What’s new with me? Oh, nothing much. I mean, I’ve started working out a little bit, because I put on a bit of weight recently and my pants are getting a bit snug. I also have been catching up on episodes of Dexter. But really, that’s about it.
So I’ve been running on adrenaline caused by sleep deprivation and infant poop-fumes for the past week. And I can’t help but feel like this all happened really, really fast. I know Ms. Nanook was pregnant for nine months, but it still seems like I just woke up a week ago and a tiny person had moved into my house without asking for permission and started crapping all over the place. Which is kind of a dick-move, actually.
Everyone is asking me “who does he look like? Does he look like your wife, or does he look like you?” The truth? He doesn’t look like anybody, except himself. I mean, I guess he looks like a wrinkly old man.
If I’m being honest, he actually he looks like an 18-inch tall Winston Churchill.
And although I like to think that I contributed in my own small way to the pregnancy (blood tests will show that Winston Churchill is not, in fact, the father. Probably), here’s the thing: both my wife and I are now aware that her capacity to endure pain far exceeds my own. In fact, after watching her go through childbirth, I know there is no comparison. As I stood there trying my hardest not to retch, she, without blinking an eye, reenacted “Alien” in front of a room full of complete strangers.
She’s like Wolverine and Ivan Drago combined, and although that, in itself, is kind of awesome, it’s also humbling. Before the birth, I was always able to maintain the illusion that I was stronger (even though she is the person responsible in our house for killing spiders). Now, that illusion is shattered, and it seems like dangerous knowledge for her to have. It means that if she ever gets the urge, she knows that she will be able to break me into two weeping, bloody halves before I am even able to get her to complain about being sore.