Children of the Corn (a guest blog by the Husband)
So as most Fickleknitter’s loyal readers already know, we’re about eight months away from our first born. I am the second-most-surprised person on the planet to get this news, having been told by “She who is Most Surprised” of all the conception horror stories she’s heard of late, and wondering if the combination of 25mg of sulfonamides per day, recent relative physical inactivity, and forty-two years of tighty-whities weren’t going to be too much for the half billion or so little guys to handle.
They weren’t. The Ficklehusband’s super sperm get a “high five”. That, plus the Miracle-Gro Sperm Food we used on Ovulation Day.
Now I don’t know how normal households deal with identifying the pre-term cellular makeup that eventually morphs into new life, but the Fickleknitter household (which is decidedly abnormal) has had the darndest time with it. For the first two weeks we couldn’t come to terms with agreeable nomenclature: “Baby” seems overused, “Parasite” seems leftist and mean, “Unborn Child” seems rightist and presumptuous, “Fetus” is too clinical, and the Wife’s suggestion to call it a “Sleestak” had me thinking “Unborn Child” wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
That is, until the wife’s first cravings came.
Of all things, it was corn products. Corn products. Not the stereotypically theatrical pickles and ice cream, not irrational cravings like chocolate-covered meatballs or hummus steak and hummus, not corn-on-the-cob or corn-in-the-can or frozen corn, but corn products. Quaker Crunch Corn Bran, Kellogg’s corn flakes, Mission corn tortillas, and Tostitos corn chips for which I’ve now had to abdicate my role as principal consumer in the Fickleknitter household because, as the Wife so succinctly puts it, “The baby wants corn chips.”
To which my first retort, in a scaled-back demonic voice* characteristic of what I would expect a pre-term cellular being that possesses the Wife in the figurative demonic sense, was “Malachai wants corn chips! Now!”
And I’m thinking now I’ve gone and done it. It was bad enough we had “Sleestak” on the table. I’ve just gone and called our baby a “demonic parasite”. “Sleestak” would have been surprisingly tolerable, but that was retrospective, and now I’m thinking, Karma is going to pay me back big time for this one: the kid will be colicky to age six, attention-deficit through his teens, pot-smoking through his first and only year of college, and then freeload his way through the rest of his life just like his uncle. Yep, I’m going to dad hell.
And then the Wife laughed. And laughed, and laughed, and laughed.
And then I thought Karma is going to pay us back big time for this one. It appeared that in deliberately avoiding seemingly unsavory titles for our yet-to-be-born, we have inadvertently wound up naming him/her/it after an adolescent second-in-command who kills grownups with a scythe and eventually nails his adolescent first-in-command to a corn cross to be sacrificed to He-Who-Walks-Behind-The-Rows. Eight months from now he will be known as William Payne (or she as Lillian [middle name presently being negotiated]) if the straw-man names hold up to term. Today, though, the name “Malachai” has stuck.
This, of course, has not been without its share of humor, which you need a lot of if you are either staring down the barrel a barf bag six hours a day with hot flashes and sore breasts or watching your wife stare down the barrel of a barf bag six hours a day complaining about hot flashes and sore breasts. I get to echo a delightful litany of the Wife’s cravings through our collective Alter Ego:
“Malachai wants corn chips!”
“Malachai wants won ton soup!”
“Malachai wants Kraft macaroni and cheese! KFC! McDonalds Double Cheeseburgers! Meatball Sandwiches! Lender’s onion-flavored bagels with Tillamook yellow cheese and turkey ham!”**
Not to mention, I get to echo the Wife’s sensitivities to smell:
“Malachai smells the trash!”
“Malachai thinks the cat box reeks!”
“Malachai sez wash the Dog!”
“Malachai sez the Husband goes shopping because Mommy’s ‘dog nose’ will make her retch in the supermarket!”
(Thank goodness the laundry doesn’t smell. Well, hers at least.)
So our unborn alter ego has provided a source of entertainment for the whole Fickleknitter household, which takes the edge off the morning sickness, porn-star breasts that don’t want to be touched (poor the Husband), mandatory alcohol avoidance and other first-trimester blues.
Anyway, I imagine you’re all really here for the weekly photo of the Wife, with the embryo enclosed:
I don’t know what he really looks like now, but if Courtney Gains’ portrayal in the movie was any indicator, he probably looks like the definitive redheaded stepchild, only approximately 2.0mm in height. Let’s hope he’s not born that way, or the Husband will be having words with his the Wife.
Anyway, gotta run.
*You all need to understand that when I say “scaled-back demonic voice”, I mean I let up on the gas, pull the emergency brake and shut off the ignition. I have a “not-so-scaled-back demonic voice” that rings pure evil. Imagine Muad’Dib has just shouted his name using that acoustic weapon thingy to melt a rock, and then you get an idea of what the Wife’s face looks like when I use my bad voice. She hits me and screams “Get out of my Husband’s body, NOW!” You say you can relate because, hey, your Husband sounds a bit spooky when he imitates little post-Ouija-board Regan. You would be wrong. Your Husband has a pansy-ass demon voice. My demon voice peels paint off of cars. I get consulting fees from Earl Scheib.
**Promotional consideration paid for by Quaker, Kellogg’s, Mission Foods, Frito-Lay, Kraft, KFC, McDonalds, Lenders Bagels and Tillamook Cheese. We wish.
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