I Better Drink More Water

I find myself crying a lot lately, and the arrival of the changing table was just such an occasion. I was certain it wasn’t going to get here in time, but alas, the in-laws made the 2-hour trek to our house this last weekend to bring it and help with some projects (Thank you mother nature for making it snow and knocking down a tree in our front yard. That really was what we needed right now!). I was sooooo excited to finally have it, and when my husband and his dad carried the box in, rushed to see it. As the box didn’t have a color picture on it, someone asked, “It’s white, right?” To this, my father-in-law replied, “No, it’s some sort of wood color.” I know my face showed my disappointment, but my husband gave me that “don’t you dare say anything” look and said, “It doesn’t really matter, does it?” I know he was thinking, “Look, they just spent all this time looking for one of these, purchasing it, and driving it here. And, we just carried this heavy box in the house. And, there is a freaking tree laying in our front yard. And, we need to install an electrical outlet in the fireplace (a whole other story).” And, after all, I’m the one who always lectures him about acting ungrateful when people get him gifts he doesn’t really like. So, I dug down deep to summon all the grace I could and squeaked out an, “It’s really nice”. I really just wanted to cry. Of course it mattered! I felt so unknown. They’d seen the crib—white. I’d sent two pages of pictures of tables I liked—all white. I’d told them—white. White, white, white!!! But there it was. Sitting in a box in my living room—some sort of wood color. I hid in the bathroom until I cried it out and had time to recover. Later, the mom-in-law and I went looking for baskets for it. She asked if I wanted to return it and look for a white one, but by this point I felt so defeated about the whole thing that I just suggested we look at baskets and see if we find anything we like. Fortunately, the baby super store had some adorable baskets on sale (white, white, white) that we tried on one of the cherry colored tables, and they looked pretty cute. This made me start thinking that if I’d made every attempt to make my desires known, and they’d looked extensively for the “perfect” table and chosen the one they did, that the wood one was the one I was suppose to have. I acquiesced to keeping, and liking, the wood one (as long as it had white baskets). After all, “cottage” style is eclectic, right? Well, as we lay in bed that night, my husband had the audacity to ask, “My mom wants to know if you really like it, or if you want a white one?” I wanted to say, “I wanted a white one for the last 6 months, and I just spent all day convincing myself to like this one. After getting the eye lecture and making it perfectly clear you didn’t want to exchange it, how could you even ask me that??!!!!!” So, I gave the only answer that wouldn’t end up in a fight, and said, “It really doesn’t matter.” This, of course, led me to tear up again. Fortunately his super power is the ability to fall asleep in 10 sec. flat, so I didn’t have to explain myself. Well, everything always looks better in the morning, and I really did convince myself that I could like the “wood of some sort”. And, that evening my husband very excitedly put the table together (note: putting things together makes men feel important). My father in law commented that he picked that one because it had wheels. It did indeed look quite nice all put together. I stood up to give it a little pretend try….and….it was far too tall for my short self to reach comfortably over the side…you guessed it…escape to cry again. So, we took the wheels off (removing the pieces for which the table was chosen), which lowered it to only mildly uncomfortable. Anyhow, yesterday I go to fill the baskets, confident with how nice it fits in the room, and notice that there is already a scratch on the wood from one of the baskets being pulled out. So, now my wood colored, mildly uncomfortable, changing table is scratched!!! Cry, cry, cry, and cry. This baby had better be born soon, or I’m going to be quite dehydrated…

There Was an Old Lady Who Swallowed a …

Friday was a bitter-sweet day—a day I’ve looked forward to for about 9 months now, if not the last few years. The previous two weeks, especially, have been filled with anxious anticipation building up to Friday at 1:30, but when the time finally got here, I found myself inconsolable. It was…my last day of work!

It’s not that I want to keep working. In fact, I’m pretty sure I hate my job. I’ve spent many a morning wishing I could find a legitimate reason to call in sick, and spending the rest of the day wishing I’d gone through with it. I’m actually not entirely sure why I couldn’t stop crying. Perhaps it’s because I’ve worked there for over 5 years now, I may not be going back, and I actually really like the people I work with. They’re my daytime family. They’re my work moms (all the ladies in their 50s named Cathy or Mary), my lunchtime TV gossip friends, and my officemates with whom I’ve shared years of life events.

Perhaps I’ll miss the kids I’ve worked with and how they never fail to make me laugh. The other day a first-grader who has autism, and whom I’ve worked with almost all year, seamed to notice my distorted belly for the first time, exclaiming, “What’s wrong with your belly?” I smiled understandingly and replied, “That’s where my baby is.” Terrified, and in all seriousness, he questioned, “Did you swallow it?” Now, usually I try to hold in my laughter and make a matter-of-fact type response to such questions, but it was a no-go this time. I now not only cry without knowing why, but I apparently also laugh uncontrollably at small children with cognitive disabilities. I was, fortunately, able to withstand replying, “Yes, and if you’re not careful, you’re next!”

Perhaps it was the possibility (however slight) that I could be walking away from a career away from home all together; that it wasn’t just the end of one job, but that there may not be another one in my future. Most of what I thought I wanted my life to be like 15 years ago is completely foreign to me now, and the idea of being a career minded, independent person, could be saying a final farewell.

Maybe I was just exhausted from working 12 hour days during conference week, or perhaps it was irrepressible happiness. Possibly, it was indigestion from devouring my child. Whatever the reason, I was certainly over it by the time I got home, and I’m really excited for what the future holds.

Some Dad I'm Going to Be...

Here's the issue. Well, let me back up. I don't know how many people are reading this. But, for the few who may be, I'm certain you're bored checking in every week and finding that one of the authors is nowhere to be found.

My wife explains it away: "You're just taking a sabbattical," she says. "Oh yeah," I say. "Because I'm like a professional blogger whose opinions people actually care about." "Thanks, Babe," I say, "You're the best."

Yeah, way to go, honey, for encouraging mediocrity. Let's face it; I'm lazy. I don't dispute it. If I had my way, I'd find a way to make my cell phone cook me maccaroni and cheese; my phone could also double as a remote control. After all, I'm too lazy to reach over to the coffee table and grab the actual remote. But, I'm sure none of this surprises any of you. After all, you're well aware of my unreliability in making a lame blog post even once a week.

But here's the point. You see, there comes a time in a man's life--yes, even a short man--when he either needs to make use of the john or get off. What I don't want is my blogging experience to be a reflection, so to speak, of my parenting skills.

After all, if I'm unable to get my butt (which, by the way, is not all that wide yet) off the couch and spin a yarn or two about my pregnant wife (whose "butt", by the way is not all that wide either--she seems to carry the baby in a big basketball looking thing right above her waste--but I digress), how can I expect myself to wake up in the middle of the night and feed a crying baby?

Don't you worry, though. I've devised a way.... My cell phone will cook for me and the baby.

Baby Beluga

A few things that are certain during pregnancy are that 1) you will have a baby at the end of it, 2) it’s different for everyone, and 3) you will gain weight. Now, gaining weight is a natural and healthy thing that is suppose to happen during pregnancy. Considering the baby weighs a couple of pounds, the fluids weigh a couple of pounds, you chest get’s larger, and you have twice the amount of blood in your body, there’s really no way to avoid gaining a certain amount. Now, it’s not the numbers that bother me. I’ve never been one to watch my weight or give a damn about what I eat, because I feel like I eat a relatively balanced diet anyhow, and although I’m no Kate Moss (at 5’3” there’s really no hope of super-model status), compared to average people, I’m relatively thin (thanks mom for good genetics). In fact, when I was a child, my mom made up this rule that when everybody else was gone from the table, and all the other dishes were cleared, I had to stop eating and give her my dishes to be washed! Today, my co-workers are always amazed at my hearty lunches of leftovers as they nibble their salads and Lean Cuisines. And truly, I’ve gained the textbook amount of pregnancy weight so far (Before anyone starts feeling jealous or vengeful, I’ve got some other pregnancy symptoms that are too embarrassing to write about, that truly make up for it!)

So, no, it’s not the numbers on the scale that bother me…It’s this odd shape my body has morphed into. Seriously, a co-worker commented that it looks like I’m hiding a basket-ball under my shirt! Which I guess is an upgrade from the volleyball she said I was hiding a few weeks ago (I wonder if she ever taught PE). Yup, a good 90% of the weight I’ve gained is all up front, between my neck and my thighs. From the back, one would hardly know I’m pregnant, but when I go to make a turn, watch out!!! This odd proportioning of my weight gain, has caused me to “grow” out of all of the maternity clothing I bought early on. Who knew a person’s belly could get sooooooo big that even maternity clothing doesn’t fit! I followed all of the guides that said to buy your regular size, because maternity clothing is suppose to allow for ones growing chest and belly. But, now I’ve not only packed away my regular clothing, but also an entire wardrobe of “maternity” clothing! What a racket! So, up a size I went, and at this pace, it will likely go up again.

If you’ve ever seen a beluga whale, you know that they have this funny looking, huge lump of fat on their heads called a “melon”. Well, my belly looks just like a beluga melon. Which is why when I go to the gym to swim—which is the only exercise I can do now, because anything upright makes me have to pee, and we pay for a gym membership, so I feel I have to use it—I can’t get the Baby Beluga song out of my head! I’ve been looking for a better maternity swim suit, which could be a blog unto itself, and thinking how appropriate it would be to get a white one and start making whale noises while in the pool. Since they probably don’t make maternity sized straight jackets, I won’t do that. But, for those of you who don’t have small children and who don’t work in a preschool, here is an excerpt from my new theme song by Raffi, “Baby Beluga”.

Baby Beluga in the deep blue sea, Swim so wild and you swim so free. Heaven above and the sea below, And a little white whale on the go. You're just a little white whale on the go.

Baby beluga, baby Beluga, is the water warm? Is your mama home with you, so happy.
-By Raffi and Debi Pike

Could I Just Get Some Damn Cookies!

Thanks to the holidays, traveling, and then returning to work I haven’t kept up with my blogging very well. But, when my husband commented that our blog was now “lame”, I found myself wanting to retort, “No, you’re lame!” Being that I feel so defensive over something I didn’t even start, I thought I should probably make another entry and promise to be more consistent in the future.

So, two people walk into a baby superstore…It sounds like the beginning of a joke, only by the end the people are either arguing, crying, passed out from exhaustion, or all of the above.

At first, I thought we wouldn’t register for gifts. After all, I have only a slight clue about what we’ll really need once peanut arrives, and I figured that other, more experienced folk, would buy us what they found to be essential (that is, if they give us a gift at all, which certainly isn’t necessary). However, after being asked for the bazillionth time where we are registered, I realized that people who want to be creative will be no matter what, but most just want to be told what you want. So, off we went to Baby’s-R-Us.

After waiting at the registry counter for over 25 min. while grandma-employee explained every detail of every page of the registry manual (yes, this procedure is so complicated, it requires a manual) to the couple in front of us, a chipper young woman came out of the blue to help us. She proceeded to sit down, and within 5 minutes had gone through the whole manual, handed us a gun, and sent us on our way. I still have no idea what the heck she said, but I’m pretty sure she had consumed a triple shot of something before “helping” us. The wall-o-bottles came first. Oh, what brand? What style? What size? What the hell are we doing? This was when my husband decided to take charge and began randomly scanning anything in front of him…but wait…how do we delete stuff again? We worked our way through the Costcoesque isles trying to ask ourselves, “Do we really need that?” At one point another shopper peered over our shoulders to say, “You don’t really need that. A towel works just as well.” YES! We already have towels…score! An hour into the labyrinth, just as I was feeling faint, and my husband was mumbling to himself, we reached the oasis of rocking chairs. Now, rocking chairs in the middle of the back of the store are a great idea, but seriously, where are the snacks and juice?! Everyone knows pregnant women need cookies and juice!!! Starbucks is missing out on a serious opportunity here! Another, haggard looking shopper explained to us that her first time there, she spent 4 hours trying to register and that she had come back to finish. Well, upward and onward, we must press forward and finish. But why, oh why, is the bathroom at the opposite corner of the store. Don’t they know pregnant women shop there? We need bathrooms in every corner! And where are my damn cookies!!! We reached the finish line, feeling as if we had just scanned every item in the store, hungry and tired, only to have the help-desk guy tell us that our registry was only about half the average size. Well Mr. Help Desk Guy, maybe if I’d gotten some cookies and juice, I’d have had the strength to lift the scan gun a few more times!

I Am a Mammal...

The jury is back, and just in case any of you were wondering, I am indeed…a mammal…This little insight was imparted to me by one of the middle school students I work with (did I mention I work with special education students?). It really was endearing, as she is the first of my students to realize I’m pregnant and not just strangely bloated. She first asked if I was going to have a baby, and when I replied that I was she matter of factly told me, “that means you’re a mammal!” This can only mean that the class of those of you who are childless remains in question. Just to make sure, she then asked her teacher if I was indeed a mammal. Neither her teacher, nor I, dared further the conversation by explaining what actually differentiates a mammal from other classes of animal. Body functions, on any level, are a topic to be avoided at all cost when dealing with middle school students.

I, however, now find body functions quite fascinating and have spent the better part of the day researching ways to contain my future baby’s primary bodily function—yes, I’m talking about poop. The tree hugger in me (which quite frankly is more of a tree patter or tree admirer most of the time) was curious about cloth diapers. I was quickly barraged by a slew of web pages and diaper styles. Who knew that while scientists were trying to cure cancer and other fatal illnesses, diaper technology was progressing by leaps and bounds? Apparently, there are cloth diapers now that look and function just like disposables. The only difference is about $17 per diaper and the fact you have to wash the cloth ones. Word on the web is that although the cost of these gold lined bottom wrappers is rather extreme up front, thousands are saved in the long run. If we end up with more than one child, the savings more than double! Now, I may not be embracing evergreens as I hike through the forest, but I do have a bit of an obsession with bargains. No bargain, however, would be worth dealing with unnecessary leakage, seepage, or any other “age”.

But, these things apparently work as well, if not better than disposables (this information is from actual moms, not just the diaper manufactures). So, why not use these things? I have no idea! The only thing I can think of is the thought of my mom rinsing out the old towel looking diapers in the toilet. I would have to put my foot down at actually hand washing poo away multiple times a day. I say change the diaper and get out of there—do not linger around the poo any longer than necessary. Or maybe it’s the idea of hauling around dirty diapers in your bag when you go out. But, low and behold these issues have been worked out, too. So again, why can one only buy these things online, and why are they not more mainstream? It must be “big diapers” (a close partner of big oil). Maybe that’s what truly separates us from other mammals—the thought, care, and research we put into poo.

She Can be Anything She Wants...

Here's the thing. I, actually, write in two blogs every week. The other one is, mostly, about politics. When my wife and I started writing in this one, I didn't want it to be very political.

That being said, there is something about me that, I'm convinced, is genetically led to be interested in politics. So, it's probably reasonable for the political stuff to spill over into this website on occasion. And this may be one of those occasions. Those of you that know me know that I tend to lean on the "Conservative" side. Likely, this comes from my Christian faith.

Naturally, certain aspects of my faith don't jive well with the culture at large. And, one example of that is the idea of women being put into roles. But, here's the problem. I don't know what I'm talking about anymore.

You see, when my wife wasn't expecting a child, it was easy for me to make assumptions about what I felt to be a "woman's place." And certainly I don't want to go into that. But, the day I found out I'm going to have a little girl, my outlook my have changed.

Quite frankly, I don't get it. I'm a dude. My wife is a chick. My baby is a chick. And yet, I'm going to be expected to help raise her. What does that mean? For some background, I should tell you that I didn't want to find out what the baby does. My wife, being the very practical person she is, wanted to know what colors we'd have to paint the room and what color bedding to by?

Am I taking crazy pills? Can a little boy not wear pink? I've seen all kinds of dudes walking around in pink, and some of them look dang good; I'm pretty sure I do. Anecdotally, some of my underwear were pink all through college; ladies take it for granted that you don't put red stuff in with your white stuff... lots of guys don't know that! Anyhow, if dudes can wear pink, girls can wear blue and so on. What I'm saying is, wear what you want and do what you want and quit making a big deal about it.

But, this all makes me wonder. What if she says she wants to be president? To have to tell my daughter that she can't do something just because of her sex would be terrible. Yet, I do still believe that there are ideal ways to raise kids, and the best includes a mom staying home. So, my wife and I are trying our best to allow her to do just that. What I wonder is what she's going to tell her daughter when she asks.

In the end, now I know why my father's answer to every question was "I don't know; ask your mother." I've got to start practicing that one.