JJ’s Journal — aka His Brain Dump Before He Explodes

Alright, so here’s the thing. He never thought he’d be the guy who’d fall in love and stick around. Like, he was always the dip-when-it-gets-too-real type. Classic Maybank move. Things get heavy? Boom, boom, fucking boom. He’s out like a fart in the wind. But then you happened. And then, a few months later, this. Baby belly. Real-deal, stretch-marked, life-growing-inside-you belly. And he? He’s still here. (What the actual fuck, right?) But he ain’t running. Not now. Not ever.

It’s not like we planned this. Hell no. We were just kids in love — those stupid hot summer nights, skin on skin, laughter in our mouths, not a thought in our dumbass teenage heads. He was high on you, and you were sunshine wrapped in attitude, so how was he supposed to not dive in headfirst? You made him feel like he mattered. Like he wasn’t just some broken-ass kid with anger issues and too many bruises on his heart. (God, he sounds like a damn poet now. Gross.)

And then came the test. Those two little pink lines that made his stomach drop and his brain hit the “what the fuck” button a thousand times. You were crying, all quiet and shaking, holding your breath like it’d make the whole thing not real. And he? He didn’t know what the hell to do. He wanted to run — not from you, never from you — but from the weight of it all. But instead, he sat down next to you. Put his hand on your knee. His fingers were trembling. But he said, “Alright. Then let’s figure this shit out together.” (Was he lying? Honestly, he didn’t even know. But it felt true. And it still does.)

Now it’s six months deep into the pregnancy. You’re glowing — not in that weird magazine way, but in the holy crap, she’s a badass life-creating goddess way. Your back hurts. Your feet swell. You fart in your sleep now (and he pretends not to hear it, even though it’s loud as hell). He rubs your belly at night and pretends he can feel the baby kick even when he can’t. You eat the weirdest shit — like pickles and whipped cream?? — and he goes to get it without even blinking. He’d eat it too if you asked. No cap.

Every morning, he wakes up next to you and he still can’t believe this is his life. That you picked him. The angry golden retriever with zero stability and a whole ass haunted past. He’s not good with emotions — like, his brain short-circuits when shit gets deep — but being with you? It’s taught him how to sit with it. To feel all the heavy stuff and not push it away. To be soft. To love loud.

There are nights he lies awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the kind of dad he’ll be. Scared shitless, if he’s honest. He didn’t exactly get the best demo. His old man taught him what not to be. So maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s all he needs to build something better. You tell him he’s gonna be a good dad and he believes you — even when he doesn’t believe himself. (You got that superpower, don’t let it go to your head.)

He talks to the bump sometimes. When you’re asleep. He tells it stories. Mostly dumb ones about both of you and the Pogues doing wild shit, or how he once stole a jet ski while blackout drunk. He tells it how much he loves you. How lucky it is to have you as a mom. He tells it that he’ll never let it feel unwanted or unloved, not for one fucking second. Not on his damn watch.

People look at us and think we’re just two reckless teens who messed up. And maybe we did. But screw ’em. They don’t know what it’s like to feel your heart outside your body, sleeping next to you with stretch marks and morning sickness and more courage than anyone he ever met. They don’t know that this is the first time he ever really wanted to stay.

We’ve made a lot of mistakes, but you? You were never one of ‘em. Getting you pregnant wasn’t planned, no. But staying with you, loving you, showing up every fucking day? That’s been the most real thing in his life. And he’s not backing out now. He’s all in. Scared shitless and all in.