Don't Eat Us!

The other day I found Alicia attempting to rearrange bedroom furniture, pack suitcases, vacuum, and organize non-perishables.

“Are you nesting?” I asked.

“I’m not nesting!” she said, slumping to the ground. “I can’t MOVE to nest.”

It’s true. She can’t move. And I feel horrible about it. So, I told her I’d like to be proactive.

Then she started talking about the need to rub her feet, press on pressure points in the ankles and give back rubs to quicken the effacement process.

“Hogwash,” I said. “Old wives’ tales. Let’s try the old husband’s tales for a change.”

You see, I did a lot of scientific research…sort of unscientific…more like brainstorming…okay, it was actually just a way to appear empathetic and try out a theory I once heard from a dad who heard it from his grandpa who heard it from his grandpa’s great-grandfather.

Old Husband’s Tale: If the biological father of an unborn child nurtures the growth of his mustache such that it is visible through the embryonic fluid, placenta, and abdominal epidermis, the unborn child will become excited and cause an effacement frenzy, resulting in rapid dialation and delivery.

I started a mustache. Again, fatherly, selfless effort.

It’s been almost two weeks, and I”m beginning to wonder if I should have started closer to the second trimester.

Or maybe conception.

I took a close-up pic, realizing some men like myself might benefit from a product like mustachescara. It’s like mascara but for a ‘stache.

I don’t get it. This is a picture of my dad. This is like three hours after he shaved.

So far, our baby girl is unresponsive.

This is me giving a last-ditch effort. Caleb gave it a shot as well, just for good measure.

I fear the worst: I may be rubbing feet tonight…