Have I ever mentioned how much I enjoy pudding? I do, and Sherm must like it, too, because I have wanted a lot of it since I started growing him.
Somehow our doctor's appointment this week stretched to a three-hour long adventure including a trial run up to Labor and Delivery, you know, just for fun.
I don't really know what to say about all the details except that in the end, everything was fine and Sherman is still (painfully) wedged between my pelvis and my rib cage, right where he belongs. As a parting gift, we were granted an official end date for this whole adventure. (Dear Sherm, don't feel you have to wait for your court-ordered eviction notice. The early bird gets the worm, you know.)
Two more weeks. Two weeks two weeks twoweekstwoweeks.
But here's the part I'm thinking about today.
The boy I married prefers vanilla to chocolate. He loves basketball and football and despises hockey and adores Diet Coke. He like government-action movies and little red-headed daughters. He hates those Labor Dispute signs with the Shame On ________ (insert company name) banners. He is funny and good and kind. People he knows only a little probably recognize him first by his warm smile, as he is rarely found without it. People who know him well know that he is, at baseline and without trying very hard, a generally cheerful and good natured man infused head to toe with sunshine. And the girl he is married to knows that he is also genetically wired to be a bit of a worrier. Three hour doctor's appointments do not generally suit his personality well.
That's why I found myself a little surprised to be sitting in the tiny closet-like room of my doctor's office with the non-stress test monitors strapped to my round belly, laughing until tears streamed down my cheeks. The little red line measuring my contractions was bouncing crazily all over the monitor in time with my hysterical giggles, and across the room between his own peals of laughter, Paddy was playfully scolding me for messing up the test.
The joke was one of those 'had to be there' sort of moments, but I don't want to forget it. In the stress of that tiny little room, we pointedly talked about anything besides the strange heartbeat readings we were seeing on the tiny screen. We wondered how Bug was behaving at home and planned the rest of the evening (before we knew we'd spend half of it strapped to versions of that same machine). My brilliant, hard-working Schmoopsie-face had just that morning passed the final exam for one of his professional designations, a feat nearly two solid years in the making, and I was (am!) oh-so-proud of him. What I meant to say in that moment was that celebration was in order. I smiled up at him from my large lounge chair.
"I'll have to make something tasty for dinner to celebrate your passing!" I said.
Surely envisioning his own death and the elaborate party foods I was apparently planning on serving to fellow mourners, he pulled a face. We both exploded into laughter.
It probably would've been over in a few seconds if I didn't have to keep seeing the proof of my giggles on that darn printout. Seeing those jaggedy lines all over the place would get me laughing all over again, and before I knew it, tears were streaming down my face. And THEN I started imagining the nurse popping her head in to check on us and finding me smack in the middle of what she would assume to be a pregnancy-induced crying jag, and that made me laugh even harder. Ultimately, that's exactly what happened, and that was funny, too.
Paddy shows he loves me by buying me pudding cups. He shows it in a lot of other ways, too, but I especially love the pudding cups. Sometimes he orders Dr. Pepper instead of Diet Coke so he can share it with me. He often does kind little things quietly and without a lot of fluff. Sometimes, for example, he pushes his own worries aside to make me laugh, and I know he loves me.
I share the vanilla layer of my pudding cups with him, and count my many blessings.