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.