My son’s birthday is coming up in a month or so. If you have a kid, there is a propensity to fondly recall the whole birthing experience as the special day draws near each year. When they hit milestonesmy son is turning twenty onethe thoughts are even more profound. I suppose at this point I could go on and on about his birth; the stirrup being shot across the room; my mistaking it for my son; the three nurses wrestling mom’s flailing leg back into its place as if they were grappling a crocodile into a sack; my son peeing like a loose garden hose over the delivery room doctor and staff. There’s more but hey, we all have our self-important stories that do little more than engross those involved and bore all others to tears.
However, in my case, it is not the birth I remember most. It might be the fondest memory but not the ‘mostest’. What I recollect the most is that I was fortunate enough to even be alive to take an active part in the whole birth ordeal. You see, there was ample reason for me to be dead. No, not from some kind of life threatening disease or terrible car accident. I was lucky to be alive because I wasn’t murdered a few weeks before the blessed day.
Have you ever said something kind of nasty about someone behind his or her back only to discover he or she is standing right behind your back? You know that feeling? How you kind of want to crawl away after that initial knot of dread subsides from the pit of your stomach. Well, I committed such an indiscretion except only a hundred times worse. I did something so wrong that my heart still palpitates like a Buddy Rich drum solo every time I replay a second of it in my head. As a matter of fact, it’s happening right now as I type.
The atrocity occurred about four weeks before the delivery, which was several weeks earlier than expected. So let’s set the clock at seven and half months pregnant. It was a pleasantly warm early April afternoon. Birds were chirping. Flowers were springing. Children were giggling as they skipped to and fro. All was as nicey nice as could be. With joy in the air and anticipation bursting, we decided to go to the mall to do a little diversionary shopping. Eventually, we meandered our way to the earrings glass case at Bloomingdales.
It all happened quite unexpectedly and quite quickly.
I was distracted a moment while she engaged the salesperson in a conversation about a particular set of gold hoop earrings under the case. I remember picking up on an ominous silence to the recognizable cadence of their background conversation; similar to elevator music suddenly stopping. When I turned my attention back to her, she was bent over the jewelry case, her head to the side pressed against the glass, eyes dull, glasses crooked. She formed a perfect L if you discount the bulging baby. Her breath gently pulsed a silhouette of life against the cool glass. The salesperson was crouching down to make contact with her.
At that instant, the stars and planets of male intellect were all lined up. It was time for me to execute the perfect ‘jackass of the century’ maneuver.
I looked down at her. Assured by her visible breath she was alive, I performed a reflex visual sweep of the growing number of onlookers. Having confirmed she was drawing attention, I returned my concentration back to her. With an indignant tone in my voice, bordering on a Rodney Dangerfield punch-line delivery, I callously spoke a bunch of words that would forever be regretted.
“Honey? What are ya doin’?” Pregnant pause, so to speak. “You’re embarrassing me.”
Oh yeah! You heard it right. That’s what I said.
Take a second or two to mull it over. Chew on the entire morsel for a bit. Taste the sour residue it leaves on the tongue.
As my words dissipated over the gaping mouths and popping eyes of those nearby, the salesperson looked at me as if I had just spit on her counter. In a way, I had done far worse.
I looked at the salesperson incredulously, “What?”
It snapped her out of it.
“Ma’am you need a chair?”
She yelled across the counter top to a salesperson on the floor. “Sylvia! Get this woman a chair! NOW!”
“Would you like a glass of water?” she asked the fading pregnant stranger spread across her counter.
To my credit, it had only been seconds since I uttered the sentence heard round the mall and I already knew I had done something really wrong; something severely punishable in most civilized circles. I reached over to put my arm around her and comfort her while Sylvia pushed a chair against her legs, being sure not to touch me in the process for fear of feeling Satan’s reach.
Pale and faint, she incoherently mumbled, “doh … na … ta … meh … yeh … basser”.
“What honey? Here sit down. That’s better. What are you trying to tell me dear?”
“DON’T TOUCH ME YOU BASTARD!!!”
I recoiled back and looked at the salesperson in disbelief.
“And don’t touch me either! In fact, I recommend that you just shut your big mouth up now before you kill this poor woman,” she abruptly added, her eyes dilated in disbelief.
I decided it would be wise to heed her advice.
After receiving a rather robust and ribald tongue lashing all the way home in the car that continued up the stairs and into our second floor apartment, I was immediately sentenced to nine days of the silent treatmentreal silent I might add, she was a professional. It deserved me right! Needless to say, I remained on best behavior for about twenty three months. By then her pain was pretty much over with, except for some residual humiliation I endured after public appearances I made during my confession tour; an idea I actually came up with as a way to channel the negative vibes into positive energyor something like that.
The occasional public shame though was small potatoes compared to what could have transpired. The reality is if she had a gun on her person at the time, I’d be history. If the salesperson had a gun, I’d be history. If anyone had a gun within a square mile, I’d be history. But my life was spared so that I might live to talk about it with you today.
So there you have it. An amazing story huh?
That is what I think about every time my son’s birthday arrives; a haunting memory of a moment’s indulgence in self absorption so inappropriate and so vile, it makes me wonder if I can ever fully rejoin the human race.
In closing
I’ve been sorry about a boat load of things in my life but never more fully or sincerely as I was after that episode of unexplainable senselessness. It was all my own doing too. Couldn’t blame it on a bad day at work. Couldn’t blame it on the media. Couldn’t blame it on the weather. Couldn’t even blame it on my mom wooden spooning my sorry childhood ass. It’s one hundred percent owned by me.
And I’m just as sorry today as I was twenty one years ago! The truth is my remorse is greater, almost universal. In fact, I want to apologize to all women of all living species who were pregnant, are pregnant, trying to become pregnant, thinking about becoming pregnant, or just learning to spell ‘pregnant’. I am very sorry for the monumental insensitivity I exhibited that day at the expense of one of your sisters.
As for you men out there who plan to play a supportive role in the whole pregnancy thing some day.
Listen up!
Learn from my folly. Teach others so they may not walk in my steps. Let’s end male stupidity together.
This article was written by humorist Robert Crane. He has plenty more stories about his addiction to stupidity. Please visit his popular website for more the same;
http://www.cranelegs.com
Tags: funny baby stories, hilarious, humor, humorous pregnant, pregnancy, stupid men