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Saturday October 5, 10:00 a.m.
The problem with make-up sex is that it isn’t sex at all. It’s too powerfully charged with sadness and love and a million other feelings to be just good, normal sex. By the time it’s over, you feel like you’ve just had an enema for the emotions. So, when we woke up the next morning, neither of us felt quite on the ball. But I must say that I felt relief so intense that it was painful when I woke up to feel my wife beside me again. Allison’s hair looked like half a beehive, and she had morning breath, and she had to manoeuvre her belly like a beached whale to get out of bed, but she was radiating beauty, as far as I was concerned.
“Do you want coffee or tea, hon?” she asked as she shuffled toward the kitchen. I have someone who actually wants to make me a cup of tea! I thought happily. First thing in the morning, and she thinks of me! I floated on a wave of gratitude for a moment.
“Allison, I’m going to make breakfast. You sit down and read the paper, drink your O.J., relax. Do you want easy-over or scrambled?” Allison smiled shyly at me. Clearly, she was pleased. I’ve got to do this more often, I thought, put Allison first, even if it’s just a little thing.
The Saturday paper was late, so Allison read me the disturbing bits of the news from Friday’s paper while I put on the meal. “I haven’t seen the paper in a couple of days, so it’s still fresh news to me,” she said cheerfully. When she got to the Entertainment Section, she went silent. My heart went cold when I realized why. She was reading my column. Oh God, I prayed, please don’t let that stupid column ruin all the progress we’ve made. This fragile, beautiful reunion of ours had to be cherished, protected. I stood at the stove, back to her, afraid to breathe. I couldn’t think of any words to say that would help.
Then I felt two warm, soft arms wrap around my middle. Allison laid her head against my back and said, “I do love you.” A woman’s capacity to love a seriously flawed, perhaps even hopelessly demented man has always astounded me. And I am bloody grateful for it.
I turned around to embrace her, passion pounding through my body. Allison’s arms were surprisingly powerful. As we squeezed each other into oblivion, I suddenly felt a thud against my stomach.
“The baby just kicked me!” I cried out in delight. “Oh my God! He’s so strong!” An overwhelming wave of reality swept over me. “Oh wow. I have to sit down, honey. Just sit down with me, OK?” I felt weak and out of breath.
Allison eyed me with a half-smile on her face. “It’s pretty amazing, isn’t it? There’s a living person inside of me. It’s a miracle.” Her voice was quiet and calming.
The sense of awe stayed with me for some time that morning. So, this was what women felt when they carried around a new life. A baby wasn’t just a figment of your imagination, or a bunch of cells that wasn’t a person until you could see it in a bassinet—our child was real, alive and kicking, as they say, right now. Allison was already a mother. And I was already a father.
I’m a father. I have a child.
The thought was universe-shifting.
