I have always been taught that time - in simple terms - is linear. Sunrise leads to sunset, seconds lead to minutes lead to hours lead to days, beer leads to the bathroom, you know - that kind of thing. This follows this follows the other, in an orderly fashion - relatively speaking - and my experience of time has not varied noticeably from that model in all the years I've been alive. Why, then, does it seem as though all of the clocks have fallen out of my brain? Of course, were you to ask my wife, she would tell you that happened a long time ago, and while I'm willing to consider her point, that's not really what I'm getting at here.
Okay, take a breath kiddies, we're going under for a second or two...
Very soon after I found out we were going to have a baby I realized that somewhere along the way during the last 3 to 5 years, I had at some point started defining my life in terms of my own death. What I mean by that, in a nutshell, is that I had started looking at my life and my activities and my interests in terms of how much longer I had - how much time did I have left? I realized that because almost immediately upon hearing the word 'pregnant', everything sort of flip-flopped and I started looking at life in terms of the little life that was just beginning. Have you ever picked up a suitcase only to find out just a second or two later that you hadn't snapped the latches the last time you were in it? Yep - that was my brain. And now I can't seem to find my socks. If you know what I mean.
Well, a few weeks ago Katrice (my pregnant wife, in case you haven't picked up on that yet) and I went in for her - let's see - third sonogram. I'll get to that in a second, but let's review first, shall we?
Sonogram one: "Parents, meet Spot. Spot, meet - uh - I don't know - wall of mom's uterus?" Amazing none the less because little Spot already has a heartbeat. Everything is still surreal. Mom and dad (to be) still look sideways at each other from time to time and wonder if the other is thinking "What did we just do?" too.
Sonogram Two: "Parents, meet vaguely-baby-shaped-less-spot-like shape. With hands." At least, that's what the nurse said that was. And already with Katrice's nose - a little hummingbird with no wings and Katrice's nose. Now there's a picture, eh? But I digress...
Sonogram three went something like this: Blue goo on the stomach, nurse picks up the gizmo, runs said gizmo all over Katrice's now-somewhat-expanded belly, clicking here, stopping there, measuring this distance, pointing out points of interest along the way such as hands that now looked like - well - like our cat's paws, honestly. Minus the claws, of course (sorry - had to put that in there - our dog was looking a bit worried for a second - but I digress). Now, granted, Katrice and I had decided very early on that we wanted to know if we were having a girl or a boy. When the nurse asked us if we wanted to know, I thought I'd have a little time to brace myself, right? But nooooo. A shift to the left and - click - "It's a girl, see?"
There, emblazoned across the monitor for all the world to see was my daughter's hoo-hoo. Oh, and by all current indications, my daughter doesn't appear to be shy. I got the vaguest urge to yell "You're not leaving the house like that, young lady!", but realized this might not be the time or place. I also got the slightest hint of foreshadowing that the level of decorum and modesty might just be destined to drop at the McCullough household in the not-too-distant future (I can just hear Katrice as she's reading that last line: "We have decorum and modesty at our house? Where?" I am not as bad as she makes me out to be, trust me - but I digress). Then, as I'm arguing back and forth with myself along the lines of "Stop staring" and "Stop being silly", the nurse draws a big arrow pointing you-know-where and writes "girl" right next to it. Thanks, ma'am. I hadn't noticed. Oh, and can I get a wallet-sized?
Anyway, time is all flip-flopped in my head and my clocks haven't quite decided what time to agree on yet. I am so looking forward to the years of discovery I will get to share with Katrice and my daughter - watching the world through eyes that have never seen it. Being given the opportunity to watch it through eyes that have never felt like they've seen too much of it already, like mine sometimes do.
I guess that sort of touches on my point - there are parts of me that feel as though I've seen to much already, right next to parts of me that can't wait to show her all kinds of things. It's an odd mix that I'm not yet used to.
Hmmm.
Well, I'll leave you this time with this thought:
Assuming we start counting in the year 1776, we will have to wait another 18 years - the year 2024 - for the once-planet Pluto to have circled the sun once while America has existed on the face of this planet as an independent country. That's the same year, incidentally, that my daughter will graduate from high-school...
Coincidence? I think not.
But I digress...
