Lying in wait and living on the edge

— "Sometimes I feel I've got to (clap clap) run away"
Soft Cell


On midnight on a Sunday, with a work week staring you in the face, I think I'd rather be anywhere than Wal-Mart.
At that time, it looks like the worst place on earth, with its fading yellow ozone light flooding the store and ragged low-level employees who just crawled out of the sea and sprouted legs hanging by the entrance and smoking and staring at you through their meth hazes with sunken eyes.
Yet there I was, shuffling through the store, looking for Motrin. Jayden came down with a sore throat, and after a visit to the E.R., needed some tropical punch Motrin to help ease the swelling (air passages, after all, are a good thing). I was the only one in the store besides the zombie employees and some large person who wore a wife beater and a pair of Zuma pants who could have passed for a man or a woman. I just wanted to get out of there. And then Soft Cell started playing over the loudspeaker, and Wal-Mart on a Sunday night was the place for a little reflection.
I'm now old enough to have one of my favorites songs when I was a kid be played at Wal-Mart, which doesn't exactly go for what I would call an edgy playlist. And I'm facing easily one of the biggest challenges of my life, any day now.
And at the moment, I honestly don't know if I can handle it.
The Twins Thing is hanging over our heads like a piano in a Bugs Bunny cartoon, and I've reached the point now where I just want the damn thing to drop.
When Kate went into labor three weeks ago, I honestly was deathly relieved when they stopped the contractions, but what I didn't realize at the time was I was also relieved that they were going to be here and we could move on and start working.
I am the kind of person who stresses out at the anticipation of work more than stresses about the work itself. Once I dive in, I can chew through just about anything. This is pretty typical of the Type A folk (A, of course, stands for "Anal") that I group myself with. So just imagine with being presented with a big project - a Twins-sized project - and have it dangle in your Inbox for days and now weeks on end without any resoultion.
I was grateful for the extra time. Now I just want it over with.
The Well Meaners have only made things worse. Parents of multiples talk about the same thing, the "You've got your hands full" comments during a trip to the mall, and how after a while they start to feel like a tiny piece of broken glass has just been interested under your fingernail every time you hear it. Every time I hear "How's The Wife Doing," I wince. Are they here yet? I'll bet you're on pins and needles! When is she due again? Chortle Chortle Chortle.
I appreciate their concern. I know they are showing their support. But at this point, too much really is enough.
(On a side note, someone asked Kate Saturday in a restaurant if she was having twins. We weren't talking about it at the time, so she obviously just looked at her belly. WTF? What if the answer is no? "Oh, well, you're really huge anyway.")
It could also be that I truly haven't been honest with myself and how stressed I actually am about this whole thing. Kate finally admitted to me, last night at 1 a.m., when I was explaining why I was such a pissant lately, that she too was worried about it and was feeling guilty about not being more excited about this.
I told her, and I'm telling myself now, that we're not more excited because we know what's coming. Mountain climbing is one of the best things I do in this world. And yet when I'm getting up at 2:30 a.m. and packing my pack and heading out for a long day, I'm not excited. I know how hard it's gonna be.
But I also know how satisfied and happy I'll be at the end of the day.
I think the piano will drop any day now. And as of today, I'll welcome it when it does.
In the Bugs Bunny cartoon, after all, when that piano does drop, it hurts at first. They're squished, in fact.
But in the very next frame, they're whole again.