Ruminations on Procreation

Well, nine months after we bumped uglies and created another month to feed, Mrs. P and I are on the home stretch. I'm jazzed about finally getting to meet him or her, finally... You know, other than the occasional high-five through a fleshy tummy, I haven't had much bonding time with him or her.

Of course, the gender question comes to play. Being on the receiving end of a Mrs. P tirade, I wished for a girl.


Prego - Yes, dear. Yes, dear. Yes, dear... (Yeah. I know you're pregnant, baby. Hopefully with a girl who'll use this precise tone when angry... not with me... with YOU.) Yes, dear. I'm sorry. Yes, dear.

Of course, deep down I could care less if it's a boy or a girl, though I look at my two little bastages, out of the chute now for three and six years and wonder aloud, "Wouldn't it be cool if it's another boy?"

"It'd be cool if it's a girl, too!" comes the icy response.

"Yes, dear."

Of course, there'll have to be some minor adjustments. For instance, when Mrs. P goes to work, I may no longer be able to turn to the brood and say, "All right, boys. Let's hang out like gentlemen," before we retire to the couch to scratch our balls or drive down Elmwood Avenue to check out the Hey-Now, Hey-Nows...

Yes... a girl will definitely tip the balance of power in favour of the XX chromes... Three kings usually trumps two queens, unless the queens are three-dimensional and have a pulse. In this case, the camps are equal, or estrogen laden and feminized. Now we may actually have to stop in the pink-ish section of Target, or those three aisles of Disney princesses, tea cups and skanky Bratz dolls (which will garner a resounding 'F*CK no!' if she ever asks for one).

On the other hand, when O-Dog and the Fletch are grudgingly on their way to their in-laws, muttering their own pained "yes, dear...s," hopefully my daughter will come around to wipe my *ss and feeed me Metamucil while her husband mutters "yes dear" as he mows my lawn.

Something about a pregnant wife and an impending birth exonerates men from even the worst offenses. Take for example my 'faux pas' on the bench during my hockey game this past Thursday.

Mrs. P - Take your phone with you on the bench. It might be tonight.
Prego - Huh? Uh... are you sure?
Mrs. P - I don't know... they might just be Braxton Hicks contractions, but you never know.
Prego - Uhhh. um... yes dear. (God... If she's going to call me, let it be late in the third period.)

Fast-forward an hour... end of the first period. This is where the defencemen, such as myself, switch to the other end of the bench as we switch sides of the ice. Two young teenage forwards come down to the end.

Teen #1 - Hey, who the f*ck brought the phone on the bench?
(Prego pretends not to hear... fixating on the action on the ice.)
Teen #2 - Ohhh... I think that's Prego's.
Teen #1 - That's right... At least he's got an excuse. I thought it was someone with a concerned girlfriend or something.

Today, 6.38 am:

40-Something Defenceman - Hey, whose f*cking phone is this?
(Prego pretends not to hear... fixating on the action on the ice.)

Yeah, people are pretty much judgmental. I'm no exception. Just for sh*ts and giggles, I put Mrs. P on the spot a few years back when we went to one of those useless birthing classes. You know the ones... where some cupcake from the 'burbs pats her belly and says "And this is Kay-Li," during those insipid introductions.

From there it went to stupid-*ss queries like, "We're going to CancĂșn after the baby's born. Is it okay for her to drink the water?"

During our lunch break I turned to Mrs. P and shouted, "Hey... you got your smokes or did you leave them in the car?"

Mrs. P, indignant, immediately hits me in the arm saying, "Jesus. What's wrong with you? Now all these people are going to think I'm some trashy *sshole."

"When are we ever going to see any of these effete f*cking couples again?"

Yeah. I suppose that made her feel pretty darned low, but I guess not everybody feels that way. Last week, I was walking out of a shop and saw a pregnant girl talking to her friends. As I walked past, I noticed something that looked like a lit cigarette in her hand, so I did one of those double-takes that my brother and I always do, where we think people don't notice we're scrutinizing them, but they do.

Her response was, "Yes, I'm smoking and I'm pregnant, so have a look."
(Prego pretends not to hear...)

Wise Prego knows it's better not to say anything. A few years ago I might have muttered something stupid like, "Gee. I was kind of hoping you were just fat."


Zzzzzz. Zzzzzzzzz.

Snorttffff. Cough-cough cough, wheeeeze....

Sh*t. That was a hell of a two month coma. I don't know what happened. The last thing I remember was asking the guy in the sh*tter next to me for a light... next thing I know, I'm waking up with three missing teeth and an anal orifice you can fit a rottweiler pup into.

Let me just wipe the Rice Krispies from my eyes....


Good to be back.

PS. Still no baby yet. Any day now.