We’ve decided to continue our grand tradition we carried for Juliet for her first 12 months, wherein on each month we take an official month progress photo that relates to a theme. Sometimes I pick, and sometime Sam does. This time around I won the honor of picking first.
Scholarship:
For comparison, here’s what Juliet’s was:
Killing time.
Somehow I remember the last labor life event going much quicker. True, I’ve only been here for 5 or so hours (out of an estimated 3), but the mistakes I made in forgetting to bring entertainment is starting to take its toll. I had a book and everything, I might even have read a page or two. Now I’m reduced to watching Maury. The theme of today’s episode seems to be fathers who may or may not be fathers.
The episode isn’t over but the answer is “no”.
As always, Sam’s chosen to deal with today’s festivities by blocking everything out and focusing on her maternal duties. This means that not only does she not get to enjoy my amusing anecdotes and tales of intrigue, but she’s also not going to find out if these guys on Maury are the fathers or not. Her loss.
She did, however, finally see the Key and Peele skit with the substitute teacher which I’ve been trying to get her to watch since we chose Aaron (A-a-ron) as a name. It was hard to tell whether she was laughing from amusement or merely having contractions. As I’ve been told many times by the personnel here, I am not a medical professional.
As the day wanes on, I find myself running out of Oreos and coffee, and Caitlin and Carrie won’t be here for another 4 hours or so. Maury’s over in 17min. Whatever will I do.
I want you all to appreciate how incredibly difficult it was for me not to include “The Pajama Jam” (ala House Party 2) in the title of this blog series. It’s important to appreciate that, you see, because while it may seem that my wife Samantha is the only victim here, terribly afflicted with a case of the pregnancies, I also have my many varied burdens I must suffer through.
I’m not allowed to operate the medical equipment this time around.
While chief among them is still the professionalism I must display when titling my blog posts, I’m also told that I may not use the spa that our luxury suite provides. I ask you, dear reader, what sort of establishment tortures its guests by dangling the possibility of a spa in front of them only to rip it away cruelly, citing some of the most ridiculous reasons I’ve ever been volleyed (I’m not a patient, I’m not giving birth, I’m creating a scene, etc.)
Sam is to give birth at the Ritz Carlton, it seems.
But I digress. Here we are, at the precipice of siring male offspring, heir to all that my name carries, and our room has a spa. It’s a bit surreal. I recall last time we were here things were much different. Talkies were all the rage and there were mumblings of a project to send men from Earth to our closest and most ancient enemy: the moon. Our room also did not have a spa.
Sam is scheduled to start here labor here any time, and I’m told this process should take no longer than a half hour. Now, whether that’s a true half hour (in the mathematical sense), or like a 10hr ordeal half hour (like when watching a Season 8 episode of The Office) is yet to be seen. I’m hoping for the former, but will likely get the latter.
At least we have a spa.
I’ll make sure to keep you all updated on the happenings here, however dull or painful they may be (not unlike getting slowly carved up with an pair of children’s safety scissors).
The Glass City 