Last week, I had pneumonia. I’m not sure how she was saved, but Kira escaped it. For those out there who’ve never had pneumonia, do what you can to keep from contracting the blasted bug-it’s not fun. I feel as if I’ve been walking around with a whoopee cushion in my chest for the past 10 days.
So, Kira was spared and freed to take care of me, which she did very, very well. We spent some time during my sentenced bed rest talking about what a luxury it is to be sick, to have a job that places health above production, to have insurance. Then it hit us that come June 1, nothing will be the same. No colds or flues, no sneezes, and coughs, not even pneumonia will be allowed for the first several years of the kid’s life. Or, shall I say, none will be as important as they are pre-baby. My lung may be black with infection, but if there’s a dirty diaper in the equation, I’d better shut up and get to work.
I was sitting in the doctor’s office on Friday night, the urgent care clinic, watching a little kid about two years old with a Que-Tip stuck in his head. His mom was battling frantically to keep him from pushing it in further, armed with only a Shrek storybook and Snow White playing on the videotape player in the corner. If only it’d been Shrek on the video and Snow White on paper, she may have had a chance. There was another poor teenager who’d cut his hand something fierce. He came hobbling into the clinic and, on sight of the blood gushing from his clenched fist, was escorted straight back to the doc. And through it all, he would not hang up his cell phone.
Then mine rang. It was Kira.
“So, I’m on the ramp in Vancouver.”
“You ok?”
“Well… Pieces are falling out from under my car. It’s stopped.”
As much as I’d wanted to believe that the folks who put together Kira’s 1993 Eagle had tossed in some extra pieces for good measure, we both knew this was probably not the case. And at 120,000, it’s time for a baby-mobile.
It’s time for a wagon.
Keep in mind that this very Friday, Kira had just returned from her second doctor’s appointment. Tragic as it is, I didn’t go; the pneumonia had other plans for me. She came home armed with fresh new pictures AND a recording of the fetal heart beating. The pictures are wonderful-no more tail, and it’s got a monstrous noggin!
So, saddled with pictures of Little-Big-Head, we’re thinking Volvo. Unfortunately, Kira doesn’t do well with car dealers. More to the point, she hates them. She closes down when they’re near, and like a pig rooting for truffles, she can smell them at a great distance. This ability is more for self-preservation than hunting and gathering, mind you, she gets awfully hot thinking about the process. With all this in mind, I am fully aware that the negotiating process lies with me. And I have a fever.
We started with a brief tour of Volvo and Volkswagon yesterday evening and have a few more dealers for the inquisition scheduled before week’s end. That’s when the buying process starts. This should be an interesting week.
On the baby front, besides the gigantic melon, apparently, the little fella is in spaz mode, jerking and tossing all over the place. It’s fascinating that there’s all this action inside her, and still nothing showing out front. According to the nurses, the little spawn is about an inch and a half from crown to fantastic rump, and it’s already developing peach fuzz for hair and fingernails. This last development is probably the most noteworthy because if the birthing goes south, it may need to claw its way free, just like in Alien… You remember, classic.
It’s got a spine too. So, my baby’s not spineless. BA-dumm-dum. The liver, kidneys, intestines, brain, and lungs are all going strong, getting bigger every minute.
We’re playing the name game daily now, and since it appears I’m losing the battle over whether to find out the baby’s sex early, we’ll likely be having this discussion to the very birthday. I’m optimistic, however, that we’ll come through with some good choices. We watched the “Harry Potter” special on NBC this week and decided that the kids in the movie are so cute with their British accents that we’re going to speak with the British lilt around the house until the little one takes on the tones. We’re firmly of the mind that culture can be taught artificially if you want it bad enough.
We’re told that next week is the big week for external bodily change when the uterus actually moves above the pelvic bone. Having lived the last six weeks under the shroud of “I can’t feel it yet! ” I’m really looking forward to that. From here on in, fat city.
As for the couvades update, pneumonia knocked off a good nine pounds for me, so I’m back at a reasonable fighting weight. That, and now my partner in crime, Ted, looks like Grimmace.
Have a great week, everyone.