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My wife woke me up at 4:30 in the morning to tell me she was pregnant. I think I kissed her. I can’t remember; I was tired. And I’m pretty sure I was dreaming of something naked.

Later, when recounting the news, after waking up a second time to my wife’s glowing yet still-spastic face, I had only one honest question: “why did you choose 4:30 in the morning to pee on a stick?”

Knowing me well, she was ready with some logical response about having to capitalize on the first—i.e., cleanest—pee of the day. Though still tired and confused, I was excited by the opportunity to add to my list of things for which clean pee is needed: friend’s drug test, dehydrated in the desert, and now, pregnancy tests. Of course I was excited by the test as well, but, come on; I had been searching for years to find a third CLEAN PEE APPROPRIATE situation to round out my list.

Though this was the first time I’d been woken up by news involving urine, this wasn’t the first occurrence of an a.m. stick-pee in our household. For weeks leading up to the positive test, the bathroom had been converted into a makeshift bulk peestick warehouse bunker, leaving little room for toilet paper and oxygen. Our nuclear war readiness kit suffered: 1) food: nope. 2) water: nope. 3) peesticks: regular and extra crispy.

She praised those peesticks the way most men praise their own biological peesticks, waving them around in other people’s faces and challenging anybody willing to step up to the porcelain to a swordfight. Remind me to throw a crazy party the next time I have a vagina. Get strippers. Probably both sexes.

Logically, she should have at least waited until a missed period before hosing down her peestick stockpile. Then again, logically, I should just shut up and let her have her moments…her many, many moments waiting for those many, many peesticks to Magic 8-Ball our future. Eventually, I did shut up (until this blog, of course).

My wife has wanted children for a long time, since her own conception, I swear. And as is common with the potential for any realized dream, all ideas of logic die immediately. Restraining orders solve this dilemma for most people. For those in committed relationships, the party sans-dream must learn to endure the chaos.

I can remember the exact moment I had come to accept that, during the next nine months, I would have to abandon logic in favor of disarray: the moment I was shaken awake at 4:30 in the morning with a stick of urine above my head, by a wife who couldn’t have been happier about the situation.

About this site:

These are the words of a man learning to be a father with nothing to guide him but the wisdom of friends, his wife, his family, and some pretty good hunches…like, really good hunches, though.

Action Montage:

4 weeks

8 weeks

12 weeks

16 weeks

20 weeks

24 weeks

28 weeks

The Goal (replace dotted line with actual profile)

Read this…

"A Mean Utility" short story from Craig Davidson's collection, Rust and Bone.(This goes to an excerpt; the full story deals more with fatherhood, I promise)

Shit Yeah, Another Baby. by By Amber Richardson

Archives: A history of things I’ve likely already forgotten

RSS The Bewildered Housewife

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