My wife is so amazing. I have studied her perhaps more carefully over the course of this pregnancy than even the fastidiousness that my passion for her has previously inspired, and I am repeatedly awed by the things I discover, the fresh intricacies I uncover, by the many ways she continues to bloom before me as a human being.
For example: I have often wondered about the meandering, seemingly irresolute nature of her commitment to the study of medicine and nursing. Most times, when she speaks of it, there is such a fiery drive in her voice that I must marvel at the contradictory ambivalence of her academic history. Though her recent attempts at reviving these scholarly pursuits have yielded the finest marks of her career as such, the accompanying pedagogic timeline would appear to betray a distinct lack of dedication.
It is only over the past nine months’ time that I have begun to realize the true inspiration for her interest in such knowledge. I could be wrong about this hypothesis of mine, and I don't necessarily believe she would admit to its truth even if she were aware of it, but I have come to believe it almost absolutely. This earnest belief is that she doesn’t actually want to be a nurse at all, and never has. All these years, she's merely been studying to be a mother, as soldiered against the myriad possibilities for attack and circumstance as she can possibly be.
The most recent checkup found our son to be holding his previous breech presentation in a manner every bit as stubborn as his two parents’ respective wills. Provided he waits long enough, our doctors have scheduled a delivery by Cesarean section for the 26th of March. In less than three weeks, I’ll be a father.
I have never been happier about anything in my life.
My life has become about boxes.
At work, I am preparing for the first big race of the season, which is taking place down in Sebring, Florida on the first day of spring. The last of my coworkers left for Florida last night. Because of my pending visit from the stork, I have been left to handle everything on this homebound end of the spectrum, which is a considerable management task for a reasonably sized and well-trained cadre of individuals, much less one single sleepy man. These duties largely consist of merchandise splits between locations and the packing of these split goods for shipment down to the Sunshine State. Thus far, I believe I am holding my ground quite admirably.
In addition, I closed on a new house about a week and a half ago, sat down at a thick wooden table beside a lawyer named Beau and signed eighty or so autographs, and now I own a three-bedroom, two-bath mortgage with a spacious two-car garage and two heavy rocking chairs on its narrow front porch. At night, when I am not shuffling furniture or boxes of books from the aforementioned garage (which may not actually hold cars for many months) into their designated corners of the place, I can sit on the back patio and listen to cows lowing in the distance. I can stare up into the vastness of the sky, at the stars above me, and it really seems as though I’m looking at every single one of them, even the dimmest sparks reflecting across time and space from the farthest corners of the universe.
As always, this somehow makes me feel simultaneously infinitesimal and enormous, like the fleeting memory of a wonderful dream.
For example: I have often wondered about the meandering, seemingly irresolute nature of her commitment to the study of medicine and nursing. Most times, when she speaks of it, there is such a fiery drive in her voice that I must marvel at the contradictory ambivalence of her academic history. Though her recent attempts at reviving these scholarly pursuits have yielded the finest marks of her career as such, the accompanying pedagogic timeline would appear to betray a distinct lack of dedication.
It is only over the past nine months’ time that I have begun to realize the true inspiration for her interest in such knowledge. I could be wrong about this hypothesis of mine, and I don't necessarily believe she would admit to its truth even if she were aware of it, but I have come to believe it almost absolutely. This earnest belief is that she doesn’t actually want to be a nurse at all, and never has. All these years, she's merely been studying to be a mother, as soldiered against the myriad possibilities for attack and circumstance as she can possibly be.
The most recent checkup found our son to be holding his previous breech presentation in a manner every bit as stubborn as his two parents’ respective wills. Provided he waits long enough, our doctors have scheduled a delivery by Cesarean section for the 26th of March. In less than three weeks, I’ll be a father.
I have never been happier about anything in my life.
My life has become about boxes.
At work, I am preparing for the first big race of the season, which is taking place down in Sebring, Florida on the first day of spring. The last of my coworkers left for Florida last night. Because of my pending visit from the stork, I have been left to handle everything on this homebound end of the spectrum, which is a considerable management task for a reasonably sized and well-trained cadre of individuals, much less one single sleepy man. These duties largely consist of merchandise splits between locations and the packing of these split goods for shipment down to the Sunshine State. Thus far, I believe I am holding my ground quite admirably.
In addition, I closed on a new house about a week and a half ago, sat down at a thick wooden table beside a lawyer named Beau and signed eighty or so autographs, and now I own a three-bedroom, two-bath mortgage with a spacious two-car garage and two heavy rocking chairs on its narrow front porch. At night, when I am not shuffling furniture or boxes of books from the aforementioned garage (which may not actually hold cars for many months) into their designated corners of the place, I can sit on the back patio and listen to cows lowing in the distance. I can stare up into the vastness of the sky, at the stars above me, and it really seems as though I’m looking at every single one of them, even the dimmest sparks reflecting across time and space from the farthest corners of the universe.
As always, this somehow makes me feel simultaneously infinitesimal and enormous, like the fleeting memory of a wonderful dream.
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