Keepin’ the Babies Safe
P.Pie and I have a really good relationship. We like to do things together, but – and I think this is why our marriage works so well – we also have separate interests.
Sometimes those interests take us in different directions.
For example, P.Pie likes to do yoga (prenatal yoga, at the moment). On the days she does yoga, she gone for almost two hours. Prior to her being pregnant, this didn’t bother me.
In fact, just between you and me, I liked it when she was gone.
I don’t want her gone all the time, but two hours is a nice break two or three time a week.
Two hours of unfettered freedom. Turn down the AC and open all the doors, turn up the Sirius radio, then turn on every light in the house and do my best Tom Cruise imitation - a cross between cool, Risky Business, slide-across-the-hardwood-floors Tom and just plain weird, Oprah Winfrey show, jump-on-the-couch Tom. (Basically jumping on the sofa in my socks and underwear and lip syncing worn out Bob Seger tunes)
(Basically jumping on the sofa in my socks and underwear and lip syncing worn out Bob Seger tunes)
But now, it’s just not the same.
No loud radio, no looking dumb in my skivvies; no nothing. Oh, sure, I try to make use of the time. I sit at the computer and work on the blog, or one my in-process projects, but my thoughts are elsewhere. I’m worrying about the P.Pie and the twins.
And it’s not just when she goes to yoga.
Lately, when she’s at work and I don’t get a “what’s up?” email from her halfway through the day, I begin to worry.
What if there’s was an accident? Maybe she’s been kidnapped? Perhaps she’s in the hospital… I just don’t know.
Seriously, I am not this much of a worrier. Usually it’s, “P.Pie? P.Pie? Are you in the house? Oh, well… I guess I'll hafta grab my own beer.”
These kids are making me a worrier.
And they’re not even born yet. This could be a problem.