Apparently, I made the right call by not going into math. Pregnancy has its own strange method of counting that flies in the face of everything you know. Where else does 40 weeks equal nine months? Yeah, I know, right? If you don’t understand it right now, don’t try. Just focus your attention on something easier and more logical—maybe time travel or mind-melding. It’s not worth it.
And last week, baby-makin’ math led to one of the dumbest fights I can remember having in 8½ years of marriage. Certainly not the biggest argument, but by far the dumbest. I’m not going to re-hash it here because Karli will eventually read this and Round 2 will start. Which will be pointless because she already won by TKO in Round 1. I threw in the towel. No mas! She was right. In fact, it doesn’t even matter who was right—she was right. Which is what I told her, though I probably could’ve sounded more convincing when I said it. Lesson learned. Moving on.
It wasn’t the first stupid thing I said since the little pink lines showed up on the pee stick. As it was, I probably said something stupid directly after. And it’s not going to be the last stupid thing I’ll say throughout the minefield that is gestation. The point is to reduce stress on the mother to reduce stress on the baby. That makes sense, right? Or is that nonsense? Who knows—all I’ve got going for me is the preemptive “You’re right” card. This week, when I called it a sonogram instead of an ultrasound, and she told me to get it right, dummy (maybe not word-for-word recounting), I gave up and told her she was right immediately. Otherwise we might’ve had a new dumb argument champion.