Image: danmeth‘s photostream via Creative Commons
“Oh my Gosh,” said Caroline early this morning, her back to me as she stood at the kitchen counter consulting her laptop. “Karen’s totally right.”
“Who’s Karen?” I asked as I wiped the sleep from my eyes.
“The incredibly insightful woman who commented on your wives’ tale post yesterday. The one who said that walking helped bring about labor with her children, both of whom were late.”
“Ah,” I said, immediately knowing who she was talking about. “The woman who walked for hours on end at the Atlanta Olympics.”
“That’s right, honey. So what are you waiting for?” Caroline asked as she turned around and looked me square in the eye with uncommon determination. “Go get your shoes.”
It had been quite a while since we loaded up the tiny trio in their fancy stroller, and the first slight incline reminded me that at nearly four years old, they’re not so tiny anymore. Luckily my wife was on fire, talking a mile a minute, thus easily taking my mind off of the joyous load I pushed before me.
“You know, I walked yesterday,” she began, “and I could totally tell it was doing something. Lotta activity down there.”
“Lotta activity?” I repeated.
“Yeah. You know. Pressure,” she said with a knowing nod. “But when I stopped walking, the pressure stopped. It’s like if I had kept going maybe something would have happened. That’s why I think Karen’s right. And that’s why we’re walking today.”
“Yeah, but what about all the spicy food you ate last night? I thought that was supposed to work.”
“Fraid not. All it did was give me heartburn.”
“That’s weird.”
“Why is that weird?”
“Because that’s what all these bird-brained, labor-inducing tactics are doing to me, too. Giving me heartburn.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she said. “Hey, by the way, who’s Go Dot?”
“Go Dot?”
“Yeah. Go Dot. In the post that Karen commented on, you wrote that this pregnancy is starting to feel as if we’re waiting for Go Dot.”
“Godot, honey. I wrote that this pregnancy was starting to feel as if we’re Waiting for Godot.” I clarified, using the correct French pronunciation to boot. “Haven’t you heard of Waiting for Godot?”
“No. What’s Waiting for Godot?”
“It’s an absurdist play written by Samuel Beckett.”
“You’re an absurdist play written by Samuel Beckett.”
“No. I’m not. Waiting for Godot is.”
“Well what’s it about?”
“These two guys who are waiting for some man named Godot, a person they both claim to know, though eventually, they both admit that neither would recognize him if they saw him.”
“So what happens?”
“They basically spend the entire play bullshitting aimlessly with one another, seldom agreeing on anything, including whether or not they’re even waiting in the right place, or, for that matter, what day it is.”
“They sound like idiots.”
“No, honey,” I said, turning to my beautiful wife. “They sound like us.”
“So what’s this Godot fellow’s deal?”
“I dunno. No one does. He never shows up.”
“Sounds like a pretty lame play.”
“No, Caroline. It sounds like your pregnancy. Grande Finale’s Godot and we are the two characters who bullshit aimlessly while we wait for him.”
“Hmm. Godot. Gotta nice ring to it. Maybe that’s what we should name him.”
Just then we came upon a man in his driveway who was cleaning out his car. He had two dogs, a bandana-wearing German Shepherd that sat alongside a scruffy little mutt. They were both looking up at something and it took me a little while to realize what it was — the man’s third pet.
“Look, guys. Look at that green parrot sitting on that rail right above those two dogs.”
“Where?” asked Jack with excitement.
“Right there,” I said pointing as I turned the stroller toward the driveway to give the trio a better view. Just then the German Shepherd got up and started trotting our way.
“Honey,” Caroline said under her breath as she dug her nails into my arm. “What are you doing? Let’s go.”
“What?” I said, as I wheeled the stroller away. “I was just trying to show them the parrot.”
“But that dog was huge. He scared me.”
“Oh relax,” I said. “He’s harmless.”
“How do you know?”
“The way he was lying right next to that little dog.” The look on Caroline’s face told me she wasn’t convinced. ”Plus, he was wearing a bandana.”
“So you’re saying that you think the dog was harmless because he was wearing a bandana?”
“Yes. I’m saying that I think the dog was harmless because he was wearing a bandana.”
“Rambo wore a bandana, you know,” said Caroline.
“Exactly. And Rambo was a good guy.”
“Yet a guy who was also pretty vicious. Do you know how many people he killed?”
“That settles it.”
“What?”
“We’re waiting for Go Dot, honey.”
“Godot,” she corrected. “It’s pronounced Godot.”
Thus the absurd play continues. Maybe today’s the day.
About john cave osborne
