Wingmen Babypalooza

by Daisy Prescott

  “Did you bring the snacks?” I ask, eyeing both baskets of blankets, bottles, diapers, and baby dolls.

  I’m not sure if we’re allowed to rifle through the baskets before class starts, but I can’t resist picking up our dark-haired doll.

  “No, I didn’t think you were serious.” Dan leans back in his chair.

  “I’m always serious about pizza.” Holding our doll by the back of its head, I jab its plastic fist at Dan. I switch to a doll appropriate falsetto and say, “Unless it has fruit on it. Fruit on pizza is the devil’s work. Satan made you do it.”

  “And now I’m going to have nightmares.” Hailey removes the doll from my grip and returns it to the basket.

  I’m still amused, so I tuck my hand underneath the doll’s back and raise it into a sitting position. “No one puts baby in the basket.”

  This earns me a chuckle from Dan and a snort from Roslyn. And nothing from Hailey. Undeterred, I switch gears.

  “Do you remember the dancing baby when we were kids?” I ask, completely amused by myself.

  I’m in the middle of a decent version of the running man given the baby doesn’t have bendable knees when our coach walks through the doorway.

  “Ah, you must be Tom Donnely,” a blond woman a little older than us says from the front of the room. “I’ve heard about you. I’m LuAnn and I’ll be your instructor today. Think of me as Wikipedia for all of your questions about what to expect during labor.”

  Hailey groans while Roslyn doesn’t hold back her laughter. I’m a grown man in his thirties, but I still feel like a kid who got busted by the sub for clowning around.

  At least I haven’t slept with the baby coach.

  I’d like to say class improves after my dancing doll icebreaker, but it turns out baby wrangling is tougher than it looks. Apparently, we had homework to read before class. The three other couples have all read it, leaving the four of us in the back row out of the loop during the discussion. Then we move on to the baskets and the practical stuff.

  Swaddling isn’t exactly like rolling a burrito, but it’s close.

  Diapers have fronts and backs.

  And there’s a lot more to quality burping than I was told in junior high when I thought being able to burp the alphabet should be an Olympic sport.

  We take a short break, mostly for the pregnant women to pee. Exhausted, I slide down in my chair.

  “You ready for all this?” I ask Dan, gesturing to the baskets.

  “Probably not, but we won’t know until we’re in it. Like most things in life.” He sounds resigned, but in a good way.

  “Are you worried about messing up?” I allow myself to be serious for a moment.

  “Of course. I think screwing up is inevitable. Perfect parents don’t exist. No class or coaching will teach us what we’ll learn by doing.” He’s not resigned, he’s on another plane of acceptance. Calm, self-assured, and confident.

  Then there’s me. “I’m expecting it to be a shit show.”

  Dan chuckles. “Most definitely.”

  “How do you stay so calm?” I ask.

  “Practice. We all deal with the unknown in our own ways. You process with humor. Roslyn makes a plan. Hailey focuses on the present. I focus inward. I think John does the same.”

  I shift in my seat to face him more fully, resting my elbow on the table. “Do you ever get scared? What if something happens to Hailey during labor? Or the baby?”

  I’m not sure if it’s nerves, or the soothing comfort of all the baby animals, but I’m bearing my soul to Dan like we’re in a support group. I guess in some ways we are.

  “Don’t let your mind go there. We can’t control everything.”

  “I hate that,” I confess, my voice low. “I hate I can’t always protect her from pain.”

  “This is where faith comes into play.” He crosses his ankle over his knee. “Like the George Michael song, you have to have faith.”

  “You mean like church and praying?” I haven’t been to a church in years outside of weddings and funerals. Our wedding was at a vineyard and the ceremony didn’t include praying. At least not formally. Can’t think of the last time I said a formal prayer other than a quick “oh shit, help me” in a moment of panic. I’m not even the kind of man who makes a bargain with God. Or the devil.

  Dan’s voice brings me out of my head. “If that works for you. Or trusting in some higher power, whatever you decide that might be. Have faith everything will work out for the best.”

  “And if it doesn’t?” My heart clenches into a tight ball and stops beating for a second at the thought of losing Hailey or our baby.

  “You deal with it. Somehow. You figure out a way to make it through the tough times.” He meets my stare and I see wisdom in his dark eyes.

  “Hey, what are you two talking about?” Hailey asks, slowly settling into her chair by bracing her hand on my shoulder.

  “Pizza,” Dan answers.

  “Still? You’re like a stray dog begging for scraps, Tom.” Smiling, Hailey shakes her head.

  “I can’t help it. Now I’m really hungry. I didn’t eat a proper breakfast.” I slide my gaze to Hailey’s face. From the way her cheeks heat, she remembers exactly what I ate this morning.

  “I have cash if you want to raid the vending machines.” Roslyn pulls out her wallet. “Get me a Twix and a bag of Sun Chips if you’re going.”

  I wave away her money. “I’ve got it. Dan? Hailey? You want anything?”

  “Surprise me. But no pork rinds or those awful orange crackers with the weird peanut butter. And no licorice. Or spicy,” Hailey rattles off her don’ts. “Want me to write it down?”

  “Not needed. I’ll get you plain Lays and cookies.”

  “You know me so well.” She gives me a soft smile. “But not shortbread. Oreos or the mini chocolate chip ones.”

  “I’ll be back.” I kiss my wife before leaving.

  Meandering the familiar halls, I’m struck with another hospital memory. Of being here when Lori had Noah. Still on the down low, Hailey and I arrived together, but pretended we hadn’t. We sat with my dad and ate snacks out of the vending machine that night, too. Seems like another lifetime now.

  I locate the machine and slide in my debit card. Ten dollars and an armful of snacks later, I return to the classroom with my bounty.

  I’m enjoying my Doritos right up until the instructor tells us we’re going to watch a video depicting various birthing options.

  When the lights go up, I’m still holding the half full bag of chips, my mouth refusing to close from what I just witnessed. I should’ve closed my eyes during the water birth, but I couldn’t look away.

  I wish I had. I’ll never look at a kiddie pool the same way.

  “Well, that was interesting.” Looking a little rough for wear, Dan slaps his palms on his jeans and rubs his thighs.

  Roslyn’s skin is paler than normal.

  Afraid of what I’ll see, I haven’t looked at Hailey. Instead, I set my unfinished snack on the table and brush my hands over my face.

  The couple in the front row animatedly chats with LuAnn while most of the room sits in stunned silence.

  “So my options are to be sliced open like a haggis or be ripped open by trying to pass a pumpkin through a toilet paper tube.” Hailey’s voice wobbles like she’s about to cry.

  Slinging my arm around her shoulders, I kiss her temple. “You okay?”

  Peeking at her from the corner of my eye, I know we’re in trouble.

  Her eyes are glassy and full of tears. “I don’t think so.”

  Roslyn leans around me. “Hundreds of thousands of women give birth every day. We can do this.”

  Hailey shakes her head as tears spill from her wide eyes. “Why didn’t Lori tell me this? She’s my best friend. Talk about betrayal. Why the silence? There’s some big conspiracy and secret keeping. No one discusses the pooping or the incontinence or the flapping vulva. It’s all lies and happy diaper commercials.”


  We sit quietly as she melts down.

  “I should’ve thought this out better. Instead I got swept up in the idea of having a baby, completely forgetting the part where the baby has to exit my body. Have you seen my belly? This kid is huge. I’m doomed. I’ll probably never walk right again. Or be able to sneeze or laugh without wetting myself. I’ll be buying Depends at Costco with all the little old ladies—”

  I interrupt her. “Breathe.”

  She inhales a shaky breath.

  “Now count to ten and slowly exhale for ten.” While stroking her hair, I repeat the instructions I saw in the movie.

  “Excellent, Tom,” LuAnn says, walking over to us. “We’re about to get on the floor and do some breathing exercises, but I see you already know what you’re doing. Why don’t you come to the front and demonstrate?”

  “Uh, sure.” I change positions so I can stare at Hailey. “Are you okay?”

  “We’ve made a terrible mistake.” She wipes her cheeks.

  “No, we haven’t. Best decisions I’ve ever made have been about you. We’ll get through this. Together.”

  She blinks and a couple more tears fall on her cheeks. I sweep them away with my thumbs. Part of me still wants to throw up after the video, but I know I have to be strong for Hailey.

  “I love you,” I tell her, then kiss her damp cheek.

  “I know.” She gives me a weak smile.

  We all settle on the floor with cushions and yoga mats to make it more comfortable. If someone were to listen outside the door, they might confuse us with a sex therapy class with all the heavy breathing and grunting that takes place.

  The focus and extra oxygen calm Hailey, and she recovers from her mini freak-out. Might be the breathing or the visualization exercises. Or the fact that the human mind has an amazing ability to block traumatizing memories.

  No one speaks on the way out to our cars. Probably still in shock. I know I am. I’ll never be able to look at vaginas and lasagna the same way again.

  “You have Dorito dust on your face.” Roslyn breaks the silence.

  I rub my cheek. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

  “Kind of looked like tribal war paint during the breathing circle,” Dan says.

  “And that was okay, why?” I ask.

  “Never said it was.” He shrugs and laughs. At my expense.

  “At least I’ll never see those people again.” I lift the tail of my shirt and rub it over my face.

  “It’s the island. Eventually, you run into everyone.”

  “Not if I never go into Langley again. Avoid the Dog House. Only use Whidbey Joe’s coffee huts. Quit my job. Stop shopping at Payless Foods. We can get all our food and toilet paper at Costco off island. Buying in bulk is better for the environment.”

  “All that effort to avoid a group of people who saw you with cheese dust on your face? Your naked ass is hanging all over the island.” Roslyn reminds me of Erik’s calendar.

  “Fuck, I don’t care about looking like a weirdo with my face covered in orange powder. We went through something today. We’re veterans of the same battle. Seeing them might trigger PTSD.” I’m almost serious. “We should have the baby at Harborview.”

  My friends and wife stare at me like I’ve gone full out Apocalypse Now Brando in the jungle.

  “What?” I shrug, spinning my keys around my finger.

  “PTSD? Really? How are you going to handle the actual birth?” Hailey asks.

  “Because I love you. And loving you makes the most difficult moments bearable.” It’s the simplest and most honest explanation I can give. Leaning close, I give my wife, the love of my life, the mother of my children, a soft kiss on her mouth.

  Beside us, I swear I hear Roslyn sigh.

  “I love you, too,” Hailey says against my lips.

  “Okay, I can see why you keep him,” Roslyn confesses.

  “I’m irresistible?” I smile at my wife.

  “You have your moments,” Hailey admits.

  Chapter 5

  “Did you know elephants are pregnant for ninety-five weeks? Almost two years? And orcas carry their babies for seventeen months?” I read these fun facts off my phone as she gets dressed in her stretchy, black maternity leggings and a flowy white T-shirt top.

  “Are you comparing me to a whale again?” Hailey’s voice holds a warning I’m on thin ice.

  I can’t help it if she’s wearing black and white. Like an orca. Thankfully, I’ve had enough coffee this morning to keep the coincidence to myself.

  “No, I’m trying to make you feel better. You have six weeks to go. If you were a giraffe, you’d be preggo for four hundred days. Doesn’t that make forty-two days seem short?”

  Perfectly still like a statue, she stares at me blankly. Not even her mouth twitches. I can’t tell if she’s processing these cool, fun facts. Or plotting my death.

  She’s excellent at multi-tasking, so she’s probably doing both.

  “It’s cold and raining out there. You’ll probably want a sweater or something.” I change the subject to the weather. “It’s November and daylight savings ended last weekend, meaning it’ll be dark by the time we get home from my parents’ house this afternoon.”

  Today’s the baby shower. The co-ed baby shower. Which I feel like is fundamentally wrong on many levels, but I’ve been promised lots of cake so I’m going to make the best of it. I mean, I was there for the conception and I’m going to be there for the birth and the growing up part. Yet I feel like this should be a day all about Hailey and the amazing job she’s doing gestating a human inside of her body. That’s all her. Can’t think of a bigger reason to have a celebration than that. Plus, I’ll be in the way and stealing attention.

  Now, before someone labels me a sexist bastard for not wanting to ooh and ahh over baby gifts people bought us because we told them to, I don’t like opening presents in front of everyone at Christmas either. Too many years of having to fake excitement over socks to change my opinion on this weird tradition.

  I’ve been to plenty of these co-ed events to base my opinion on experience, not some lame he-man masculine separation of parental duties bullshit.

  Then again, Hailey and I ran into each other at Lori and Nick’s shower. In a big way, I owe my life to whoever decided men should attend baby parties. And my mother for blackmailing me with stuffing and bribing me with leftovers.

  Clearly, I’m easily motivated by food.

  PTSD or not, I’m here for everything this baby can bring. Good, bad, ugly, and smelly.

  My mother is once again hosting the party. The Donnely farmhouse is bigger than our place, and Mom lives for these kind of events. She says the grandkids keep her young despite the streaks of gray in her brown hair.

  We arrive early, but my sisters are already here, buzzing around like a busy swarm of bees, decorating and preparing food for the party.

  “Dad in the family room?” I ask, sticking to the perimeter of the kitchen so I don’t get in the way.

  “I think he’s out in the barn.” Mom gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. Her familiar floral and vanilla scent tickles my nose. “You can go hide with him.”

  Relieved, I practically jog across the driveway.

  Dad’s got the radio on and is listening to the UW football pregame show while he rearranges a tool box on his workbench. Glancing around at the perfectly organized lawn equipment, I can tell he’s been out here for a while already. I take after my dad in looks and some would say, personality. We both get our dimples and our charms from the Donnely side of the family.

  “Tom, come to hide with your old man?” Grinning, he pats my shoulder.

  “Why do men hide in garages and barns?” I gently slap his back in greeting.

  “Because we’re smart enough to know our limitations.”

  I nod in understanding.

  “We’d only be in the way in the house right now,” he continues. “Best to wait until the frenzy is finished and we can enjoy the spoils of all that co
oking and baking.”

  “Do you ever feel guilty for not helping?” I lean against the bench, absently fiddling with a set of tin snips.

  “Never. I do my part in other ways.” He lines up his screwdrivers by type and size. “I try not to give too much advice, but now that Pops is gone, I guess I’m the old guy with the life wisdom to share.”

  Shifting my focus to my father’s face, I study it closely. He’s not old, but his hair has more white and gray than blond and it’s getting thin on top. Lines and creases deepen the skin around his eyes and mouth. A few long hairs poke out from his eyebrows. I have no idea the last time I really examined his face, instead taking for granted he’s always the same. Somewhere over the past couple of years, he’s aged.

  “You’re starting to look more like Pops,” I tell him.

  “You think? Your mom keeps telling me to trim my eyebrow hairs and threatens to buzz my ears with clippers while I sleep if I don’t keep the fuzz in check.” He points to his earlobe. “I say it’s just more of me to love.”

  He’s sounding more like his dad, too. I wonder at what point I’ll begin to mimic Ken Donnely. Maybe I already do.

  “There are worse things to be compared to than Clifford Donnely,” I reassure him.

  “Truth in that.” His smile is wistful and a little sad. “I miss him.”

  “Me too.” I clear the thick emotion from my throat. “So what advice would you give me?”

  “Are you asking because you’re curious or are you being polite?” Dad sets down his tools.

  “You said you’re the old guy with wisdom to share.”

  He scratches his cheek and focuses on the ceiling. “Well, I suppose it’s a little late for the sex talk.”

  We both snort.

  “Right.” He laughs. “I will say every kid is different. You’ll never feel like you know what you’re doing. Most parenting is winging it and trying to survive the day. At least with newborns. Then when you finally figure things out, you’ve got toddlers hell bent on testing every last one of your nerves. They’ll seem easy when you get to teenager year and the rules change again. Buckle up and try to enjoy the ride.”