Pregnancy Blues

Speaking strictly from my own vantage point, pregnancy doesn't seem to be very fun. Obviously it's wonderful and amazing and "miracle of life" and all that jazz, but it's just not that exciting. Samantha gets excited quite frequently and asks me things like, "Did you see that kick?" and I have to remind her to be quiet because Lost is on. I mean, until the baby comes out and I can actually hold her and play with her, it's hard to beat the auditions for American Idol. I love her and talk to her and pray for her as she hides behind what used to be an innie, but the truth is that Sheridan is kind of boring right now. "Just you wait Ryan! Soon you'll be up at all hours and she'll run you ragged and blah blah meow meow words words words." Yes, I am aware of all this. So just shut up.

I am sure Samantha is also excited by the fact that she can always go to the "I carried you for nine months" card whenever she wants to rebuke Sheridan or make her feel guilty. Never can I say something so gut-wrenching. Seriously, what can I say? I changed your diapers? No child will feel rebuked when a parent describes how they cleaned up their wayward turds. Samantha can use this same argument on me, because next to a baby what can I ever claim I've built or assembled or done that can top a Sheridan? "Sure Ryan, I feel terrible that you couldn't sleep last night. Was it because a tiny person was jabbing at your innards all night long? No? You sure?" "Hey Ryan, way to go finishing that New York Times crossword puzzle. What's a four letter word for something you can never carry inside you?" "Ryan dear, thanks for getting Shoulders unstuck from the lint trap. That seems much more difficult than giving birth to our child and then feeding it with food from my own body every three hours."

As we get closer to the due date other little things have started to make me realize my time as king is ending. Everyone wants to see the nursery. No one wants to see how I've alphabetized the DVDs in the loft. Everyone asks how Samantha is feeling. No one wants to hear about the pimple on the back of my head that has become curiously itchy. Everyone compliments Samantha on how good she looks. No one even makes eye contact with me anymore. Soon I will just be "Dad," that guy who hands out cash and farts at the worst possible time and is never allowed to meet boyfriends.

The entire universe I've constructed where I am the unquestioned greatest thing to ever happen to Samantha is about to come crashing down. Granted it's a fantasy universe, but still. I now know how the Romans felt when their empire collapsed. Of course I didn't invent pizza, or aqueducts, or cool phrases to utter when a close friend stabs you beneath Pompey's statue, but even losing a dream can be painful.

Does Samantha actually say or do any of the things I've just told you about? Of course she doesn't. I just love to complain and talk about myself. Hey, I may not be much, but I'm all I think about.