Thursday, June 09, 2005

It's just gas. Go back to sleep.

Sunday night I was screwing around online, swapping out my background and getting ready to post the funniest post you’ve ever read. And then my wife fucked everything up.

She was sitting on the couch grunting and continually rearranging herself to get comfortable.

“I told you not to eat those beans at Marco’s.”

“It’s not the beans.”

It damn well better be the beans. She was holding her belly from underneath and cringing, but not in a lot of pain kind of way; just an uncomfortable kind of way. I went back to my typing, but it was hard to focus with her constantly shifting and grunting over there. “Am I gonna have to put you outside?”

Normally a very literate human being, my wife seemed to be at a loss for words. Her frustration had overcome her sense of logic and she could no longer string a sentence together.

“I can’t…something’s…it just won’t…”

Fuck, it could take all night to find out what’s wrong at this rate.

“Wait a second…oh, wow, that’s better.” She exhaled.

She was sitting upright by now, the children taking up the better part of 8 cubic feet of her torso.

Finally. Jesus. I went back to my typing.

So this weekend Jason and I met up with Jesse and Danny for a few rounds of pool. Jesse was bitching and moaning because his wife has quit putting out while Danny bragged that his wife had a fucked up ovary so they were doing it twice a day trying to get pregnant. I was about to throw in my two cents worth when Jason cut me off with-

A loud guttural noise suddenly came from the sofa and Jasmine balled up as much as she could be, holding the bottom of her belly again.

I felt my stomach hit my ankles. Oh my god, cut that shit out. Stop it, stop it. “What are you doing?”

The groan stopped and she just went tense and still with her eyes squeezed shut.


What the fuck is going on? Why isn’t she speaking? I got up and walked up to about 6 feet from her. I didn’t want to get any closer. I think that makes me a pussy, but I’m comfortable with that.

Whatever had been clenching her guts slowly let go. She looked up at me and I don’t know who was more scared.

I’d tell you what happened next but I don’t fucking remember. All I know is it was after midnight and we were hauling ass down the road trying to get to the hospital before she sprang a leak and ruined my leather.

At that time of night on an early Monday morning there wasn’t a car around. But apparently some moronic engineer had the lights set up on a timer instead of a sensor. My light turned yellow and I hit the brake. We sat there, no sound, no talking, no traffic, nothing. Just sat there at the intersection by ourselves listening to the crickets chirp waiting for our light to turn green.

“So…did you finish watching that movie?”

Jasmine yelled, “Ow, ow!” and started that groaning again.

Fuck the light, I hit the gas. We made it to the hospital in 17 minutes from door to door, a new record for me. It’s usually 28 during the day. Jazz didn’t even notice. Sometimes she’s so self-absorbed.

They strung her up, pumped her with shit, poked and pinched and lubed her down with goo. Turns out she’d been in labor for several hours, sitting over there on the couch at home taking it like a man. That’s how it ought to be. If women had our strength half the pharmaceutical companies in the world would be out of job without the need to medicate them for their periods and labors and deliveries. Bunch of damn sissies. Suck it up and be a man.

The kids are fine. One of them is bigger than the other so they wanted to observe her for a few days to find out if it’s a difference in growth rate or if one is stealing the other’s rooty tooty fresh and fruity. Jazz’s blood pressure was also a little high. No shit. How’s mine? Check my fucking blood pressure, Goddammit. I bet that shit’s through the roof.

Ah, hell. 33 weeks down. At least 3 more to go.