There’s a famous African proverb that goes “It takes a village to raise a child.” If that’s truly the case, then I’m calling all villagers preemptively. Cause I needs me some muhfuckin’ help. Big time. Everyone warned Abby and I that our lives were soon going to be very different. What they didn’t tell us was that transformation from simple to complex (And let’s be honest here, nothing in the life of an artist is that simple to begin with) was going to begin far before the first gasps of air inside the delivery room. From First Trimester jitters to the final eight weeks of our pregnancy, we’ve gone from enjoying the idea of building a family to actually building one in less than 8 months. And I’d love to pretend that I’ve been completely normal about all this while my wife has been hormonal, but the truth is I’ve been a bit nutty too.
I’m behind. No, no, I’m really fucking behind. And I’m not just talking script deadlines or work hours either (though, yes, I’m thoroughly past due on all those things too). It’s not just my art that’s suffering; it’s my entire life that’s somehow derailed off the Roman calendar. From the constant juggling act which I call my career to even the simplest of household chores, it seems that no matter what I do or how hard I push myself, I am not able to get a step ahead on anything anymore. Which is weird for me and my lady since we’re Asian and Jewish, respectively, which means we’re both born overachievers by nature. We like getting our shit done early. However, with little Baby Badass rounding the final base before heading home, everything (and I do mean EVERYTHING) in the regular routine of Abby and Qui has gone completely haywire, including how we see our own lives.
In week one of our pregnancy, I loved my wife like any husband loves their lover. You look at them all glossy-eyed anytime they enter the room, you get addicted to their kisses and their touch and if you’re away from them for too long you find yourself missing them a bit more than you should. You’re like this because you’re aware that the affection you two share is rare and precious and miraculous and now that love is sprouting you an offspring which in all counts is fucking amazing. That’s exactly what it was like during the first weeks when we found out we were having a baby. I fell deeper in love with Abby in a way that I have never felt for anyone before. It was pure happiness with just a sprinkling of fear about what’s to come. And it was absolutely magical.
However, 33 weeks later, yes, I still love my wife and still miss her whenever I’m away from her for too long (3 hours tend to be my limit), but now what once felt like Disney magic in scope has slightly veered into a bit more Stephen King’esque obsession. I’ve gone from simply being in love with my lady to now being slightly freaked out anytime she sneezes or coughs or hiccups. Where I once gazed into her eyes to glimpse into her soul, I’m now looking to make sure that her pupils are the right size and not bloodshot at all. I’ve transformed from a romantic who didn’t mind smiling at strangers to now an overprotective berserker who easily gets pissed off at hipsters on the subway when they don’t give up their seat for my wife. I’m a walking landmine that would immediately coldcock a stranger if they accidentally bumped into my bride. I’ve gone from happy-go-lucky to now the type of guy who would easily stab a muhfuckah if I felt like they were any kind of threat to Abby or our baby. In other words, during the last 33 weeks, I’ve somehow evolved from being a simple artsy fartsy artist into becoming, well, a lot like my dad. And that shit is scary.
“Okay, so now I’m starting to freak out”. This is my wife on the phone with me just yesterday morning
“What’s wrong, baby? Do you need me to hit somebody? Cause I’ll hit muthafuckah if you need me to hit muthafuckah. Fo’ reals.”
“No, 50 Cent” she responds sarcastically. “It’s my OB/GYN.”
“You want me to hit your OB/GYN?”
“No!”
“Then what is it?” my tone immediately shifts. Anytime Abby brings up her OB/GYN, I’m all ears. She’s the one afterall who keeps my baby healthy, the one who will be delivering our little guy into the world. Though I’m willing to crack a cut-down at almost any circumstance, when it comes to Abby’s Doc, my ears are glued harder than a conservative douchebag listening to Rush Limbaugh.
“She says there’s a small possibility, but a very real small possibility, that little Baby Badass could come early.”
“How early?” I carefully ask.
“Early enough that we may not be able to see our own show, "Fight Girl Battle World", in two weeks.”
And suddenly everything that I’m behind in accomplishing has just drifted even later into my calendar.
Before you get too worried about our sitch though, the truth is that our doctor really did mean it when she said it was a “slight possibility”. I won’t go into the details because it’ll just make folks queasy (And when I say “folks”, I mean “me”). Just know that it’s a very very small chance that little BB will be making his debut earlier than August 20th, but even hearing that there was a teeny probability has sent us both into a complete frenzy. Even my darling Abby who is usually always been rational about our upcoming parenthood had a bit of a meltdown.
“We’re not ready,” Abby states, as if I wasn’t thinking the exact same thing. “Our house isn’t ready, our overnight bag isn’t packed, we haven’t even finished all our childbirth classes. And what about all the stuff we haven’t bought yet? We don’t have sheets for the crib or a changing pad or clothes to change the baby in. We don’t have any swaddle sheets or burp cloths or anything! We don’t have anything!”
Which isn’t completely true. We did just have a very lovely baby shower about a week ago where a bunch of our friends went to town on our “Buy Buy Baby” registry. However, I'm not gonna lie, though we got alotta shit, we still didn't get all the shit we need. Who knew? Babies need diapers.
“We’re fucked, Qui! We’re totally fucked! We don’t have enough time! And now . . . Oh God, what about the show? How are we going to produce this show? What are we going to do?”
And this is when I step in to do my job, the job that has made life a tad bit more time consuming, but a whole lot more worthwhile, I drop everything I'm doing and I’m there to coax my lady back from the edge. I perform my job as her husband. By the time we’re finished talking, she’s idling back at neutral and we’ve figured a plan of attack in case little BB decides to make an early entrance.
I’m not gonna lie, the world right now feels like an angry turbulent river, yet instead of being in a kayak, Abby and I are now stuck trudging through its waters wearing shoes made out of congealed blubber. Adulthood is no longer like the faint smell of salt in the air before it rains. It’s now officially raining. And in this moment, Abby and I are just trying to find a way to keep our heads above water. We have a ton of responsibilities and they’re all responsibilities we don’t have the luxury at failing. I guess that’s what makes them adult responsibilities. I guess this is what being adult feels like.
Amongst all the impending parental fears though, my lady and I still have a show to do. And though it was once something we both could pull off easily with our eyes closed, it now feels a tad harder than usual. When all our free time is dedicated to doctor visits, childbirth classes, fixing the house, going to the store for missing baby supplies, and, for me, massaging and taking care of my wife anytime she’s uncomfortable (and at 33 weeks, everything is starting to be uncomfortable for her all the time), figuring out how to make theatre and still maintain a good life for our new family is our next great challenge. And it’s one we’re starting to realize we can’t do alone. It takes a village afterall . . .
So here’s my plea; if you like this blog or a fan of Vampire Cowboys or just a friend of mine or my wife’s, consider this your "Bat-signal". We’re gonna need your help in ensuring our little Baby Badass doesn’t grow up becoming, well, bad. We need you to share with little BB all your guidance, wisdom, and love. Life doing NYC theatre is often hard and hectic, and though we’ve made a pretty wonderful home for ourselves at The Battle Ranch, we know it’s only alongside you that will allow this life to be even remotely sustainable. Help. Help raise little Baby Badass in the years to come and help look after our other love child, Vampire Cowboys. Afterall, you were the ones who made VC rock for the last 7 years, not us. We just made some shows. You however made it a party. Let’s do the same for little BB. And please do come see “Fight Girl Battle World”, tell your friends, guilt your buddies, and buy your tickets early. If all goes as planned, Abby and I will be there to party with ya for one last time before tackling our first months of parenthood. If things come early, well, drink some beers for us. We like it when our friends have fun. Either way, we love ya and look forward to watching our child grow up amongst you in this village of New York Theatre.
For tickets & more info on "Fight Girl Battle World", CLICK HERE!
