Take A Stroll... With Rob Delaney - I Make Babies!
A little under a year ago I received a picture message from my wife. It was a photo of a smiley face, which was on a stick she’d just peed on. Its appearance meant that she was ovulating, so I sped home from my office, which was five miles away, hoping to beat my father. My father wasn’t speeding to my house from another office, jockeying with me to impregnate my wife; rather, he was due to meet us for lunch in ten tiny little minutes. I pulled up to the curb with eight minutes to spare, and within three of those minutes my wife was pregnant, via sex. I don’t know what we did with the remaining five minutes because I typically black out after I make love.
A few weeks later my wife peed on another stick and a “+” sign appeared. It’s funny that a smiley face means you’re ovulating but an entirely emotionless mathematical value indicator affirms that a human is developing inside of you, because many people will certainly not be wearing an actual smiley face on their faces when they find out they’re pregnant. In our case, we involuntary made smiley face faces when we saw the “+” on the pee-pee-moistened stick.
Within a few more weeks my wife began to grow a belly. I’ve always loved pregnant women and thought they were wildly, impossibly beautiful, so it was fun to live with one and get to study her up close. Emotionally, she didn’t really change that much, which is to say she remained the same bat-shit insane woman I’d married whose moods switched back and forth from profoundly terrifying to incandescently wonderful at (I’m estimating) 855 miles per hour. If you’re a young man reading this and worrying that all women are like this—don’t. I’m sure it’s just my wife. And every other lady I’ve ever met, without exception.
Please know that I bear no ill will toward my wife. I can’t get enough of her. Our love is the organic NERF that grows in the spots where her abject mania collides with my stupidity and emotional retardation. It is to my wife’s extreme discredit that she’s stayed with me over the years with all the horror I’ve put her through. Just today, for example, I farted without interruption from two until four in the afternoon. Also, my car is currently so filled with garbage that you’d swear I committed suicide in it several months ago and am actually a ghost.
I had big fun chasing my expanding wife around the house in the months that followed. And anything you’ve learned about science can fuck directly off the first time you feel a little dude or lady move around inside a human belly, because that shit is BANANAS FOSTER WITH A SIDE OF EXTRA BANANAS SERVED BY A LABRADOODLE DRESSED AS A BAG OF BANANAS.
Then one day the baby decided it was time to be born and it tortured my wife terribly from inside her stork garage, or “uterus.” Watching her go through labor was fundamentally awesome. She made noises many octaves below the lowest sound I’ve ever made. When we got to the hospital and our child stuck the top of its fuzzy little head out from between my wife’s legs, I genuinely didn’t know what I was looking at. It’s been a few weeks now and I’m still not totally sure what it is. Allegedly, it’s a human baby. It smells far better than cocaine, though, and it’s starting to make its own little smiley faces, so we’re planning on keeping it.