“Did you know elephants are pregnant for ninety-five weeks? Almost two years? And orcas carry their babies for seventeen months?” I read these fun facts off my phone as she gets dressed in her stretchy, black maternity leggings and a flowy white T-shirt top.

“Are you comparing me to a whale again?” Hailey’s voice holds a warning I’m on thin ice.

I can’t help it if she’s wearing black and white. Like an orca. Thankfully, I’ve had enough coffee this morning to keep the coincidence to myself.

“No, I’m trying to make you feel better. You have six weeks to go. If you were a giraffe, you’d be preggo for four hundred days. Doesn’t that make forty-two days seem short?”

Perfectly still like a statue, she stares at me blankly. Not even her mouth twitches. I can’t tell if she’s processing these cool, fun facts. Or plotting my death.

She’s excellent at multi-tasking, so she’s probably doing both.

“It’s cold and raining out there. You’ll probably want a sweater or something.” I change the subject to the weather. “It’s November and daylight savings ended last weekend, meaning it’ll be dark by the time we get home from my parents’ house this afternoon.”

Today’s the baby shower. The co-ed baby shower. Which I feel like is fundamentally wrong on many levels, but I’ve been promised lots of cake so I’m going to make the best of it. I mean, I was there for the conception and I’m going to be there for the birth and the growing up part. Yet I feel like this should be a day all about Hailey and the amazing job she’s doing gestating a human inside of her body. That’s all her. Can’t think of a bigger reason to have a celebration than that. Plus, I’ll be in the way and stealing attention.

Now, before someone labels me a sexist bastard for not wanting to ooh and ahh over baby gifts people bought us because we told them to, I don’t like opening presents in front of everyone at Christmas either. Too many years of having to fake excitement over socks to change my opinion on this weird tradition.

I’ve been to plenty of these co-ed events to base my opinion on experience, not some lame he-man masculine separation of parental duties bullshit.

Then again, Hailey and I ran into each other at Lori and Nick’s shower. In a big way, I owe my life to whoever decided men should attend baby parties. And my mother for blackmailing me with stuffing and bribing me with leftovers.

Clearly, I’m easily motivated by food.

PTSD or not, I’m here for everything this baby can bring. Good, bad, ugly, and smelly.

My mother is once again hosting the party. The Donnely farmhouse is bigger than our place, and Mom lives for these kind of events. She says the grandkids keep her young despite the streaks of gray in her brown hair.

We arrive early, but my sisters are already here, buzzing around like a busy swarm of bees, decorating and preparing food for the party.

“Dad in the family room?” I ask, sticking to the perimeter of the kitchen so I don’t get in the way.

“I think he’s out in the barn.” Mom gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. Her familiar floral and vanilla scent tickles my nose. “You can go hide with him.”

Relieved, I practically jog across the driveway.

Dad’s got the radio on and is listening to the UW football pregame show while he rearranges a tool box on his workbench. Glancing around at the perfectly organized lawn equipment, I can tell he’s been out here for a while already. I take after my dad in looks and some would say, personality. We both get our dimples and our charms from the Donnely side of the family.

“Tom, come to hide with your old man?” Grinning, he pats my shoulder.

“Why do men hide in garages and barns?” I gently slap his back in greeting.

“Because we’re smart enough to know our limitations.”

I nod in understanding.

“We’d only be in the way in the house right now,” he continues. “Best to wait until the frenzy is finished and we can enjoy the spoils of all that cooking and baking.”

“Do you ever feel guilty for not helping?” I lean against the bench, absently fiddling with a set of tin snips.

“Never. I do my part in other ways.” He lines up his screwdrivers by type and size. “I try not to give too much advice, but now that Pops is gone, I guess I’m the old guy with the life wisdom to share.”

Shifting my focus to my father’s face, I study it closely. He’s not old, but his hair has more white and gray than blond and it’s getting thin on top. Lines and creases deepen the skin around his eyes and mouth. A few long hairs poke out from his eyebrows. I have no idea the last time I really examined his face, instead taking for granted he’s always the same. Somewhere over the past couple of years, he’s aged.

“You’re starting to look more like Pops,” I tell him.

“You think? Your mom keeps telling me to trim my eyebrow hairs and threatens to buzz my ears with clippers while I sleep if I don’t keep the fuzz in check.” He points to his earlobe. “I say it’s just more of me to love.”

He’s sounding more like his dad, too. I wonder at what point I’ll begin to mimic Ken Donnely. Maybe I already do.

“There are worse things to be compared to than Clifford Donnely,” I reassure him.

“Truth in that.” His smile is wistful and a little sad. “I miss him.”

“Me too.” I clear the thick emotion from my throat. “So what advice would you give me?”

“Are you asking because you’re curious or are you being polite?” Dad sets down his tools.

“You said you’re the old guy with wisdom to share.”

He scratches his cheek and focuses on the ceiling. “Well, I suppose it’s a little late for the sex talk.”

We both snort.

“Right.” He laughs. “I will say every kid is different. You’ll never feel like you know what you’re doing. Most parenting is winging it and trying to survive the day. At least with newborns. Then when you finally figure things out, you’ve got toddlers hell bent on testing every last one of your nerves. They’ll seem easy when you get to teenager year and the rules change again. Buckle up and try to enjoy the ride.”

“Winging it and wear a seatbelt? That’s the wisdom? Reminds me of when you taught me how to drive.”

“Pretty much.” He nods with a smile. “Your mom can probably tell you about schedules and avoiding sugar and tiring them out, but the truth is, you have to learn on the job.”

“Kind of like welding.”

“Hopefully avoiding open flames and melting things. At least during the first years.” He opens the door to his mini fridge under the workbench. “Want a beer?”

I accept the bottle of Alaskan Amber he hands me. After twisting off the cap, I clink the glass against his.

“Oh, and find a good hiding place. Garage, workshop. Preferably someplace just out of shouting range.”

“I’m guessing you’ve reorganized your tools more times than needed over the years.”

He sweeps the screwdrivers into a pile and dumps them back into the bottom of his toolbox. With a wink, he says, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Eventually, Nick shows up. With his short brown hair and clean cut appearance, he’s a good-looking guy. In his button down and khakis, he’s definitely working on perfecting his dad look. I wonder if Lori buys his clothes and styling products for his hair. Dad hands him a beer.

“I was told I had ten minutes to bring you both inside so we can start the games,” he apologizes as he sips his beer. “I set the timer on my phone so we have eight minutes before the second unit will arrive.”

“Who’s the second unit?”

“My mother,” Dad says, his voice serious.

I laugh at the thought of him cowering from Gramma Ellie. “I guess you never grow out of being afraid of pissing off your mom.”

He lifts his beer. “See? My wisdom is already rubbing off on you.”

After finishing my bottle, I chuck it into the recycling bin. “What sort of games are we talking about?”

“If I remember from our shower, there’s the classic Guess the Contents of a Diaper. Probably a round of guessing the circumference of the baby bump. And my personal favorite, betting on gender, weight, and birthday. My advice, if you’re asking for it, is always guess chocolate and underestimate how big your wife’s waist has gotten.” Nick’s advice is basic, but smart.

I tell him thanks and jerk my head toward the door. “Ready?”

“Oh, and another thing. Practice your happy smile. Ooh and ahh when she opens the gifts, but don’t overdo it. And don’t ask what something is for or make jokes,” Nick continues with his advice, his brow lined with worry.

“My happy smile?” I ask both men.

“Show us,” Nick says.

I smile at them, showing lots of teeth.

“Not that. Maybe try nodding while you do it. Focus on how thrilled you are to be at the shower,” Nick advises.

“I’m not.” I lift my eyebrows and keep smiling.

“We can tell,” Dad says.

“Shows that much?” I ask, feeling guilty I’m not more excited about today.

The two of them exchange a look.

“That bad?” I change my smile and widen my eyes.

Dad inhales through his teeth. “That’s worse. Think about how much you love Hailey and how much you’re going to love your kid. Keep your eyes on the long game. This is a marathon.”

Nick’s phone buzzes and he glances at the screen. “We’ve been summoned.”

“Can’t wait!” I pump my fist.

“This should be interesting,” Dad mutters, giving his tools a longing look.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” I shake out my arms and roll my shoulders. “You’re both forgetting women love me. It’s my pheromones and charming personality. I’ve got this.”

* * *

Questions I think but am smart enough not to ask during the Opening of the Gifts:

Why ducks? They don’t exactly have a reputation for being friendly.

What’s up with all the hippo books? Those beasts are vicious assholes.

At what point did nipple cream become a topic for mixed company?

When did I start using phrases like “mixed company” and sounding like Gramma Ellie?

Who came up with this bizarre ritual in the first place?

Would it be rude to ask my mom to get me a slice of cake?

How many clothes does a baby need?

And why are we the proud owners of so many blankets?

So many blankets. And quilts and swaddling cloths and loops of cloth we can use to strap the baby to our bodies.

Good news. I know what a Boppy is now.

That mystery’s been solved.

The thing’s super comfortable. I sit through the remainder of the present unwrapping with the Boppy curled around my middle.

Hailey sags after opening the last of the gifts. A silver rattle—talk about a random gift and potential weapon. Her lids droop with exhaustion.

Gently touching her arm, I ask, “Tired?”

“I could nap. Who knew generosity could be so draining?” She widens her eyes to appear more awake, but then yawns, ruining the illusion.

I glance at the huge pile of gifts. “It’s overwhelming. Why do we need so much stuff for a human who won’t do more than eat, shit, and sleep for months? I doubt kids in the middle of the Gobi Desert have a Boppy.”

She gives me a sleepy smile. “Do we need to buy another one for you?”

I pat the soft green fabric. “Maybe.”