Baby Daddy to Fatherhood (Part 1)

            I could see my dream of dying childless was coming to an end when my wife was 37 weeks pregnant.  There was no way out of this one.  At this point, we were meeting with our OB doctor weekly because we were considered a high risk pregnancy.  We had the small, hairy baby as discussed previously in UIB.  In addition to those two risk factors, we are both elderly parents at the age of 37.  At 37 weeks in the womb, the baby is considered full term.  The risk of harm to the baby was now lower if we take it out early than the risk of leaving it inside.  In 2013, doctors can give you specific numbers as to the risk of death for the baby.  Our doctor told us, “Based on the weight of the baby, your age, and past medical history,  I can tell you that the chance of your baby dying before delivery is almost 1%.” 

Whoa, That sounds high.  Or does it sound low?  Either way, he is telling me that my dream of dying childless is still alive.  Calm down, Sheera, I told my self.  Don’t you DARE let anyone know that you are excited about this.  How can I play this?  My wife’s parasite was under five pounds.  At this point the doctor sounded to me like a used car salesman.  What do I need to do to get you holding a baby today?  We can put you in the hospital, and perform a c-section.  If not, no big deal, we will wait.  It's just that the chance of your baby dying by the next appointment is about 1%.  Great pitch.

Hmmmm.  That’s a lot to think about.   After all, I love my wife and I don’t know shit about this ugly baby.  He could be a serial killer for all I know.  We did watch a lot of Dexter, Hannibal, The Killing, Game of Thrones, and Law and Order SVU during the pregnancy.  Who knows what kind of sick shit this baby picked up?  The whole basis of the TV show Dexter is that Dexter witnessed the murder of his mom at the age of 2 and became a serial killer.  Well with all the violent shows my wife and I watch, it wouldn’t be a stretch to say I’m not sure how this baby will turn out. 

But after careful deliberation, I decide to have no opinion.  I’m gonna leave this decision to my wife.  After all, it’s her body.  It’s her baby.   I certainly do NOT want her to have surgery.  I love my wife and I don’t know shit about this ugly baby.  Above all else, I do not want to see any harm come to my wife.  I do not want her cut open to retrieve a life form that I already somewhat resent.  Children take away from the parents what I consider to be the two most valuable things in the world: Time and Money.  And I loves me some Time and Money. 

Decision time: my wife decides to let the baby grow inside of her.  The doctor suggests getting ultrasounds of the baby 2 times a week now.  Great Win, Win, Win, Win.  The doctor now gets to bill us twice a week.  My wife is more comforted by the biweekly exam.  The baby gets to grow and hopefully get over 5 pounds.  Most importantly, I get to have a few extra days of freedom. 

So we wait.  For certain, I am NOT rooting for the death of this baby.  There is no way for anyone to prove otherwise.  I have NEVER said anything like that.  Not even my closest friends could possible say I even thought something like that.  What kind of sick, sick person could wish for something like that?  NOT me.  If I were on trial, in a court of law, there would be no evidence that I ever thought something like that.  Great, glad we put that to rest.

Then again, it never hurts to be prepared.  I began to weigh the pros and cons IF this baby doesn’t make it to delivery.  Pros: more golf, more money, more vacations, more movies, more sex, more free time, more sleep, smaller faster car, more drinking, more date nights, more time at the gym, probably look younger, get to hang out more with my cool friends without kids, instead of my loser friends with kids, more energy at work, more energy at home, get to avoid Ivan, play more poker, watch more football…….. (I’ll stop here, this is a blog not an encyclopedia) Cons: My wife will fucking go nuts if something happens to this baby, and I’m gonna have to make her feel better.  

But I couldn’t help thinking about an event that happened to me just a month before.  I was at a poker tournament in Oklahoma at the Chocktaw casino.  I had a pair of Aces.  I raised big pre flop.  Possibly not the right move because I had chased all but one other player out of the hand. The flop came Ace, Jack, Jack.  Now I had a full house.  I raised again.  My opponent took a decent amount of time thinking about calling my raise.  I knew I had won the hand at that point.  The only hand that could beat me was four Jacks and I knew he didn’t have that because he took so much time to decide.  The next card was a 5.  That couldn’t possibly help my opponent.  I went all in.  The idiot called me. He had a jack, 8.  I was crushing him.  I had played this hand perfectly.  I’m about to get all his money.  The chance of me losing the hand is about the same as the chance of my wife losing this baby. 

River card: Jack.  The Fucker rivered the only card that could beat me.  And that is what I shouted at him in the casino.  Actually, I believe my exact words were “Fuck!, You lucky piece of shit.”  After that I was kicked out of the casino.  There was quite a controversy as to what I said.  He claimed I said, “Fuck You!, Lucky piece of shit.”  There is a big difference between the two statements, and I do not think the former statement requires expulsion.  Fuck (which I said to myself) and Fuck You are quite different.  Obviously there was no debate about him being a lucky piece of shit.  The astute reader with a keen sense of observation and deduction may have concluded that I am an asshole.   True, but I’m really an asshole when I have twice as many chips as my opponents early in a poker tournament.  It means that I get to bully people around.  And I never got to enjoy being that asshole.

I was so upset by what I went through that I still wake up with nightmares of that poker hand.  Math had failed me miserably.  I can imagine how my wife would be similarly upset if math failed her.  If losing the baby upset my wife even half as much as losing that poker hand upset me, I knew I didn’t want her to suffer through it. I finally had some sort of idea what she might be feeling.   Fuck golf and fancy vacations.  I had to root for the safety of this hairy baby.

            

Renin “Dexter” Sheera  

I have a code.  I only kill those that play with my toys without asking, and those that look at my mom’s boob.  That boob is only for me.  Careful dad, I saw you sneaking a peek.

Renin “Hannibal” Sheera

I ate his liver with fava beans and a nice chianti. For large parties, refrigeration for up to no more than 4 days Is recommended.  When I do throw a party I like to use the whole baby so I can serve several courses and have a wide variety of flavors. Of course, nothing I serve is vegetarian so my mom never shows up.  Anything longer than 4 day storage and I recommend deep freeze. Now I am enjoying the upper arm with a chili pan reduction sauce marinated with my victim’s own blood. It's divine. My doctor says the chili is not good for my spit up problem, but who follows, all of their doctor’s advice?  I usually wash it down with a light European beer like Amstel. I AM watching my figure. 

"What,  I didn't see anything"

Nothing makes me happier than good baby food.  That's food made of babies, not food for babies.  Hmmmmm.  Yum.  

Part 2  Hopefully out before week one of NFL.  This is more work that I thought.  Thanks for your patience.

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