THE SONIC BOOMER
My daughter has finally given me the OK to share the following news — she is going to have a baby.
“Why, that’s wonderful!” you gush (as required by societal law). “When?”
And my answer to you is, “Next week.”
“Oh!” you reply. “You mean she’s adopting!”
And I answer, “No, she’s going to the hospital and having a baby. Surprise.”
If I sound resentful, it’s because I had really wanted to say something about this sooner — like last Christmas when she gathered the family together to tell us. But while my parents hugged one another and danced around the room chanting, “We’re GREAT-grandparents!” Jen was ushering me into the kitchen to whisper: “And don’t write about it in your column! I don’t want you to jinx it.”
Jinx it? In what way? If writing about a pregnancy had the power to terminate it, there’d be a lot more writers, that’s for sure.
The worst that could happen would be that the baby would be born with ink in its veins, like me. And while another Sonic Boomer is one Sonic Boomer too many, another Mark Twain or Margaret Mitchell might be nice in this day and age.
It does pain me to think of all the fun things I could’ve written about over the last eight and a half months. The morning sickness! The weight gain! The swelling of the feet! What mother-to-be wouldn’t want to see that chronicled in print and circulating the globe via the Internet for millenniums to come?
Oh.
Well, OK, maybe I wasn’t supposed to jinx her. But may I point out that by not writing about her weekly travails, she has suffered not only morning sickness, weight gain and swollen feet but allergies, sunburn and a car accident as well.
So there. Good writing probably would’ve prevented all that.
On the plus side, you didn’t have to hear about it.
But now that I’ve gotten the Big OK to spill the beans, prepare for cuteness. And, don’t worry, I know that cuteness is highly overrated. I myself experience a gag reflex whenever the phrase “potty training” is mentioned, no matter how amusing the anecdote to follow.
No, my pledge to you is that I will continue to rant and rave about the meaningless drivel that makes up our lives because I know that is what you have come to expect from me. In fact, it has sort of become my specialty.
If I so much as stub my toe, I promise that you will hear about it. If my drive-through order magically comes out correct, you will be invited to share my joy. And if the day ever comes that I decide to face the fact that I am never going to win even a dollar playing Powerball, we will mourn that loss together. I won’t let you down.
There’s just going to be occasional dribble in with the drivel.
