurts ribs already sore from a small human growing inside of her. So mommy has to just suck it up and blow it out. We need more Kleenex.

Being the stubborn… scratch that… Being the strong woman Heather is, she cowgirled up and went to work on Monday, promising me she would only work half a day. Three-quarters of a day later, in slumps my sick wife. Now, here is where I step in as the man of the house and put my foot down. “You’re not going in to work tomorrow,” I say, practicing my dad voice. “Ya think?” she answers, in a perfectly formed 13-year old daughter’s tone, obviously preparing me for the years to come.

Somewhere around 3:00 am, between cough number 1,542 and cough number 1,543 I realize that this whole sickness is a test run. We wake up every two hours. One of us gets up. There is Kleenex everywhere. We both try to go back to sleep. The following day is a sleep-deprived walk through a fog. Practice. Except for my wife’s stuffed noggin and aching throat, we’re doing a dry run for Finley. But something tells me this is only the tip of the iceberg. Actually, EVERYBODY tells me this is only the tip of the iceberg.

Heather goes back for three-quarters of a day on Wednesday, because she “has to.” Wednesday night is another rehearsal and Heather hits the peak of the cold. Although she wisely stays home Thursday and gets a doctor’s okay to take Tussin, it is then I discover the danger of The Learning Channel. Midway through my work day, I get an email. “We are going to be hopeless.” These words of encouragement come from my rock, my anchor, my medicine-headed wife who has been watching a pair of shows called “A Baby Story” and “Bringing Home Baby.” Needless to say, when I get home, I can’t tell if the tissues are for her cold or from all the crying she’s done. We need more Kleenex.

If you’ve never seen these programs, they are as real as reality gets. They’re basically video diaries, following couples as they go through the process of birth and the first few days back home. On the bright side, you get to see what it’s going to be like. On the other hand, you get to see what it’s going to be like. It all kind of blends together for me into eight distinct phases:

1. Mom goes into labor, spends a lot of time making groaning noises and holding onto doorways while dad either lightly rubs her back or keeps a fist-swinging distance while asking if she needs anything.
2. Mom is in the hospital, taking instructions from a nurse or midwife, while dad either lightly rubs her back or keeps a fist-swinging distance while asking if she needs anything.
3. Mom and dad cry as they see their child for the first time.
4. Dad struggles to get the infant into the car’s baby seat, while mom looks at him like “I just passed a person through my body and you can’t even work a safety belt.”
5. Mom and dad sit in awe looking at their baby.
6. Mom and dad sit in awe looking at their baby’s poop.
7. Mom and dad don’t get any sleep.
8. Mom and dad couldn’t be happier.

All of which turns Heather into a wreck. Between the frightening scenes of labor and the amazing cuteness of newborns, I find myself lightly rubbing her back and keeping a fist-swinging distance while asking if she needs anything. Sure, it’s scary. She’s about to go through something incredibly traumatic. But there is a light at the end of that tunnel of pain. It’s a little girl who will bring us more joy than we could ever imagine. Besides, between all the colds and tears of joy to come, all we need is more Kleenex.