Who's Your Daddy?

Know what sucks? When you find a messageboard thread made up of women commiserating about rib pain during pregnancy but then realize they're all at 38 weeks, not 28, like you. Booooo.

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And now, a short piece about why I'm glad Simon is the father of my child:

I have no worries about my ability to take care of baby. There will be times when I'm scared, confused, making mistakes left and right, sure, but I don't think I'm going to, like, forget to feed him for a few days or something. I have full confidence that I'm competent enough to handle all of that. *fingers crossed*

What I'm not so good at, though, is taking care of myself, especially when it comes to my health. Pregnancy aside, I never go to the doctor, never take even an Advil for a headache, never want to inconvenience anyone (including a medical professional) with something that is most likely nothing and will go away on its own if I wait it out long enough. Some might call this delightfully low-maintenance; others might call it stupid at best and dangerous at worst, particularly when it comes to things like flesh-eating diseases or scary moles.

Simon has come to all but one of my prenatal appointments, and although I told him at the very beginning that he had so as long as I didn't have a wedding ring to represent his presence as a committed partner in my life (which is not at all to dis single mothers but to show how very much I hate being misunderstood or misinterpreted), it turns out that he not only makes doctor's appointments more fun but he also ensures that Questions that Need Asking actually get asked. We are both committed to taking care of the baby, but it's good to know he's equally committed to taking care of me.

I, not wanting to alarm anyone or draw undue attention to myself, tend to play everything off like no big deal. Those contractions I've been having sometimes unusually frequently for the last several weeks? Oh, that's nothing. They don't really hurt (usually), and they eventually go away (if I wait long enough), and I really must insist that everything is fine and good and under control, okay? It's not like I'm leaking fluid all over the couch and the reason I can't get comfortable is because the baby's crowning. Will everybody just calm down? In a world full of nervous first-timers who call the doctor at every little twinge, some might say my attitude is refreshing. But again, some might say it's stupid and dangerous.

But thank god for Simon. Even if everything is fine and under control, he says, why not just make sure? Why not tell the doc about the contractions, and their frequency and their triggers, and then maybe find out if it's something we should actually be concerned about? And even though I'm still 98 percent sure that they're no big deal--I'm probably just dehydrated--I have to admit that it's reassuring to know that I have a watchdog and an advocate who will not only speak up about these things on my behalf but then also think ten steps ahead to what we might do just in case. Just in case I go into pre-term labor, what can be done to stop it? Just in case the contractions come more than four times an hour for several hours and don't let up, what should we do? Just in case the baby comes early, can we schedule a hospital tour now? Just in case we deliver a preemie, what are his chances of a healthy recovery?

When we went to our 20-week ultrasound, the one abnormality the tech noticed was that one of Wombat's kidneys was slightly enlarged. It was still well within normal range (especially since this issue is common in baby boys and usually resolves itself by the time they're born), but it was nevertheless enough to warrant a second look by the perinatologist, who came, looked, shrugged, and told us not to worry about it, and then left. I, being the refreshing and delightfully low-maintenance patient that I am, was at that point also content to shrug, not worry about it, and leave, but Simon was not:

"Does an enlarged kidney hurt the baby? Is he feeling any pain?"

My first reaction upon hearing that was "Oh no! I didn't even think of that! What kind of a horrible mother doesn't think to ask that question? I'm an unfit parent!" It honestly didn't even occur to me that our little guy might have a tummyache, and whoosh, there goes my Mother of the Year Award.

The most significant part of my reaction, however, was an intense feeling of pride and thankfulness to have such a caring, thoughtful, intelligent partner at my side through all of this. He takes care of me, he takes care of the baby, he takes care of the baby before he's even officially a "baby," and the recent efforts he's made to also take care of himself (e.g., finally going to the physical therapist to deal with his slipped disc after two years of pain and deformity) have been as much about caring for his little family as about meeting his own needs. "I need to be able to pick up my son," he tells the back doctor. "I want to be able to run with him in a jogging stroller," he tells me. "I can't wait to see you and hold you and take you to outdoor concerts in the Ergo carrier!" he tells Wombat, speaking at my belly in a high-pitched voice through the megaphone of his cupped hands.

He takes care of us because he loves us. We love him because we never thought we'd be this lucky. We also love him just because we love him. Because he's our daddy. Because he's ours.

wrote Leah at 6:37 AM | Comments (19)