Ruminations and Great Expectations

Thoughts run together for a soon-to-be father

By Steve McFarland

As a freelance writer who is currently "in-between things," one of the only luxuries I can truly afford is Chicago's lakefront trail in the middle of the day. Unimpeded by the bicycles of the gainfully employed, I compete only against the sun-drenched tourists exploring my recently adopted hometown.

With each foot strike, from the Loop to Hyde Park to Lakeview and back, I mentally prepare for upcoming interviews. Polish my presentation and rethink my portfolio. All the while, pushing the fear of long-term unemployment into the back recesses of my brain, where I stow my deepest, most unthinkable fears: deer ticks, plane crashes and dancing in public.

However, recent events have given new intensity to the running monologue in my head.

"Steve, get up," my wife said shaking me with one hand, holding a plastic stick in the other.

The stick apparently had been peed on. Despite my drowsiness, I quickly deduced that two lines indicated it was a pregnant woman who had done the peeing.

"How'd that happen?" I asked, lifting my head off the cool side of the pillow.

"I don't know," she said, echoing my bewilderment. "It must have been that one night."

"But didn't…"

"Yes."

"Man, that is one tenacious egg."

Our befuddled reaction notwithstanding, this was not unwelcome news. We've often discussed how much better the world would be if there were more people like us in it. It wasn't especially surprising, either. After all, we both come from long lines of procreators.

But considering my work status (immediately available, if anyone's asking), this was happening earlier than our preferred timeframe, which was slated for somewhere between the First of Ideal and the last day of Perfect.

She left for the office. I went about pestering people who had indicated they might need someone to write something. More than ever, I hoped to persuade them that they needed this guy to write something…today.

Finding no takers by lunchtime, I laced up my trainers, hit refresh on my inbox one last time and headed out the door. Still feeling lingering tightness from a half marathon days earlier, I started out slowly to let a few nagging muscle groups warm up.

"Stand tall. Head up. Relax the shoulders. Breathe," I reminded myself as I crossed the street.

It was the same route I took to the lake everyday, but it looked fundamentally different. Strollers, for instance, were usually objects that simply needed avoiding. Now, they were vessels carrying actual humans. Humans too small and helpless to tie their own shoes, walk or even feed themselves. I could zigzag down the sidewalk, but I couldn't avoid it. I would need one of those.

The heated midday air thickened as I ascended one of the highway overpasses that count as a hill in Chicago. Feeling strong, I shortened my stride, pumped my arms and stared straight ahead across the lake.

"Stand tall. Head up. Relax the shoulders. Breathe."

The recovery plan called for something short and easy, but I felt the need for something else entirely. I picked out a new landmark and set my sights on a cluster of tiny yellow school buses parked off in the distance.

A gust of wind swept across the nearby beach and stung my face with sand. I closed my eyes and turned my head, trying not to breathe it in. Considering the recent race, every joint and muscle was eerily quiet and agreeable. I leaned forward into the wind and picked up the pace.

The yellow school buses grew larger and I began to hear an approaching tour group – brown bags in hand. The chaperones counted, making sure the tally of heads matched the number of permission slips.

The hyper tweens were more than just ambient noise to me now. I peeked at the squirrelly lineup and wondered which one would be ours. Band geek or the screwball in the back? The one taking notes during the museum tour, or the one trying to copy off her at the end of the day?

I turned around, felt the wind at my back and wondered, "Will he be a runner?"

What if he – despite the slow-twitch genes inherited from me – wants to sprint? I rehearsed the "Son, sprinters are born, distance runners are made" speech. Once he's convinced, I'll explain the importance of pacing, and the beauty of a negative split. His coach is going to hate me.

Maybe these thoughts were all premature. These home pregnancy tests aren't foolproof, right? No, there was definitely a .01% chance it was not a life-changing event at all – just an opportunity to put things in perspective, and get my $#!† together.

I quickened my stride, drew larger breaths and headed for home. In the last 70 minutes, my inbox surely had filled with offers. That one firm would be ready to kick off that project we talked about. Or that other agency's client finally pulled the trigger on that campaign. At the very least, that headhunter would have heard something by now.

Like a mouse in a maze I knew by heart, my reward was waiting for me at the end of the run. Dripping a trail of sweat behind me, I rushed in the door and grabbed the nearest electronic device. I unlocked the phone to find a single text message.

"Dr confirmed. 3-5 weeks."

I reminded myself, "Stand tall. Head up. Relax the shoulders. Breathe."