At 36 weeks pregnant I finally signed up for the obligatory maternity tour. While this is our third child, this is also our third hospital, state, country – so we wanted to get a feel for the digs, you know? One kid was in preschool and one was with a friend, so basically this is the closest Pete and I have come to a hot, hot date in a long time. That is, if your idea of a hot date includes an overpowering smell of sanitizer and a pair of jeans big enough to house an entire family of raccoons.
So there we are, hanging out at reception with all the other belly-licious mommies and there hubbies, except that there’s one father-to-be flying solo. The dear old nurse leading the “deluxe maternity tour” (which in itself is funny when one considers how utterly basic and primal child birth is) approaches him and asks if his wife will be joining us. To which he responds, “Yes, she’s just looking for a parking space.”
Booyah! And this date is off to a great start.
Cue light conversation about measuring the thinning of the cervix, ice chips, the size pants you want to be sure to pack even after having delivered the baby, and how little sleep you can anticipate in the months to follow and you could have cut the romance with a knife.
It was at that point – after an hour and a half of touring together – that our guide looked over at my husband on the elevator ride down and said, “I recognize that Detroit Tigers cap – haven’t you been on one of my maternity tours?”
Ummmm, insert awkward silence.
“Yes, I’m sure I recognize you, weren’t you on a tour yesterday?”
Pete just smiles, looks down at his feet, shakes his head and mutters no, no, it wasn’t yesterday. To which the other Michigander in the elevator, the guy who took his wife to the wrong hospital before they finally made it to the tour 45 minutes late responds, “maybe that’s when he was here with his other pregnant woman.”
To comfort myself, we bought a large helping of chocolate pudding at the hospital cafeteria on the way out. I had to take my teeth out to eat it. It’s probably helpful to explain at this point that I’ve had horrid dental work done throughout this pregnancy. And currently I am missing a front tooth, have a half completed implant and a dental plate with a fake tooth that looks nothing like a real one. None of which I can eat properly while wearing.
So there I am, toothless, with a chocolate pudding grin and my false tooth sitting in my lap as we pull out of the parking lot. “Can you believe those people?” I ask Peter as we pull onto the freeway.
He looks over at me. “No,” he says slowly. “I can’t.” And then he may have muttered something about how on earth he got me pregnant in the first place.
Ahhh married people dates, there’s nothing like ‘em.