The Texture Of Things

My last OB visit yesterday went well. It was surprisingly without the emotional climax I had expected from myself at the beginning of this pregnancy. It was, well, an appointment with just a little fanfare. My OB danced into the room, singing, “This is it! This is your last visit!” I think the docs there are all a little surprised I went full-term, with no emergencies or terrible worries. Me, too, quite honestly.

So today, I offer you all a prize for waiting so long for me to tell you we’re having a yob. I mean, a boy.

Chuck Jones was a genius.

If I had been able to find it, the video I’d have provided would not have been Rocket Bye Baby. It would have been an old commercial, which basically went like this:

A man is at a payphone in a hospital. He tells the operator he’d like to make a collect call.
The operator asks who is calling.
He replies, “Bob Wehadababyitsaboy.”
She says, “One moment, sir.”
The phone rings in the family room of an older couple. The husband is reading a newspaper and the wife is knitting. The husband picks up.
The operator asks, “Would you like to accept a call from Bob Wehadababyitsaboy?”
He says, “No, thanks” and hangs up.
As he returns to his newspaper, the wife stops knitting and asks, “Who was that, dear?”
He rattles his newspaper back into reading shape and nonchalantly says, “It’s Bob. They had a baby. It’s a boy.”
With a simple “Ah,” she returns to knitting.

And that, my friends, is exactly how you can expect to find out the baby’s been born because I’m totally not spending my daytime cell minutes calling all y’all.

I kid, I kid.

C-section scheduled for Friday morning. OB agrees with me that I’ll make it that far because the baby is still floating high, high, high, and my cervix is locked down tighter than a, well, a something that is locked down really, really tightly.

That’s all, folks!