Your dad manifests inward stresses outwardly. In the past three weeks his skin's revealed white heads, black heads, scaly skin and rashes in quantities unheard of since his sophomore year of high school. But don't let him fool you. When your dad became an adult, whenever that happened, his regular acne simply became adult acne. And as your dad beheld your due date, February Eighteenth, his acne appeared more like polyps, clinging to the crook of his elbow and forearm, the crook of his earlobe and neck, the crook of his nostril and cheek, while the vitamin A saw to the side of his itching neck.
Let's not be meek. Your mom is about to give birth. Stripped of its magic, giving birth is none too pretty. Giving birth is violence.
Now, however, at T-plus-two days, your dad's demeanor, not to mention his sense of humor, regains a healthy pallor. Your mom and dad talk and watch, laugh and walk, and the uterus contracts. We will see you soon. But for now, you mom answers the phone with, "No baby yet."
