Dear Damn Baby,
I’m not gonna lie; you’re starting to tick me off. Like, I’m not MAD, but I’m starting to get frustrated. I feel like we are not starting off on the right foot here, and it worries me. Let me break it down for you.
I am your mother. Well, I don’t know if TECHNICALLY I’m your mother, since you’re not here yet (and your father, who thinks he is a real card, keeps saying he is going to want a maternity test when you’re born, to make sure I’m the mom, but that is just ridiculous – something you will be able to appreciate by 5th grade science. Your dad isn’t really that funny. But let’s keep that between us), but you are supposed to be here. If that counts for anything. Regardless, at some point in the immediate future, I will be your mother. And you aren’t listening to me.
See, my due date was September 7th. Tomorrow is September 13th. While your dad may not be what is universally considered ‘amusing’, he is good at the maths. This was a skill I was hoping you would glean from him, but it appears that instead, you have decided to take his complete and utter inability to be on time for anything and take it to an extreme measure. I find this alarming for several reasons.
1.) I live in morbid fear of being late for things. I am super punctual. Some might say I have a mild form of OCD, but those people can kiss my ass (Just make sure you kiss it an equal amount of times on the left and right cheek. Otherwise, I will freak out.)
2.) I think that number one about covers it. For now. I reserve the right to revisit this point again later.
I can understand a day or two, I really can. But we are going on a WEEK late here. That is just unacceptable. I mean, Damn Baby, it’s RUDE. I had to get through opening weekend of the NFL stone-cold sober – something I haven’t done since ’95. While I can’t lie and say your daddy and I ‘planned’ it this way, my immediate thought on finding out my due date was September 7th was, “Oh, goodie! I can have some beers for the Steelers season opener!”. Clearly, Damn Baby, that did not happen.
Also, you made me wrong. And I hate being wrong. I told everyone that had ears that you were coming September 5th. People that didn’t have ears, I wrote that shit down. Jr (your half brother. We can chat about that later) was two days early. And while I do not want to be one of those parents that always holds one of my kid’s accomplishments up as a goal for the other, really, you could have gotten your butt in gear last week and make momma look good.
And finally, tomorrow is my birthday. MY birthday. I am sort of possessive about my birthday, and I’m not sure that I want to spend the better part of the day passing you out of my vagina with no pain medication. I mean, what in the hell kind of birthday is THAT? Hey, mindbling! For your 35th birthday, not only can you NOT drink, but you are shooting a what is probably now over 9 pound baby out of your whisker biscuit. No thanks!!
Damn Baby. I’m shooting straight here. You’re killing me. I have been dying to meet you since the day I knew you were there. I have had the honor of feeling you grow big and strong in my belly, and I ache to feel the weight of your adorable little butt in my hands. I am not the most patient person in the world. I am not even the most patient person in my living room. Waiting 9 months to meet you has been torture, a torture you insist on prolonging by your stubborn insistence on remaining in my uterus.
Please, Damn Baby. Let’s get through tomorrow. Then, please, please, for me, for mommy, come and say hello. So many people are waiting to say hi. Also, mommy has a presentation at PodCamp in less than a week, and I want to be back in my pre-baby jeans.
Let’s do this.