NewPlew

I went with Joanna to the Obstetrician today expecting to meet with the guy responsible for guiding us down the path to childbirth. Unfortunately, all that was in store for me was reading the October issue of Automobile Magazine while impatiently waiting in the waiting room (is there a more aptly-named room than a waiting room?).

Apparantly, when they tell someone “bring your husband in at your next appointment and we’ll go over any questions you may have about your pregnancy” what they actually mean is “bring you husband so you don’t have to drive”.

Anyway, there was some good news from this little visit: I’m due back with Joanna in 4 weeks to hear Zee’s heartbeat. That, my friends, is like telling a child to wait 4 weeks to open their Christmas presents that rest under the tree, silently mocking the youth with their pretty wrapping and smug little bows.

Of course, I used to pry open the wrapping paper and take a peek about two weeks before the big day, taking care to replace the tape in the exact same spot so mom and dad didn’t suspect - I don’t think that’s an option this time around.

The downside of this great news? I have the shittiest 80’s song ever stuck in my head.

One of the first things I thought of when my wife broke the news to me was “where the heck are we gonna fit a baby in this place?” Our little apartment is barely large enough for Joanna, our cats, and me - where are we gonna fit Zee?

To compound the issue, we had just signed on for another year at our complex. It’s nice and clean, with only the occasional jackass on a Kawasaki disturbing the peace, so we figured - why not?

The why not came in the form of baby Zee. So - what to do? Creep out in the middle of the night a few months down the road, hoping to avoid the costly penalties of breaking our lease? Suck it up and write a check for two month’s rent and lose our deposit when we’re ready to move? I wasn’t sure.

This warranted a visit to the clubhouse to hash things out, so that’s where I went yesterday. I have to admit, they were much more accomodating than what I imagined. They offered to move us over to a two-bedroom unit in our building for a very reasonable price and offered to waive the $300 transfer fee they usually charge for switching apartments (although I wonder how many people actually wind up paying that fee - seems like a tenant retention tactic). I think that’s what we’ll end up doing; it’s definitely the easiest choice in the bunch and I won’t have to worry about getting a fixer-upper house amidst everything else.

A word to the wise - if you’re trying to have a baby, think of these things in advance. It wasn’t smart to sign a long-term contract for a too-small apartment with the prospect of newPlew popping in along the way. It worked out for us this time, but I think we were lucky.

I’ve taken to calling our little baby “Zee”. Not for Zorro (although I do imagine Jo and I could conceive such a dynamic being) or for the bandage-making company Joanna worked for when she was in high school, but for Zygote - the first stage in the great theatre of human development.

Granted, Zee’s probably around four weeks down the babytrail, which would actually make Zee an embryo - but “Em” or just plain old “E” was not nearly as catchy or as fun to say as Zee.

So let it be known - when I talk about Zee, I’m talkin’ about the baby.