And what’s goin’ on at Dave’s?

Well, I had the delightful company of my kids and their spouses visiting for the last few days.  That was nice.  My son’s wife is pregnant with our first grandchild and that is kinda weird.  For me.  Everyone else is fine.  I am — by far — the most nervous person in the room.

Pregnant women scare me.  Always have.  It all started way back when I was fourteen and became sexually active.  Well, okay, when I was fifteen and became sexually active with someone else.

I am pretty normal (which is to say, slightly odd at the best of times) and when the plump subject of my worry is only seven months or less along on the baby-making process, I am basically okay.   But, if they are seven months plus, I get anxious and more and more so as the clock ticks down. I want to yell: “It’s NOT my fault!”  I seem to be grimacing and cringing a lot, too.  Some people get sympathy weight-gain, others get sympathy pains … I just cringe and grimace.  Mostly for no reason.  Just the sight of a pregnant woman in her third term makes me cringe.  And worry. I have fears of having to deliver the baby.  ‘Not on my watch!’ screams in silence in my head.

In my head, I have delivered a thousand babies.  THAT has to be some kind of weird phobia.

It’s the screaming that puts me off.

Well, the rest of the process puts me off, too.  The whole thing puts me off.  Well, except for the beginning, of course.

Fortunately, my DIL (daughter-in-law) is sane and has a good sense of humour. Plus she learned early on to ignore me.  First meeting, actually.  She’s very good at it now. Sometimes I wonder if I even exist but, all things considered, we have a pretty good relationship.  She has often remarked how glad she is that we live off the grid.  Far off the grid.  You’d think with that kind of appreciation for our lifestyle she’d be here more often but, you know, she and my son are pretty busy and live in the city . . I’m sure they would like to be here more often . . . but, you know . . .

Anyway, my daughter and her husband are a lot of fun, too.  Hub is an interesting guy. “Ya know, Dave, when I come here I expect to be put to work.  You  know . . building and crap?”

“Great!  I got in some cement over the last few months in anticipation.  Got lots of cement work . . .”

“NO!  Not cement.  No, no, no.  I hate cement.  What else ya got?” 

“Well . . . cement work kinda comes first, ya know . . . all part of the building process.  The foundation comes first.  Gotta do cement before you do building . . .”

“Ohhhhhh . . . well, too bad, then.  I would have done some of that building crap if the cement work had been done but, seein’ as how that still needs doin’ and I ain’t doin’ it, waddya got to drink?”

But it was all good.  Whales came by.  Sal and I always get credit from the kids if the whales show up.  I don’t have the heart to burst their bubble on their old man’s cetacean influence. They think I get ’em to come.  Well, maybe they are not so sure about my role in determining the whales schedule but they can watch me call the ravens.  I tend to milk that trick.

Son and I went riding on motorbikes. That was fun.  Zooming.  Racing.  No crashing. We’ll do that again.  Sal drove the little truck and we all headed to the nice ad hoc built community-gathering beach. See photos.  That was good.

  

All in all, the visit was great.  One small problem: smoke.  It was like Beijing out here the whole time. Two mile visibility stretching to four, shrinking to one now and then.  I hate to admit that I am so easily affected by it, but I am.  I find it very depressing.  I want rain. I want clean. I want clear skies.  I want my piece of heaven back.

Sunday, they say.