Today is supposed to be Henry’s birthday.
I’m learning, however, that “supposed to” and babies don’t go hand-in-hand. Just like “supposed to” and life doesn’t go hand-in-hand.
I’ve been on maternity leave for a week and half now. That’s a week and half of not having to meet deadlines.
Except for this one: Henry’s due date.
And like any deadline, this one comes with its share of pressure. I feel like I’ve got a massive story due at noon and none of my sources will call me back.
And unlike my job, where I’m lucky if what I produce lines a bird cage at the end of the week, this assignment has generated a captive audience like none I’ve ever seen before.
Between my Facebook page, Joe’s Facebook page, our family, our friends, our neighbors, my bank teller, the bums in the park and the girls who cash us out at the grocery store, the anticipation is so palpable you’d think I’d gone weeks past my due date.
Now I know what it feels like to be a watched kettle.