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Friday, March 10, 2006 | Parentally Incorrect

Forgive me if my mind is elsewhere. My wife and I are still waiting anxiously/impatiently for our new little nipper, Owen Middle-Name Pending, to come busting in like gangbusters to rock our world.

The doctor says we could have the child by the time you read this.

Or we may not.

It’s all up to the baby.

Great.

I have to plan my every move around his arrival. I work as a journalist and I can’t schedule interviews in advance because if little Owen decides he’s ready to make his debut on the world stage, I’ll have to drop everything.

I wanted to get a pizza delivered last night but decided against it because I would have had to tell the person on the phone, “We want the pizza but we have to be flexible just in case we have to rush to the hospital in the next 30 minutes.”

I’m even more on edge because my wife is suffering from what I call “premature contractulation.” She gets a contraction, then another and then they stop for a whole day. My wife – who reads all the birthing books so I don’t have to – says this could go on for weeks.

There is the possibility of inducing labor, but my wife did that last time and now wants to see what happens when nature is left to its own devices.

Here’s what happens: It screws up my schedule.

I have this recurring nightmare where I’m watching one of those Maury Povich episodes where the pregnant woman wants to find out who the real father of her baby is and just as it’s announced, I get the word that I have to run to the hospital.

Yes, it sounds like I’m complaining but I am also glad that the baby is still healthy. I just want him to be born so I can stop getting sleep.

Plus, I am taking the advice of one reader of this column and viewing this nine-month netherworld as a chance to appreciate all the things in our life before things change and they vanish forever.

For instance, I love watching my daughter sleep. She is just so beautiful and precious when she is snoozing and she has the most adorable drool. Yep, she’s a mouth breather – just like her old man.

I also appreciate how good my wife looks to me and how hard she has worked getting the house ready for Owen – even though he won’t appreciate it.

I am thrilled that this pregnancy is giving my wife cravings for fatty greasy foods. Ordinarily, she tries to limit my diet to – ugh – healthy food, but now she’s willing to let things slide a little until Owen is born.

I am overjoyed that Alex is looking forward to a new baby brother and seems especially excited about the opportunity she will have to teach him how to crawl, dip corn dogs into ketchup and, as she puts it, “take a tubby.”

I am ecstatic to tell my daughter bedtime stories because she doesn’t realize I’m merely adapting old Disney movies and Casper the Friendly Ghost comics, much like jazz legends like Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie improvised on classic standards to create bebop.

Finally, I am delighted that I get a chance to write about these things in this column and that nice people like you are reading it.

Best of all: I look forward to showing Alex and Owen Middle-Name-Pending these articles when they are old enough to read but not old enough to sue me.

David Moye is a La Mesa-based writer who was actually delivered three weeks earlier than predicted because he had his umbilical wrapped around his twin brother’s neck. Don’t worry: The brother is no longer holding a grudge.

You can reach him at

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