I Had a Deadline. The Belly Button Had to Go.

A confession, 18 months in the making (Muse #79)

Call it cocky confidence.

It's how advertising people who fancy themselves a success approach deadlines. Their “bring it on!” attitude assumes they’ll rise to the occasion just in time, every time, even if it’s down to the very last seconds.

Think contestants on Chopped hearing “Chefs, you have 10 seconds,” before stepping back from their plates and presenting their creations to a panel of judges, all of whom know how to eat food.

That’s how it was when I started writing the piece, BeBu the Talking Belly Button, this past weekend — an ode to illustrated body-part books for children.

I intended to create an actual book that would let my new grandson know that grandpa might be off his rocker, but at least he knows a thing or two.

The trouble started in designing my character. Interpreting a talking belly button without potentially resembling other parts of the body is — well — wholly unnatural.

But I was determined to power through and emerge Tuesday morning victorious.

Then it started talking …

Hey boyz and girlz, I’m your belly button. Call me BeBu.

Lots of people talk out their ass. Me, I speak minty. Even if I sound funny because my hole is quite linty.

I’m where mommy fed you, before you could cry, poop or shout. It was like a 24/7 restaurant with just one chef, and no tips allowt.

Your food came in the dark, through your stomach like a straw — made of recyclable materials, of that I am sure.

But then, it was time for you to meet the world first-hand, and I was suddenly shut down without a coronation or band.

And get this! Now, I’m just a SCAR. But unlike others that are creepy or unsightly, I serve a purpose all day and all nightly.

Because there on your torso, midway from your crotch to your brain, the scar is a reminder that can’t be restrained:

No matter where you go, or if you find yourself astray, you’ll always be connected to your mother in every way.

Now, those who deny science will say something cuckoo. Like, if Adam and Eve didn’t need a bebu, why do you-you?

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Okay, this is where BeBu started to fail me. A joke around “umbiblical cords” didn’t land. Comparing innies and outies to political parties was heading to unintended places (a “rabid hole”).

Then there was the rant about how another misunderstood part of the body, the tongue, can be found in Boar’s Head’s Head Cheese. Why doesn’t the venerated brand have a “Body Cheese” product with pork navel and buttock? And why do they call a meat “cheese” in the first place?

It was at this point, on a late and lonely Sunday night, that I knew I had to pivot. The clock was ticking. BeBu was a bust. It had potential, but in advertising lingo, “lacked legs.” (Not real ones.)

So I went back to my trusty running list of about 200 potential topics and prompts.

Pondering The Great Mysteries of Life held great promise. For starters: How does a single chest hair manage to poke through the fabric of my shirt? Unless I use hair product on my chest, which I don’t, the follicle would have to align perfectly with the microscopic gap in the shirt, and not bend. A supernatural force at work?

And why do hospitals need advertising? Aren’t there enough sick people to go around? “People are dying to go there,” was my father’s favorite joke, ad infinitum. About cemeteries, too.

That, of course, segued into questions around the meaning of life, which produced a sigh of potential exhaustion loud enough to wake up my sleeping spouse.

Having gone to bed with my usual “there’s still plenty of time” reassurance, I woke on Monday morning and fear set in as I stared into the mirror, getting ready for work: Was I going to miss my first A Muse Letter deadline in 18 months?

Then came the rationalization: Eh, what’s one week? My faithful readers will cut me some slack. Heck, they might not even notice.

Despite that, my mind raced like the wheels on a slot machine, with triple sevens on every spin. It was my inner self channeling that cocky confidence. You’ll think of something. In 30+ years of client/service, you can count on one hand with fewer than five fingers the number of times you’ve missed a deadline.

Then it hit me. This week would be about deadlines. We all have them. Some of us love them, others hate them.

So I started over, and that’s how we got right here, right now. Right on time.

This was Parkinson’s Law in motion. It says that work expands to fill the exact amount of time you give it. In my case, I had a full day, so my brain treated it like a one-day problem.

And that’s the way a deadline goes. Sometimes you come out better. Sometimes you come out worse. Sometimes you end up exactly as you would have if you had all the time in the world.

Which brings me back to the talking belly button.

Had BeBu become a book, I planned to include a QR code so he could stay in touch—because some children now get phones before their first teeth. But, alas, BeBu took one for the team.

Give him time; he’ll be back. Maybe by 11:47 pm next Monday night.