It’s February 4 today.
Which means the baby is two days late.
I’m still coming to work every day, waiting for the phone call that never comes, because it seems like little miss is going nowhere for the moment. An interminable wait that has me practically shredding my hair and preventing me from concentrating on the job I get paid for.
In contrast, Katie has actually calmed down – I think we must’ve swapped for the moment.
I know that babies are always late, that 80% of babies are born in the 41st week, etc, etc. I know all this.
But it doesn’t stop this weird anxiety that has settled in since Katie’s due date drifted past. I’m suddenly so incredibly impatient for it to be done with, which is a big shift from my recent apprehension.
I have always been protective of Katie, ever since we got together. And I always was expecting to be equally protective of our baby. But I wasn’t expecting just how strongly that kicked in. Just how completely primal that urge would be.
Like, for example, when some dipshit is driving like a moron around us, I get angry. Not rational angry, where I deliver some witty comment and wish a plague upon their house; rather, it’s a I-want-to-rip-your-head-off-for-threatening-my-family white-hot rage, that’s completely unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before. It’s unsettling and scary, but also kind of neat, too.
Anyway, these primal instincts have kicked back in. Ever since the due date passed, coming into work has been torture. Every single fibre of my being is screaming at me to go home and be close to Katie, on the offchance that I’m needed.
If I’m going to be a useless lump, I might as well be with my pregnant wife.
More than just a uterus
I now understand why pregnant women often complain about feeling like nothing more than a giant uterus.
The last couple of weeks, people have stopped saying hello to me. They’ve stopped asking me how I’m going, how my weekend was, what my plans are.
Instead, everyone opens a conversation with the same three words: “No baby yet?”