It’s almost 3am, and I am on a futon.
Six years ago, this would have been a much different scene. One with white eyeshadow, OAR and probably vomit. Or, at the very least, some dry heaving.
These days, Andy and I find ourselves on the futon for very different reasons.
We provide safety from a mere five feet away.
Tonight it’s my turn.
And, while I assume Andy is blissfully snoring away downstairs in our bed getting boy stink all over my side after a full night of watching Colbert Report in his underwear eating cereal, I am stuck up here listening to three little people softly snoring as I try to think of something poetic to say.
It’s three in the morning on April 13th.
Our second child’s birthday.
Wyatt is officially three.
Even as each year passes, I never forget the circumstances of how he got here.
It had been a month since I had given birth to our first child, and my body was completely out of whack. I had gained 70 pounds with that pregnancy.
You know those fat guys you see in Walmart on the motorized scooter things, and they have this huge tummy flap thing hangs down almost between their knees, and, like, completely covers their penis area? And you think, how does that guy even pee or have sex? Do you have to lift it up like a dog door? Does it smell under there? Is there yeast!?
I had that.
I wasn’t cleared to exercise yet, and I was just getting ready to go the diet pill route when I woke up feeling off.
Like, crampy. Weird.
And, with my 5 week old in a bouncy seat, I was on my knees praying in my half bath when the left over pregnancy test I found in the closet turned pink.
The baby and I snuck away to the doctor while Andy slept in, and by the afternoon, the blood test confirmed it.
Telling Andy was the worst thing ever.
He was standing in the living room fucking around with the surround sound when I told him.
Listen, I am pregnant again.
And the blood literally drained from his face and he passed out.
When he woke up, we had a really scary discussion.
One that involved a clinic in Detroit.
And I cried. Lots.
I couldn’t do it.
Nothing was easy about this pregnancy.
I remember telling our parents. My mom was excited. His mom cried.
For nine months, I looked like this pathetic lady with an infant who couldn’t lose the baby weight.
I went into labor the morning of Thursday, April 12th.
I labored the whole fucking day, and by 11pm I was ready to push.
The Office was on. It was a good one. The one where Michael burnt his foot making bacon on his George Foreman Grill in bed.
I kept watching the clock. Nothing was happening.
And I started to panic.
OMG Andy, I am not having this baby on Friday the 13th, please get him out of me.
Just push hard, like pooping, just poop him out.
Clearly. Andy has no concept of what hole babies come out of.
Wyatt was born at 12:46am.
Friday the 13th.
I want to tell you that he came out and I had fallen as madly in love with him as I had his brother. But I didn’t.
I had talked to a lot of people with two kids during my pregnancy, asking them how they were able to love their second child as much as their first. They just did. That their heart just grew. Like magic, I guess.
That didn’t happen for me.
I didn’t feel that connection at first, and while I loved him, it wasn’t the same kind of love that I had for the 11 month old I had to leave at home.
Around 4 weeks old, Wyatt smiled at me one day during a bath. Like, a real, genuine smile.
And, then it happened.
I looked at Andy and was like, Andy, I really do love Wyatt.
And he was like, um yeah, you are supposed to.
I have been crazy about him ever since.
So, there you have it. The story of Wyatt.
Of course, I left out the part about how I got re-pregnant at 4 weeks post partum, when Andy convinced me that we could have sex and not get pregnant because I was breastfeeding and he totally googled it.
Apparently, Andy is a doctor.
Also, I was drunk.