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.

To Spank or Not to Spank…

When I think about having a baby girl, what comes to mind is ruffled dresses, pony tails, flowers, and someday her first kitten, dance recitals, and dollies, and eventually getting pedicures and shopping together. My husband, on the other hand, is gripped with fear about a hormonal, out of control, teenage she-monster. Now, I know there are some pleasant, well-adjusted teenage girls out there. I think I may have had a few of them as friends in high school. The question is, how do we get our little princess, who is barely approaching 1 lb. in utero, to become a respectful, intelligent, young lady.

Last night, some friends were here with their 5, 3, and 1-year-old children. I heard the 3-year-old actually use the phrase, “Mother, may I have some juice please?” (Who says “mother” anymore?) While we adults were playing a game, the 5-year-old just sat in a comfortable chair reading books. And, the baby just slept like a peaceful little angel. Wow! I want one like that! I can’t imagine these children will be anything other than friendly, helpful teenagers. This couple really needs to be teaching parenting classes or something, because most of the kids I work with would sooner kick you in the shins than sit for 45 min. reading books to themselves.

There is a faction that is trying to get a law passed against spanking. Do these people actually have kids? And, if they do, are they brats? As a former spankee, I don’t believe in spanking as a first reaction, but it can be a useful tool in the discipline repertoire under certain circumstances. Some of my most vivid memories are of being spanked, and let me tell you, I only played with matches one time! Most likely, if my toddler tries to grab a hot pot off the stove or insists on playing with electrical sockets I’m likely to slap her hand for the sheer shock value of it. Or, if she refuses to stay in time-out, I’ll likely swat her little behind to let her know I’m serious. Now, I’m pretty sure that time-outs and occasional spankings don’t equal a respectful, well mannered child: neither does giving children unlimited freedom. So, what is the key? I’d really like to know before hand, because apparently we’ll only get one performance and there’s no dress rehearsal. Well, I for one am going to try to enjoy the next 4 months. She can’t possibly get into any trouble whilst in her womb.

What Was She Thinking???

Now, here's what I'm talking about. Actually, before I talk about that, let me pose a hypothetical. What is it about hospitals? Why are they always so cold and ugly? Not to criticize, since I know that the people in them are there to help, but seriously. I think I get sick sitting in there thinking about being sick.

Anyways, just a little criticism. But, as I sat there watching my wife on a glorified coffee table--actually it was more like a cross between a dining room table and an ottoman--I wondered what she was thinking.

First, the doctor puts a little towel over her and then some sticky gooey stuff--which apparantly was somewhat "warm". Of course, I can't compare between the warm stuff and the cold. But with that said, when I found out it was warm, I was a little jealous and would have liked to put some warm gooey clear stuff on my tummy...oh that'd be nice. But I digress.

From there he reached over to his table of tools and grabbed one of his many scanner things. And then he did it. He put it right over her belly and on the screen was my baby. I gotta admit I was taken aback. The last time we got to see her, she was about 2.5 cm long. This time her head was 2 inches by itself. Can you imagine? That means she's about five or six inches long. At that moment, I wanted to hold her and pet her little head...literally. Then I remembered it's not a puppy. It's a little girl.

So, I looked back at my wife. She was so happy. And I was too, don't get me wrong. But, up until that moment my wife had put up with puking several times a day. She's constantly sick. And, to top it off, she has a difficult time eating anything I cook; of course, she's always had a tough time eating things I cook, but especially so when she's pregnant.

And as we sat there in that room looking at our baby move around, I knew that my wife believed it was all worth it. All the puking and sickness was worth it. And she reached out and grabbed my hand. Up until that point, I'd felt terrible everytime she'd get sick. Fortunately, right then I knew that she'd forgotten about it.

Thank You Ultrasound Tech Guy!

Up until now, there has been very few pivotal moments in my life: the first day of my first job, receiving my college acceptance letter, and my wedding day. I’m sure if I really thought about it, I could list a few more. But, the last few months have brought about many metamorphic changes (both physical and emotional), which culminated today when we had our 20 –week ultrasound…

Up until recently, aside from a plastic stick with a couple of blue lines and a shadowy picture of what could really be a large peanut that didn’t digest, the only exterior signs that I’m pregnant were my constant nausea and sleepiness—which were also my only internal signs. If it doesn’t sound like a terribly happy and exciting time, that’s simply because it wasn’t. In fact, it sucked (for lack of a better word). All of this physical misery comes with a super-sized side of guilt, because everyone knows that pregnant women “glow” and that it’s one of the happiest times of your life. Well, it’s hard to glow with one’s head in the toilet. All of this is to say that, despite taking my vitamins and beginning to shop for supplies out of what I can only describe as a feeling of obligation, I have not felt terribly bonded to my little peanut. After all, it’s hard to bond to something that you can’t feel or see and that makes you feel fluish.

…The walk through the parking lot and up the elevator was terrifying! Up until today, we’ve declined to hear the results of any test that might indicate a problem with our baby. But, there we were, minutes from seeing our baby on the big screen; steps away from inevitable information, whether good or bad. Although I have been changing shape slightly, I have not had nearly the weight gain nor size change that my pregnant coworkers have. Neither have I been certain of feeling the baby move (though I’ve been told the feeling of bubbles in my stomach is actually the baby moving). So, I’d contemplated the idea that something could be wrong. I held my breath as the jell was spread on my belly and the wand searched for the initial image. And there it was! Part by part the ultrasound tech worked his way through bones and organs, explaining what things were as he went. Much of it looked like grey and black blobs, but the profile and bones were very distinctly a baby. All parts appeared to be in their place and in working order, with a 99.9% chance of it being…a girl! We then got some pictures, one beautiful profile and one face shot that reminds me of Skeletor (I can say that because I’m the mom. You should only say sweet things if you see it.) Then, after I got to work, a colleague that I haven’t seen in a few months saw me in the hall and stopped with a look of pleasant shock. She is officially the first person to notice, without me telling first, my pregnant belly.
All in all, a fairly pivotal day; we got to see our healthy baby girl, I’m officially beginning to look pregnant, and I didn’t feel nauseous all day! I may not be glowing yet, but I definitely feel a bit of a sparkle coming on.

Curious George was Good...

But, here's the problem. There aren't many shows for kids that I would call, entertaining. Okay, don't get me wrong; I enjoy a good cartoon, same as the next man. But, come on. Is it, really, that difficult to make good cartoons, the likes of G.I. Joe and Ducktales?

On that subject, remember Ducktales? That was awesome. In fact, I remember they used to show reruns on The Disney Channel late at night; I used to flip back and forth between Jay Leno and Ducktales as often as possible. Oh, I get it. You don't like Ducktales? Well, I don't care. The truth is that Ducktales was the best show ever for teaching kids about history. It used to address all kinds of historical events...except the ducks could talk.

Anyways, back on topic. But, I was heartened recently when I turned on HBO and saw Curious George. It was everything a cartoon should be; it was cute and touching, while also dealing with deep issues of discrimination. After all, I am now aware of the difficulty of monkeys that live in the city and will, certainly, do my best to be more sensitive to them.

So, Curious George was great. And, for a brief time, my faith in modern cartoons began to be restored. That is, until I saw Happy Feet over the weekend, again on HBO. Now, I should disclose that I only made it through about 45 minutes of the film before I fell asleep. That alone should be proof, enough, that it was a bad movie; usually it's my wife that falls asleep during movies and I'm the one who makes it through. She, in fact, watched the entire thing, probably out of, what I must assume to be, sheer curiosity.

Indeed, based on what I saw of the movie, it was terribly boring and didn't make much sense. First, I didn't realize penguins are supposed to sing; I guess I thought they had better things to do like stay alive in the freezing cold. And, then there's this penguin that dances. Okay, that's cute and all, but come on. It makes no sense. What parent would not be happy to have a tap dancing penguin? I know I'd be excited if my child danced like Gregory Hines. Anyways, maybe it ended better than it started, but I can't imagine how.

The point of all this is to say that, I don't know what I'm going to do on the cartoon front. I just can't get excited about shows like the turtle show or Dora the Explorer. I mean, what happened to Looney Tunes even? I feel like everything I knew and loved is gone. Still, the truth is that I must start getting used to it, because I'm sure my child will want to watch Dora, and I'm going to have a tough time saying "No." Maybe I should get a G.I. Joe DVD and we can watch it together.

A Hard Day's Work

For the past four-and-a-half years I have been a star employee. I’ve consistently gotten my paperwork in on time. I’ve tried my best to stay current on the research in my field, I work well with the kids, and I get glowing reviews. Well…so much for that…

Pregnancy has turned me into a state employee at her mediocre-ist. Today, I was 20 minutes late. First, I got light headed and had to lie down for five minutes. Then, I puked up my Raisin Bran (oh, yah, I’m attempting to transition to healthy cereal), which then necessitated that I change my clothes (don’t ask) and brush my teeth again. By that point I was late and hungry because my stomach was empty. So, I decided to just give in to the lateness and go through the espresso stand drive through, too (attn: pregnancy police—espresso stands serve other things besides coffee). As substandard as my timeliness was today, last Thursday was downright reprehensible. Following is a chronological account of my day.

8:00 meeting at school 1 (It sounds like work, but I mostly just stared at my notebook)
9:00 drive to school 2
9:10 drive past school 2 and go to the coffee shop for a steamed milk and muffin
9:30 check work e-mail
10:00 eat muffin
10:15 check personal e-mail
10:30 take out manual for scoring a test and lay it out on my desk
10:31 play with wind-up toys on my desk
10:32 notice my favorite wind-up toy isn’t working
10:33 try to fix the wind-up toy
10:40 despair
10:45 recheck e-mail
10:50 leave for a home visit (okay, so that one is really part of my job)
12:00 return to school and have lunch
12:30 – 3:30 score and write up one test, eat again, stare at the wall, eat again, recheck e-mail, and go home

Now, this day was a little unusual as I didn’t have to see kids and there was no one else in my office, but as the old saying goes, “When the cat is away, the mice will check their e-mail and eat.”

There's a Baby in There...

I don't know about you, but I've had few times in my life where I've been completely amazed. One of the first times was when I was little [or maybe I should say "younger", since I'm still little] and my dad was working on the car. I was amazed that, if the car wasn't working, he could open the hood and fix it.

Perhaps the second time was in high school when I realized that the songs We are the Champions and We Will Rock You are, actually, two parts of the same song. I mean, who knew? Actually, I'm still amazed at that.

But, I don't think I've ever been as amazed as the last couple times wife and I have gone for her check-ups. I have to admit, the first time was somewhat uncomfortable for me. Now, I understand that she takes her clothes off lots of times when she goes to the doctor. But, I'm never there. This time, I'm sitting right there as the doctor asks her to remove her "bottoms". I know it's not a big deal, but I felt like leaving the room to give my wife some privacy; and yet she didn't want me to. Anyway, the doctor comes in and proceeds to cover this probe thing with a "protection" contraceptive and shove it into private places; obviously it was a little traumatic for me.

But, I quickly got over it when I looked at the monitor above my head and there, in grainy greyscale was the image of a small person. According to the equipment, it was only about 1.5 inches but it still a little person. Needless to say, I was amazed. Now don't get me wrong, I've learned about the birds and the bees and all that many times, but none of it was, actually, real to me until I looked at that image.

So, fast forward to last week. We had our second appointment. This time, I prepared myself for another traumatic experience. Of course, as one would expect, I did not need to this time. Instead, the woman rubbed some slimy stuff over my wife's stomach. Then she turned on a speaker and moved a microphone over my wife's stomach. And, after a few seconds of listening to what sounded like a wind tunnel, there it was. A little heartbeat coming out of my wife's stomach. Once again, I was amazed.

Surely even if my wife and I had not decided to go through this experience, I'm sure I'd have found other things in my life to be amazed about. To that end, I know lots of folks without kids and I'm sure they're very amazed at lots of stuff too. But, at this point, I feel very fortunate to be in the position I'm in now. If the last couple months are any indication, I think I'm going to continue to be amazed about lots of new things for some time to come.

The Man List

There is a list of subjects that a wife should avoid discussing with her husband if at all possible, unless it is to shower unending complements upon him. And, if the subject must be broached with any hint of critique, she should be ready for an argument to ensue. This list includes such things as BBQing, camp fire building, setting up of audio-visual equipment, and driving. As the first 3 rarely cause the need for hospitalization (at least for others involved), or the worry of untimely widowhood, it is the last of these subjects that is today’s focus.

My husband and I may bicker often, but we actually fight about very few things. The topic of driving, however, can take us from marital bliss to I must have been on crack when I said “I do” to you in 1.5 seconds. I’m admittedly a little flinchy due to self-diagnosed post traumatic stress disorder that I incurred during a spring break episode with a Honda Civic and a semi truck. If you had been awaken from your back-seat slumber while the car you were in was drifting under a semi, you might be flinchy, too. My husband is not admittedly a…well…somewhat aggressive driver. He likes to play this game (loads of fun) in which he sets the cruise control and refuses to break or change speeds no matter what the flow of traffic is doing or how many cars he has to get around. To get around these cars, he often must pull so close you can barely see their tires, then jets around them into a small pocket of space. To make the game more fun, he adds the challenge of talking on his cell phone while doing this, which is an amazing feet, as we drive a stick (1 hand on the phone + 1 to shift = 0 on the wheel). He curses at stop lights and has been known on many occasions to cut through parking lots to avoid red lights. Friends have hinted at this to him (too polite to just come out and say what they’re thinking) which is an indication that he perhaps does go a little overboard sometimes. For instance, once another male friend said, “you’re really hard to follow” when we were caravanning somewhere. Another male friend insists he gets “car sick” unless he himself is driving. I wish they would just come right out and tell him, because as a wife, he is programmed to either disregard my comments regarding driving or react as if I’ve challenged his very manhood. After a few years of dating and six years of marriage, I’ve come to the conclusion that I have one of four choices: have a heart attack, commit myself for anxiety, divorce, or close my eyes and go to my happy place (ahhh cruise ship pool). I lean back, close my eyes, and try to think of anything but driving. This would work if my nervous system didn’t register movement, however I still flinch when I feel a sudden break or lane change.

Now, all of this anxiety is multiplied by the fact that we’re soon to have a child. As children sponge everything from their environment from even before birth, I’m pretty sure our baby’s first words will be some combination of “damn lights” and f*@%!. Not to mention all that serotonin (a neurotransmitter highly responsible for anxiety) flowing through my body can’t possibly be good for little peanut. This problem is compounded by the fact that the only thing I hate worse than being a passenger in a car, is actually driving myself. If I knew where my baby’s ears were, I would put little earmuffs over my belly to block the sounds. I fear peanut, being a sensitive child, would still sense the anger and sheer hatefulness that his/her dad has for a preponderance of other drivers on the road, not to mention those spiteful lights.

All of my own anxiety and anger about my husbands driving style simmers deep down inside me, occasionally boiling to the top and thus, causing a spat. However, just when I’m ready to break down and drive myself, he offers a few glimmers of kindness and patience. We were making the 3 hour drive home, after visiting my family for the weekend, and I was quite obviously exhausted. Not long into the drive my deer husband asked, “What CD would help you to sleep,” thus implying, “you go ahead and take a nap honey, while I steer us safely home.” Now, due to the accident I mentioned earlier, I can’t really sleep in cars anymore. However, on this trip, I may have actually dozed off a few times. So, perhaps I’ll keep him around a little longer. Perhaps I’ll try to be less flinchy (it’s reflexive…honest). And, perhaps I’ll let others be the ones to address issues from the list…at least for a few days.

The Sophisticated Pregnant Chick...

That's what I'm going to call my wife from now on. Okay, I'd better back up and provide some context.

You see, my wife needs "maternity" clothes. And, being that we are way cool nowadays, we made our way over to J.C. Penney. Of course, it was in the middle of prom season or something going on at the local high schools, so there were many a young girl present seeking their flowing ceremonial garb. Nonetheless, I felt a little awkward walking around the store looking for dresses. I should highlight the word "dresses." I mean, does she really need more than one? Here's the issue: she only wears a dress about once a year. And, the entire pregnancy deal lasts 9 months, right? What's more, she's only going to be big for about half of it, right? That means she'll be big for about 4.5 months; that's about 1/3 of a year. Are you following? What are the odds she needs more than one dress? Very low. Of course, this reasoning does not matter. In the end, I was forced to continue following her around amongst the teens and their mothers. After all, she says, you can't have too many dresses. Hey, if that's true, perhaps I'll go buy one for myself too.

Anyways, from J.C. Penney, it was on to the "Motherhood" store, where they specialize in these maternity clothes. Now, is it just me, or are these, particular, clothes a lot cooler than they were when my mom was pregnant. Of course, this is the same generation that invented bell bottoms, so they may not be the ones to look back to for stylish duds. Still, taking that into account, it seems like the clothes are a lot cooler. I remember my mom spent most of her pregnancies in sweat pants and rain jackets. Of course, she was a stay-at-home mom, and perhaps she was not required to dress well, unlike many of the pregnant women nowadays who have to look presentable for work. But, whatever the reason, pregnant women are now fashionable.

Overall, shopping for maternity clothes was pretty fun. In fact, there is a little pad in the dressing room whereby the women can put it around her to visualize what she will look like when she gets bigger. Being the good husband I am, I put it around myself and rubbed my belly. One problem, though: there are no instructions, so I ended up looking more like I had a tumor than a child. I must admit, my wife looked much more natural manipulating the device.

So, the maternity clothes shopping day was a great success with my wife walking away with several shirts and a pair of pants. Notice something missing? That's right, she didn't end up getting a dress. After all that looking, there were none that she liked. So, I've concluded that her shopping habits do not change when she's pregnant.

The Pricipal of the United States of America

Perhaps I just don’t remember being a child, or perhaps by working in special education my perspective has been skewed, but I’m pretty sure kids aren’t as smart as they use to be. This concerns me due to the fact that my future offspring is destined to be a genius (or at least a smarty pants), and I want him/her to have other little prodigies to play abacus with.

This was brought to the forefront of my mind the other day when one of the more intelligent students I work with asked me a question. Now, we’ve all had beat into our heads the cliché, “There are no stupid questions…” Okay, so maybe there are no stupid questions, but there apparently are questions that will force me to try desperately not to laugh out loud in a first grader’s face. As little Joe (names have been changed to protect the innocent) colored his zoo animals, he looks up at me and in all seriousness asked, “Who is the principal?” I answered matter of factly, “Mrs. Jones in the principal of our school.” With an inquisitive look he answered back, “No, not of our school, of everything…of this country?” Curious, and a little confused, I questioned, “Do you mean of the United States?”
“Yes! Who is the principal of the United States?
“Well…The president of the United States is George Bush.”
“No!” Joe retorted frustratedly, “Who is the PRINCIPAL of the United States? You know, the boss of everyone?”

Then it clicked in my head that to this wee first grader, the most powerful authority figure he could possibly imagine was a principal! The vision of George Bush eating turkey gravy from a tray with a little carton of 2% milk, giving terrorists time outs, and sliding into a wading pool of pudding when the country read 100 books forced me to gag on my laugh. But wait…this could work…instead of taxes, we could sell Mexico and Canada overpriced wrapping paper and peanut brittle! But I digress.

No matter how I worded it, the concept of president versus principal was just over little Joe’s head, as was the concept that the president is not exactly the “boss of everyone”. So, he left that session a little frustrated, and I left it a little disheartened at the educational system of which I’m a part. Oh well. I’m pretty sure that with my husband in our home, our little peanut will have an abnormal knowledge of America’s political system and a propensity for debate. And, I’m sure peanut can find some other juniors with whom to play TV watching, but that’s a later blog.

Apparently, We Need a Baby Book...

Okay. I'll admit it. I haven't documented my life as much as many others. Though my father was quite an avid photographer when my older siblings were young, he stopped taking pictures when I was born. The result is that I only have a few pictures of myself as a baby.

When I asked him why, he told me that it was because he was paying too much money on film; oh the days before digital cameras...how did we get along? Now, I should disclose that I think this trait runs in the family. I hate spending money on anything, especially expendables such as gas and groceries. Indeed, I'd rather eat macaroni & cheese three times a day than to spend money on groceries.

The point is that I've never really been one to find value in documenting my personal history. I can trace my lineage back to my parents and I could, probably, find a picture of my grandparents, if I had to. My wife's family, on the other hand, has a very different story.

Christmas with my wife's parents is a little like being a celebrity and having paparazzi. You see, in contrast to my folks, my wife's parents have about fifty thousand boxes of pictures documenting every event in their childrens' lives. And, since the advent of digital cameras, there are probably as many more on their computer's hard drive. So, add it all up and it takes about 20 minutes to open a present at Christmas.

That's because the receiver must, first, get his/her picture taken with the wrapped gift. Subsequently, said receiver must stop and smile after each piece of tape is removed. Of course, the ritual is concluded when the present is unwrapped and the receiver gets one more picture with the gift next to his/her face. Then, move on to the next person and repeat the process. It's very fun and does seem two draw out the unwrapping to an all-day event.

So, with these two, drastically, different styles of documenting events, my wife and I make an interesting pair when shopping for Baby Books. I got no less than several dirty looks from the woman when I suggested we go to Goodwill and get a used book with all the writing in it already. After all, don't most kids follow about the same routine? And, let's face it, once the kid is 20 years old or so, does the child walking in April or May make a big difference? Don't get me wrong, we'll get some white out and write in our baby's name and place his or her pictures where appropriate. Alas, I was half joking.

But, if there is something I'm good at, it's cutting corners and getting things done quickly, if not well. After all, if there's one thing I know, scrapbooking and things like that take a lot of time. In the end, I guess I'm just afraid that many years from now we'll have all these baby books and nothing documented or written in them because we didn't have time, motivation, money, or any number of lame excuses.

Baby, You Are What I Eat

Medical professionals will tell you that things that happen to a pregnant mother, happen to the baby as well, thus impacting the development of the child. If mom takes medicine, so does the baby. If mom listens to music, the baby hears it, too. So, it only follows that whatever mom eats, the baby eats as well. Herein lays my concern.

You see, up until a few months ago, I’ve been what is known as “a good eater”. I could count on one hand the number of foods that I don’t like: creamed corn, beets, and things that taste like ocean water. As a child, I would often be the last person at the table, finishing my seconds or even thirds (thank you genetics for a good metabolism). As an adult, one of my favorite things to do was browse cook books and magazines for new recipes. By comparison, and much to my annoyance, my husband is a picky eater. He doesn’t see any reason to even try to be healthy. His favorite meals are spaghetti with Prego, which he claims he could eat every day, macaroni and cheese, and Hamburger Helper. To his credit, he will cook pretty much any time I ask and sometimes without me asking. Most of the time I have to hold my tongue, knowing that my choice is to eat some form of boxed dinner or cook myself. Well, much to my chagrin, our baby is apparently its father’s child.

Since about week four of this adventure, I have been quite ill. Few foods stay down consistently, and things I use to love now repulse me. However, foods that I use to merely tolerate for the sake of laziness, now are the only things that stay down. The other night, I actually found myself asking if we could have macaroni and cheese for dinner! So, now my diet, and thus Jr.’s, now consists of macaroni and cheese, noodles, and best of all, Marshmallow Mateys (Malto Meals version of Lucky Charms). I hadn’t had these sugary gems from Down Under since college, but about a month ago while scanning the grocery store for anything that sounded good, I noticed them. Since then, I’ve had my Australian friends for breakfast every morning, except for a few brave mornings that I’ve soon regretted. So, if you are what you eat, or in the case of our baby, if you are what I eat, this may be cause for concern. Fortunately, I spoke with a friend recently, who has two grown children. She was also very sick during both her pregnancies. Without any prompting, she volunteered that one of the only things she could keep down was Captain Crunch! As neither of her children grew up to be pirates, perhaps I don’t have to worry that my baby will grow up to be a chemically enhanced, sugar coated kangaroo.

Some Protector I am...

At the risk of sounding like a bigot, I've always believed part of the role of the man in a marriage is to protect his wife. Furthermore, having been married, now, to my wife for over six years, I find that she seems to agree that this is my role.

To be sure, it's never, actually, been spoken. Indeed, this is a sort of an unspoken, understood role I have. I believe this because my wife has indicated to me that she does not sleep well when I'm not home. At times when I go away for a weekend, she claims she gets very anxious. And, while I don't like being away from my wife for periods of time, I've never been apprehensive when I'm home alone at night.

Of course, the conclusion I draw from this is that she believes it is my role to protect her. But, here's the problem: I suck at protecting her. Moreover, when I add up my traits and attributes, big and strong are nowhere to be found. Indeed, were a burglar or a "masher" [to use a phrase from the 50's] to happen upon our home, I'm pretty sure I'd hide in the back and tell my wife to look into it for me. Perhaps I'm being a little modest; or perhaps not. But, being 5 foot nothing doesn't bode well when trying to appear fierce.

However, while big and strong would not be on the list, I generally see myself as still having all my marbles. Not to say that that would come in handy in any way when defending myself physically. But, perhaps I could bore the burglar to death by talking about politics.

With that said, I come now to this morning as I was leaving for work. Usually, I come in and drop all my essentials in a tray, including car keys, wallet and house keys. But apparently last night, I forgot to put all the keys in the tray. What's more, I didn't even realize this until I stepped outside and heard a jingle in the door. So, I looked down to see I'd left those same keys hanging in the door.

To make matters worse--or more idiotic--I locked the door as I came in. That's like locking a door on a convertible with the top down. Anyways, here I am wondering where my mind is going. But I'm not too worried.

After all, even if I can't pass on a good brain to my child, at least he or she will get my dashing good.... knees.

Apples Don’t Fall Far From the Tree

Now, I work in special education, and needless to say, there are some truly inspirational parents out there who give 110% to their children. However, those parents don’t make for good blogging, and just when I’m starting to worry about our capability of raising another human being, one of the…well…not so devoted parents reminds me that no matter how bad of a parent I’ll be, I can’t possibly be as ridiculous as them.

In the four years I’ve worked in the schools, I never fail to be under-amazed by parents. I do understand that there are a variety of socioeconomic, tragic, and unfortunate situations that often lead to less than stellar parenting skills, but today truly lead to an all time low.

For the first time in four years, a parent actually fell asleep…or perhaps past out…while talking on the phone with me. No, I’m not exaggerating. After 4 rings, I was greeted with a more than groggy, “hello”. When I asked for the parent, I got a half grunted, “uh huh.” I then introduced myself and explained the reason for my call was to set up two separate meetings regarding her child. After giving the first date and time, I got another grunted, “uh huh.” Then, I went on to give the suggested time for the second meeting only to be responded to by silence. After a few moments, I heard what can only be described as snoring or gurgling. I shyly asked, “Are you still there?” only to receive more snoring. I then more loudly asked, “Can you hear me?” Again, snorty gurgling. Finally, I just gave a rather loud, “hello!” Alas, I got another half hearted “ah huh”. As my office mates can attest, at this point I just wanted to get off the phone lest I burst out laughing right in her ear.

So, I quickly repeated the dates and times and waited through a few more seconds of silence before asking, “Okay?” I did get an, “okay” in return and considered it appropriate to hang up quickly and then relay my story to all four of my curious office mates.

Now, I know that we will not be perfect parents, but I can say with fair certainty that I will never fall asleep and/or pass out while talking on the phone with my child’s teachers. So, thank you under-amazing parent. I now have a renewed confidence in my future parenting abilities.

No Need to Worry...

Well, the wedding came and went. And, though I'd planned on only telling people when they asked, I could not contain myself. So, pretty much anytime I saw someone, I'd just tell them my wife was pregnant. At times, it probably even seemed inappropriate; the conversation went something like: "Hey, good to see you, my wife is pregnant." Or, "Hey you person I've not seen since high school, my wife is pregnant."

What's more, I can't seem to figure out if this is a result of excitement, disbelief, or sheer paranoia. Indeed, when people ask, I say I'm excited. But, I'd be lying if I didn't say, at least, a part of me is incredibly freaked out.

Perhaps part of the problem is that I tend to be, at least somewhat of, a control freak. And herein is the problem. This is something which I can't control at all. For one thing, I'm about 5 foot nothing and am bow-legged. These are not, exactly, traits I want to pass onto my child. Furthermore, my dad is average height and my mom does not even break 4'11" [she's so cute]. So, it's pretty clear that my genes tend to contain the tininess factor.

My wife's genes, on the other hand, are more variable. Though she, herself, is not much taller than myself, she has a brother who is probably about 9 feet--and skinny as a rail. Worse, I think he can beat my up.

All this is to say that I don't want to get beat up by my child. The good news is that, I didn't interrupt anyone's wedding by being so flagrant with the baby news. In fact, the wedding went off without a hitch...or I guess it went on with a "hitch." Of course, I don't think I actually told the bride. That may be why.

I Blame Eve...

Evolutionarily speaking, morning sickness is intended to protect the baby's newly developing organs from toxins that our adult bodies handle on a regular basis.

So, from my experience, yogurt is toxic, as is juice, along with soup, fruits, vegetables, carbs, meat, and finally, water (my husband has suspected this last one for years, refusing to drink more water on the basis that it's "corrosive") Needless to say, our baby is super protected. It's a wonder that the baby gets any nutrition at all. As someone who used to finish my husband's meals, it's weird being disgusted at the most basic and beloved of foods. And, if it's not one end, it's the other!

I never thought I would propose body fluids as a topic of conversation, but pregnancy makes one lose all modesty. Along with protecting the baby from these so called "toxins", nausea is apparently a sign of a healthy pregnancy, as women who don't feel any sickness are much more likely to have a miscarriage. Based on how I've been feeling, I must be about to birth Superman or Wonderwoman. Since there is no way to avoid these feelings, as none of the suggested natural remedies actually go so far as to work. I'll just continue to lay on the couch and place blame on others.

I can't really blame my husband, because we sort of planned this together, and he's been trying really hard to accommodate my new eating and sleeping habits. I can't blame the baby, because we're the reason it's here. And, I'm not sure I blame the food industry, seeing as I really don't think our food is toxic. So, who is left to blame? Well, biblicly speaking, Eve and her little apple incident led to labor pains. I assume that includes all ills of pregnancy. So, I blame Eve.

To Tell or Not to Tell...

That was, is and seems to always be the question. And, it's so complicated. I encounter a dude I went to college with on the street. Do I tell him?

Perhaps even more of a conumdrum is that I'm going to a wedding tomorrow of a friend from high school. This is a big problem. You see, it is common knowledge that the wedding is all about two people [who am I kidding, I mean two women]: the bride and her mother. That's it. everyone else just needs to tow the line. As a side note, I don't think I remember much from my wedding. Someone once asked me what our colors were, and I said I wasn't sure, but I remember that I wore black and white.

The point is that, tomorrow I am neither a bride nor a mother. Therefore, the wedding is not about me. Are you following me so far? Arguably, the only thing more exciting than a wedding is a baby. Certainly I don't have any business doing or saying something that would draw attention away from either the bride or her mother. And believe it or not, I'm not too much of an attention uh.. uh.. guy.

Sufficeth to say that I'm not very good at discriminating when to tell and when not to tell. So here's what I've decided. I'm just going to tell people when they ask me what's going on. This makes it easy because it means I've always got something to talk about. Case in point; that old buddy I saw on the street from college. He says to me, "Hey man, what's going on?"

So I say, "Not much, except my wife is pregnant." It's great; I can drag that conversation out for, at least, a few minutes. Certainly long enough for some small talk on the street; works pretty well. Hey, maybe I should propose to my wife that we always be pregnant...then we'll always have something to talk about.

The End of an Era...

Historians and archeologists have fancy names for the planet’s time periods: Paleolithic, Mesozoic, Byzantine. I think I mark the periods of my life with the vehicles I drive, and with little fanfare or hoopla, I bid a bittersweet adu to the Jetta era. The Jetta era began right after college and the trial filled Plymouth Sundance era. Long had I dreamt of driving a brand new car off the lot, and since I had a “real job”, my ship, or car as it were, had come in. Oh so sassy, so zippy, was its silver sleekness. And, that’s how my life felt. College degree—check, husband—check, great job—check. I was a DINK in the city, pretty much able to do what I wanted, when I wanted. Then, as only a major catastrophe can do, the Jetta era ended.

It was neither meteor shower nor plague, earthquake nor flood that brought the Jetta era to and screeching halt. The screeching was actually due to another car slamming into the side of my beloved Jetta as I was in a little too much of a hurry to turn left. So, the sudden end of the Jetta era gave way to the equivalent of the automobile dark ages, also known as Evil Jetta era. Insurance never pays out what it should, and thus, the replacement Jetta was slightly less than sleek. But, it was mere months after bringing home Jetta Jr. that its true colors started showing, and we called the tow truck for the first time. Then, the windows stopped rolling down. My husband, being the oddly frugal man he is, refused to have them fixed as they weren’t an essential function of the car. Say what? Have you ever tried to live without drive throughs for a year and a half? It may save you money, but it’s not worth it! Oh, and the windshield was cracked in two places, and no, not an essential function of the car…Which brings us to a year and a half post window malfunction. After calling a tow truck for the 4th time in 18 months (do they have punch cards?) we have declared a cue on the Evil Jetta regime, and by joining with our ally Craigslist, have banished the inept dictator.

Enter the era of the Subaru Outback. Oh, my sixteen year old self would be mocking my 29 year old self. A station wagon?!? Really? My deer husband has had a mancrush on Outbacks for years, and they make a good surf-mobile. In addition, and perhaps most importantly, it is a practical family vehicle. Yes, that’s right, “family”. Goodbye DINKhood. Hello, OIOK (that comes dangerously close to OINK…not a funny joke around a pregnant woman). Yes, that’s right, ready or not, we’re expecting. So, goodbye sassy, hotty car. Close curtain on DINKdom. Hello, practical family vehicle. And between intermittent vomiting, feeling as if I’m going to vomit, and eating to prevent vomiting I’m enjoying the fresh air and cool breeze that can only be created by rolling down the windows.

This is hurting my ego...

As if I was a good cook before. Now she throws everything up that I cook. It's starting to hurt my ego.

Okay, the truth is I'm not a great cook. I've got a couple specialties in my repertoire, mind you. I can bake chicken like you wouldn't believe. And, as long as you don't mind putting it in the microwave after it's out of the oven, it is/can be quite tasty. On a side note, what would us dudes do without microwaves. I swear, I wouldn't be able to make it through the week. I'm going to venture to guess that it was a man that invented it.

Of course, I can barbecue. But, what guy can't barbecue? I think it must be some sort of code written on the DNA of every man so that he, instinctively, knows what to do when he holds a spatula and a pair of tongs in his hand.

What's frustrating about the entire situation is there does not appear to be any pattern in any of this. Case in point, she doesn't seem to throw the baked chicken up, but once you put chicken in a salad, get her to the toilet. On the other hand, she doesn't seem to hold the beef down in a hamburger form, so I figured I'd be safe with the stew. Unfortunately, no. Clear the bathroom.

So, here I am sitting on my couch trying to figure out what to feed her the rest of the week; at least the days when I'm cooking. At the risk of sounding rather insensitive here, I never puke the stuff that she cooks. Of course, I'm not carrying a child in my womb--do I have a womb? It just doesn't make sense that something so small can cause such a great deal of trouble.

Still, I'm not going to tell her that out loud. I'm starting to think, maybe, I should just lose the ego. At the very least, I know I should lose the fish sticks...she definitely doesn't hold those down at all.

What did I do to her???

I've come to a couple different conclusions: The baby is either a boy or a girl. Now, I know what you're thinking. Where does this insight come from? Or perhaps you're thinking that I must believe myself to be some sort of psychic to make such a prediction. Or maybe you're thinking I'm a fool.

Nonetheless, I maintain that this child could either be a boy or a girl. Here is why. I've not been writing in this blog for very long now [read: a couple days], but I made no secret of the fact--in my first and only post--that I'm afraid of having difficult reconciling the fact that the child growing inside my wife is a girl. That's because both girls in my house growing up, sans my mother (but it's been a long time since she was a girl) were royal pains in the backside. It's a wonder why my father is not bald. That said, he does have a lot of gray hair for his age though, but I digress.

Lately my wife complains that she is, constantly, ill. Yesterday, I had the misfortune of being in the bathroom while she was in the act of being ill. It was, strangely, fascinating. It's been a long time since I've thrown up. The very thought of it makes me sick. In fact, whenever I think I could be sick, I sit down and focus on not going through the act. Regardless, my wife claims that she is always sick, and lately feels like she always needs to throw up, but can't. For this reason, I think it may be a girl. Hear me out, now. If, in my, admittedly, limited experience, girls cause lots of trouble after they're born, doesn't it stand to reason that they cause just as much trouble before they come out?

But as I thought about it, I remembered something my wife once told me. For background, she works with elementary kids in school. And, she said that boys are terrors before they're teenagers; girls become terrors after they're teenagers. That made sense, as I'm pretty sure I was a huge pain before I matured. By the way, being mature does not mean one is taller, just FYI. So, I decided this child is a boy.

So, using the same logic that Vizzini used in The Princess Bride, I can clearly conclude that this child is either a boy or a girl.

Two Little Blue Lines...

Before them there was a subtle change in color on a strip of paper. And before that, you couldn't know for a couple months or so.

We hadn't be trying for long. We got married young so that we could enjoy each other's company; of course in the small town I grew up in, kids got married right out of high school. So, I guess we weren't so young compared to them. Still, we were both still in college.

And we'd always said we'd start trying in four to five years. Well, four years came and we weren't trying yet. So, I guess we just assumed we'd meant five years. And yet, five years came and we'd not started trying. So, there we were. After six years of marriage and several other friends having babies, it, finally, seemed like the right time.

I'm not sure I'm confident about what my wife and are are getting [have gotten] ourselves into. But, we're both excited. I have things that I worry about. After all, being just over five feet doesn't bode well for my kid being an athlete.

And, the idea of having a girl freaks me out. Having two sisters and watching my parents constantly massaging their backsides from the pain the girls were causing them makes me weary.

But, we are ecstatic nonetheless. So, at the suggestion of a good friend, I've started this blog to share our thoughts and ideas, as well as theories about parenting. As of now, I'm a hard liner that believes in old fashioned discipline and I want my kids to heel. Moreover, I'm excited to watch my theories be proven wrong over and over again. So, stick around and share any insights you might have.

-Pops