“Oh my GOD, do you intend on doing nothing all FUCKING SUMMER?!?”
The Missus was looking at me, splayed on the couch like someone had removed my bones, for the third week in a row.
“I don’t think you understand. This is when I DON’T do shit. I’m a teacher, remember? I have summers OFF. ”
I didn’t understand how she could not understand that this was the time that I did nothing. Still, she had a point- we had a baby due in a short few months, and I appeared to be ignoring this. And I was. I would put forth that I was working hard, though, in my own way. I was steadfastly holding down denial on the couch, underneath my nap.
“Did you at least start reading any of the books I got you? “
“Sure, yea,” I lied “I read ‘em. Not too helpful.” I said, feeling just a twinge of guilt about all the excellent words I’d played on my online scrabble games. Then I said this:
“I mean, really, how many books do we need to read? Haven’t people been having babies for eons without experts?”
If you have a child now, and you weren’t the one subjected to massive doses of oxytocin-inspired guilt hormones coursing through your veins, then it’s a safe bet that:
a) You said something similar, and
b) You would willingly cut into one of your eyeballs with an Exacto blade to take it back, not because you were wrong- you weren’t- but because the repercussions trumped the satisfaction of being right. This is called a relationship.
In my mind, I figured I deserved a little slack. I had done the right thing, after all. You see, I was feeling pretty self-congratulatory for being a Good Man. By a “Good Man”, I mean that I had moved into her apartment after learning she was pregnant.
“I’ll be there for you”, I said, shortly before falling asleep on the couch for two months.
I can’t say I inspired confidence in her from the get-go. We had met, like most couples, at a party. Unlike most couples- as we live in California- it was on a walnut farm, at a party where they slaughtered and roasted a grass-fed organic goat, bisected directly through the anatomical centerline and roasted over the bonfire, looking ever-so-much like two meat-boomerangs with hoofs. This is de rigour in Northern California. Everyone attending was allotted a cut of meat.
“Do you want me to get your goat?”, I said, not understanding the irony that lay ahead.
We decided, after goat, to have healthy adult fun for the duration of the evening.
“So, you wanna do it again sometime?’ I asked her the next morning, not knowing the future.
“Sure!”, she said, inadvertently sealing the baby deal.
To be continued…..