nesting...

The term "nesting" has been thrown about often since it became obvious that the wife is expecting. "You'll know it's time when she starts nesting," people tell me. I know what they mean, but I can't fight back the vision of me coming home one day to find the wife perched atop the couch surrounded by sticks and straw. "I've nested," she'll say."Then it must be time," I'll reply. Another phrase I've learned is "raking straw." My secretary asked one afternoon if the wife had started "raking straw" yet. "I don't know," I replied, "she's never been much for yard work." I thought it was witty. "I'm serious," she said. "When she starts raking straw, that baby will be here in a blink."

I'm not qualified to say whether we've "nested" or not, but I'm pretty sure we've done everything necessary for Jasper to settle comfortably into his new digs. He'll have diapers, food, clothes, and a roof over his head. And speaking of roof over his head, let me mention at this point that the child will inhabit the BEST room in the house. Seriously--we're talking 250 square feet of prime real estate complete with fireplace, built-ins, wainscoting, and the largest bathroom in the house. This comes free of charge, of course, and is in addition to in-room dining, housekeeping, and free internet access, which makes me wonder why any of us ever decided to grow up and strike out our own. But back to the point, we've been in full prep mode these past two weeks, and we're ready for go-time. The wife has packed a bag, stocked the diaper bag, and latched in the car seat. She's washed onesies, bottles, and pacifiers, and has even typed a list of detailed instructions for her sister outlining the pre and post labor duties and responsibilities. I even took two days from work to clean, and I mean CLEAN, the house. I also cut the grass, string-trimmed, finished the spring planting, and all the other duties that befall the husband. We've done it all. The nest is built, and the straw is raked--we're as ready as we'll ever be.

My fear, though, is that Jasper truly is a product of his parents. I have no doubt that he's decided to enter the world on HIS terms and his terms alone. It's likely that he's decided that later is better, and when the time comes, the grass will, once again, need cutting, the house will need cleaning, and undoubtedly, we'll be far less prepared than we are now. The straw will need raking and the nest will be in disarray. We won't be prepared, but we won't be any less ready, and we watched Juno last week, so we know there's a big difference between the two...

best laid plans...

I’m a planner. I can’t help it—it’s just who I am. It’s like being born with wide feet or a weak chin. It annoys the wife, and I can certainly understand why. Our weekly trip to the grocery store requires a budget hearing and the drafting of two lists, one with expected daily meals and another detailing the items necessary to prepare expected daily meals (broken down into categories, of course, for maximum efficiency). All of this just to purchase $60 worth of groceries. So, needless to say, TERROR (laced with elation) was the inherent feeling that welled within me the day the wife deftly proclaimed, “I’m pregnant…I think.” She was holding a pregnancy test that apparently wasn’t worth the twenty freakin’ dollars it cost. It’s not that the reading wasn’t conclusive; it just wasn’t conclusive enough (for me at least).

Later that afternoon, she took a second test that all but spelled it out. Our fate was sealed with two pink lines; we were going to be parents. Not planned parents, mind you, but parents nonetheless. So thus began the whirlwind that has been our life these past 8 months. We’ve done what I expect all soon-to-be parents do—inform the grandparents, have sonograms, prepare the nursery, find daycare, start a blog (for the hip soon-to-be-parents), and pray to the parenting gods to bestow upon us the wisdom to raise a happy, healthy, and productive young citizen who will one day master the Universe. Actually, I’d settle for him merely surviving long enough to a.) scalp us cheap tickets to UGA home games, b.) let us crash at his apartment afterwards, and c.) provide us with a few years of cheap labor around the house. After all, the tax deduction is just icing on the cake when you consider the extended benefits a child provides. Fortunately, the gods have looked down on us with favor—so far at least. Our doctor visits have shown that little Jasper is right as rain (as his mother says). He has the right number of limbs, and seems to be progressing the way unborn babies should. “Perfect” was the word used by the doctor at our last visit, and that’s all we’ve hoped for these past 8 months. After all, you can’t “plan” for your child to be healthy. And when you can’t plan, you hope.

As Jasper grows up, I’ll let him make his own plans in life. I don’t have a set path for him to follow. I’ll let him blaze his own trail, and find his own answers to his own questions. It’s the best thing a father can do for his son. We didn’t plan to be parents, but we’ll try to do right by him. He’ll be fed, clothed, sheltered, and educated. He’ll have grandparents to spoil him, aunts and uncles to guide him, and a small patch of the great South that he can call home. It’s all a boy could hope for. But most importantly, and above all these things, he’ll be loved—that much he can certainly plan on.