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39 Weeks, 1 Day

Candy's Column

39 Weeks, 1 Day

39 weeks:  The point at which you can no longer be bothered to get out of pajamas or apply make-up, even for super-official blog pregnancy portrait.

Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh.

Feeling much relief now that I have slipped into my elastic waistband pants and been reunited with my computer, from which I have been separated for a whole 21 hours.  Twenty-one hours, people!  That’s, like, 147 decades in Internet addict years.  All because I’ve been spending quality time with my parents, who just flew all the way across the country to see me and their granddaughter, blah, blah, blah.

But seriously.  One hundred forty-seven decades!  Think of all the important Tweets I’ve missed!  I went the whole day unaware that Tila Tequila was writing a song called “Pussy Power” filled with “double-auntandra’s.” HOW DO MY PARENTS EXPECT ME TO LIVE WITHOUT THIS KNOWLEDGE?!

Well, I may not have to exist in such tragic darkness much longer.  Mom and Dad arrived from Pennsylvania yesterday and, sadly, they’re already SO over their visit.  We took them out for my mom’s birthday dinner last night and to my dad’s fave restaurant on the beach, Duke’s, in Malibu this afternoon — the two outings I’d promised them right off the bat, knowing that Baby Girl could arrive any minute now and put the kibosh on other plans — after which, Mom leaned back and sighed:

“I guess we don’t have anything else to look forward to now.”  [OFF MY LOOK, AS IT DAWNS ON HER]  “…Oh!   Um.  Except the baby, of course.”

Of course.

My lunch unexpectedly came with a hearty dose of back pain that actually brought tears to my eyes.  I guess Baby Girl wasn’t a fan of Duke’s criss-cross fries.  Either that, or she’s slooooowly making her grand entrance.  We’ll see.  I’m not making any more predictions at this point other than to say that one day, sometime, somewhere, somehow, I WILL have a baby.  Probably.  Possibly.

In addition to our meals and my lunchtime performance of “Labor Pains” (almost as compelling as Lindsay Lohan’s turn in the straight-to-cable movie of the same name… almost), we’ve managed to entertain ourselves quite nicely despite my way-knocked-up status.   For example, there was the fun we had when I almost knocked Mom unconscious in the backseat of my car.  (Hey!  I just got the vehicle!  I didn’t KNOW a metal bar came swinging out when I put the convertible top up, okay? Geesh.  People can be so touchy about near-decapitation.)   Then Mom later held court during “Revenge Storytelling Hour,” during which she told Mr. Candy about the time she bought me a nightgown set… and I emerged from my bedroom wearing the nightgown’s MATCHING PANTIES ON MY HEAD.  Because I thought they were a hat.  A common mistake among little girls, I’m sure.

Only I was, um, 13 years old.

Parental murder attempts and stories about my mentally-challenged teenage years aside, it’s wonderful having my parents stay with us.   Lots of laughing, reminiscing and, of course, waiting and more waiting.  Naturally, I’m under major pressure to produce this baby at some point during their two-week visit, preferably yesterday.   We’ll see what the doctor has to say at my check-up tomorrow.  Probably something along the lines of, “Yep!  I knew it!  One day, sometime, somewhere, somehow, you WILL have a baby.  Probably.  Possibly.”

If I — dear lord don’t let this happen — DON’T produce while they’re here, I will spend the rest of my life atoning for my unforgivable failure.   Not sure if that’s even possible.  But, given my mom’s tears-of-laughter-stained cheeks, I’m guessing showing up at Christmas dinner with underwear on my head would be a good start.

Because sharing is caring, as I tell my kids. (Except my wine. Never my wine.)
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Candy Kirby is the founder of The Laughing Stork and a professional fun-maker who will never stop chasing her lifelong dream: to find the Pomeranian or porn star after whom her parents must have named her. A humor columnist for Disney, Nickelodeon, Scary Mommy, Reductress and Redbook, she also used to be a staff writer for the soap opera, The Bold and the Beautiful, where she penned many scripts featuring prolonged heated stares and countless “Who’s the Daddy?” story lines. Candy lives in Los Angeles with her husband, two young kids and three rescue Persian cats, the latter of whom are the real brains behind this operation (so send all complaints to them).

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