I’m happier than a clam at high tide.
Vorny was like a Mother Hen during egg collection and Fertility Associates managed to curate 7 freezeable embryos during the days that followed. My 2 sperms became 7 embryos. Alright, alright, alright!
Well 8 if you count ‘Slow Pete’.
When the embryos reach what’s called the ‘blastocyst stage’ after 5 days, they are officially declared normal functioning beings and can be immediately frozen. 7 of my sperms managed to ‘get jiggly’ with 7 of Vorny’s eggs to create 7 embryos, but there was an 8th embryo who wasn’t doing so well (we call him 'Slow Pete'). He was pleasant and well meaning, but he thought conception was an 80’s boy band. The team at Fertility Associates decided to give him another day to get in shape or he was gonna be flushed away. It’s the equivalent of being held back a year in school, I guess. I don’t know what the hell they said to him, but by the 6th day he passed his final exams and miraculously made the cut. But where does that leave me?
I’m slightly concerned.
What if Slow Pete gets selected for final insertion and in 5 years time he takes forever to put on his clothes? Or he sings off key and thinks his arse is his elbow?What if I get a little son who doesn't get my jokes? He just looks at me strangely, before peeing on a sock. I want to have a laugh with him (or her, he could just as well be Slow Patricia) and play soccer in the yard, but I’m not gonna have the patience if he keeps licking the bloody ball!
No, no. Yes I will. I will have the patience, because I've just remembered how patient my father was with me. I was slower than a wet weekend when I was growing up. I moved to a slower beat, but it shaped who I've become.
I remember playing soccer when I was about 6 years old. I was 6 feet high with no co-ordination at all. I chased the ball like a giraffe on skates. Dumber than a bag of hammers they reckoned and the bane of my entire team. Luckily dad would yell encouraging things from the sidelines like, “Tackle him ya Drongo!” and “I should’ve worn a condom!”
When I was 8, dad would buy me these amazing airplane models. It was very exciting for him. He would make me a cup of Milo, sit me in the lounge and then make the planes himself in the adjacent living room. He wanted to make them with me, he just knew that I would break them. I was so accident prone, I was always breaking things.
I even broke his rules.
When I finally got my driver’s licence at 16 (it took dad months to teach me the accelerator was on the right), I desperately wanted to take his car to a friend’s party. He said I wasn’t allowed, but in my muddled mind, ‘no’ meant ‘yes’. They sounded similar to me. While mum and dad were watching an episode of ‘Dynasty’, I crept into the garage and slithered into his car. I didn’t start the ignition because I couldn’t make a sound. So I lifted the handbrake off and started reversing down the driveway. I held the driver’s door wide open, because shutting it would make a noise. Unfortunately, the door struck a hedge and I took it clean off. The argument that followed wasn’t so much that I unlawfully took the car. It was more like, “You left the bloody door open? You're 2 bricks short of a load!"
My leisurely mind has also affected my work rate over the years. I used to be a waiter, but I was prone to dropping things. It got to the point where regulars would come in and ask that I not be their waiter, "We don't want Lanky. He stained Deidre's skirt!" That's a fair call mate and my apologies to your wife. I also worked in a gas station one very rainy day. As I was about to fill up someone's car, I failed to realise the nozzle was on lock and a sea of unleaded petrol went rocketing into the sky. "That's a really heavy shower", I thought as the petrol doused my clothes. When I finally looked up and saw the purple rain, I screamed really slowly and dropped to the ground. My boss just stood there gobsmacked. The look on his face was priceless (slightly more than the enormous amount of fuel I'd just cost him).
But that's all good, eh? You can't win 'em all.
I think I’ve developed to a point now where I’ve embraced being slow. It suits me to a tea and I’ll take it with milk and sugar.
If Slow Pete (Patricia) has a slow start in life, I shall champion him from birth. I’ll get out my little pom poms and cheer like there's no tomorrow. I'll ‘compliment’ him on sports days, I’ll build his model airplanes and if he wants to be a slow accountant, slow be it.
He’ll find his way.