This was taken from another blog I have since deactivated...
I found out I was going to be a dad on my birthday. At six in the fucking morning. Sleep-deprived and still a bit bourbon-soaked from the night before, I had planned to sleep in until the sun shining through the window (and ringing in my head) woke me up.
My wife, and the little mutant growing in her uterus, had other plans.
She yelled - more like yelped - at me. That's very disconcerting for a completely asleep and fairly drunk person. I shot up from the pillow in a cold sweat (that's just a turn of phrase because the Arizona summer heat and the alcohol in my system actually resulted in a very warm, sticky and altogether unpleasant sweat that's not nearly as thought provoking).
My first thought was "What the fuck is happening!?" The worst ran through my head. Home invasion. Or, my knock off Macbook charger exploded and the house is burning down. Or, FX cancelled It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia. My wife, ever the early riser and born mother, always wakes up at about 5 am on Saturday but is kind enough to let me sleep. My point is, this display of hilarity was odd.
The thump, thump, thumping in my veins reverberated through my whole body and new, less gross sweat beaded on my forehead. The beating and sweat and sleep clouded my vision, but I could see the shape of my wife in front of me.
And I could smell something odd...piss?
She held the urine soaked piece of plastic in my face. I think we're pregnant, she said. Naturally, I started sweating more and nearly devolved into a full flung panic attack. Can you see it? Can you see it? She kept asking me.
Sure, enough below the first solid pink line, I saw the faintest signs of a second. My wife had taken to peeing on sticks regularly over the past five months since we started trying (read: started making sweet, sweet love basically every day because I'm dedicated). That trend didn't stop on my birthday either. My wife would go on to take roughly 346 more tests in the upcoming weeks, just to make sure our fledgling progeny didn't look around her innards, scoff and book a return ticket to Neverland.
Where was I? Oh, yeah. The test was positive. It smelled like pee. I think some got on my face, which is a pretty apropos way to start fatherhood if you ask me.
Oh my god, I said. Holy fuck, I thought.
There's nothing like the impending responsibility of fatherhood to shake the drunken stupor off a person. I stood up, seeing clear as day, and hugged my wife.
I also peed in my pants a little.
I found out I was going to be a dad on my birthday. At six in the fucking morning. Sleep-deprived and still a bit bourbon-soaked from the night before, I had planned to sleep in until the sun shining through the window (and ringing in my head) woke me up.
My wife, and the little mutant growing in her uterus, had other plans.
She yelled - more like yelped - at me. That's very disconcerting for a completely asleep and fairly drunk person. I shot up from the pillow in a cold sweat (that's just a turn of phrase because the Arizona summer heat and the alcohol in my system actually resulted in a very warm, sticky and altogether unpleasant sweat that's not nearly as thought provoking).
My first thought was "What the fuck is happening!?" The worst ran through my head. Home invasion. Or, my knock off Macbook charger exploded and the house is burning down. Or, FX cancelled It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia. My wife, ever the early riser and born mother, always wakes up at about 5 am on Saturday but is kind enough to let me sleep. My point is, this display of hilarity was odd.
The thump, thump, thumping in my veins reverberated through my whole body and new, less gross sweat beaded on my forehead. The beating and sweat and sleep clouded my vision, but I could see the shape of my wife in front of me.
And I could smell something odd...piss?
She held the urine soaked piece of plastic in my face. I think we're pregnant, she said. Naturally, I started sweating more and nearly devolved into a full flung panic attack. Can you see it? Can you see it? She kept asking me.
Sure, enough below the first solid pink line, I saw the faintest signs of a second. My wife had taken to peeing on sticks regularly over the past five months since we started trying (read: started making sweet, sweet love basically every day because I'm dedicated). That trend didn't stop on my birthday either. My wife would go on to take roughly 346 more tests in the upcoming weeks, just to make sure our fledgling progeny didn't look around her innards, scoff and book a return ticket to Neverland.
Where was I? Oh, yeah. The test was positive. It smelled like pee. I think some got on my face, which is a pretty apropos way to start fatherhood if you ask me.
Oh my god, I said. Holy fuck, I thought.
There's nothing like the impending responsibility of fatherhood to shake the drunken stupor off a person. I stood up, seeing clear as day, and hugged my wife.
I also peed in my pants a little.
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