With the clock counting down to B-Day, like most parents-to-be, my thoughts are often consumed with questions of who this little person coming into our lives will be.
Is it a boy or a girl? Will they have Jen’s nose? My eyes minus the poor eyesight?
Will they be the best possible combination of us or the worst possible combination of me? A short, sarcastic girl with a neck that keeps her from wearing any off-the-rack turtle necks. These are all valid questions.
Since we are not finding out the sex of the baby, around our house the little one is affectionately known as Baby McMuffin. A cute play on our last name and a potentially lucrative cross-promotional opportunity for any McDonald’s executives who may be reading this.
The one bad thought that continues to echo through my head is that familiar parent’s curse that someday you will have a child who is just like you. Since as a kid, by most accounts, I was kind of an a-hole. In addition to kicking rented bowling shoes into light fixtures, I was quick to bite, followed through on my threats to throw up if I was forced to eat vegetables, and was only recently able to step foot back into Sears. To make matters worse, I followed the Mafia rule of Omerta, by never admitting to anything, even when I was the only suspect.
From what I can tell, Jen was a sweet little girl who grew up to be a little more wild as a teenager, whereas I became the world’s most boring teenager after an early childhood which may have been the inspiration for the movie “The Omen” ……or at least “Problem Child.”
Nobody wants their little bundle of joy to grow up to be one of “those kids.” The sort that kick the back of your seat on a plane, or scream at their parents that they hate them in the middle of the toothpaste aisle at Target. All while the parents stand there with a defeated, “what can I do?” look on their faces.
The unsolicited advice of recent fathers doesn’t help to assuage my fears either, as they tell me horror stories about sleep deprivation and temper tantrums. The fact that each story seems to legally have to end with the phrase, “But it’s great, and I wouldn’t trade it for the world” doesn’t really help.
I guess I need to trust in the fact that we will know what to do. Or, at the very least, that our baby will be so cute that we won’t seem to mind so much.
I need to focus less on the what-if’s and start worrying about the real stuff. Like putting together the baby furniture, and baby-proofing the house, and figuring out how we are going to pay for everything.
But it’s great, and I wouldn’t trade it for the world.