Sleeping Alone...

For the past two nights I have slept like a baby and because of this I feel somewhat guilty.  As my wife’s mid section grows, her sleeping has gotten more and more erratic.  She takes anywhere between 8-10 bathroom trips each night, tossing from side to side and using as much space as possible while doing so. 

A few days ago she came down with a cold that left her completely miserable, especially at night.  She began snoring heavily—like scared the dogs heavily—so the other night while she was tossing and turning, I snuck out.  I snuck out on my pregnant, sick wife, what a jerk.

I headed down the hall for the guest room.    The bed felt a bit softer than normal, the pillows were fluffed as if they had been prepared to my liking for a good night’s rest.  Oh wow, I thought, stretching out, this is nice. I didn't know it could feel like this.  I closed my eyes, quickly surrendering to a deep uninterrupted sleep. 

I woke up the next morning refreshed, in fact I had overslept; my wife woke me, asking me if I planned on going to work, (I had forgotten to put the do not disturb sign out).  I hopped out of bed well rested and recharged, ready to take on the day with a smile on my face.  I Pushed back the tinge of guilt, got dressed and headed to the kitchen for breakfast.  School was pushed back a couple of hours due to the rain hurricane so I kissed my loving wife on the forehead and went off to work.

I thought it was a one time thing.  I vowed not to do it again.  The next night, we said goodnight before going to sleep, like any other happily married couple who doesn’t keep things from each other.  I tried to sleep, drifting at times before my attention was jerked by the tossing and sneezing and snoring.  I waited until around midnight and made my move.  I climbed out of bed, walking softly down the hall to my luxurious unoccupied sleep suite, pulling back the covers and digging in for a second night of peaceful sleep. 

I’m awful, I know.  My poor pregnant wife is sick and here I am slinking off down the hall to oblivion.  I don’t want us to become a couple who sleeps in separate beds, I like sleeping next to her….or at least I did.  It feels like betrayal, but then, when I’m hanging on to a sliver of the mattress, grasping for dear life, scared of just what is happening behind my back,  I start to think about the empty bed…calling my name from the soft cottony uninhibited sheets.  I'm so weak....well rested....but weak.

Why My Wife Can't Have Nice Things...

My wife has great taste, and she likes nice things.  In a perfect world she would have plenty of nice things in the house.  Pristine light colors would shine throughout, delicate and fragile items would be left safely on shelves.  The laundry room would smell of flowers and toilet seats would remain forever fastened down securely.  Instead she lives with me and two male dogs.  Even our cat is male.




Mason

 She likes hand towels and nice smelling soaps.  I like doing yard work and picking up the first thing I can find to wipe the dirt off my hands.

She likes seasonal smells and glade plug-ins.  I come home from basketball sweaty and smelling less than seasonal.

She likes dryer sheets and lavender smelling detergents. My socks sometimes get crunchy and need to be tapped with a hammer before washing.

She likes accent walls and themes that flow throughout the house.  I like sports.

And now we’re having a boy.  That leaves her sufficiently outnumbered.  In a house full of males she tries her best to keep things presentable. 

The other day we were putting together the dresser in Simon’s room when my wife said simply, “Your shoes!” I realized that I was still wearing my shoes, the same shoes that I'd worn to walk the dogs through the mud and the puddles as they had played creek, rolled in the grass, and frolicked in the woods.  I looked down at the untarnished white carpet and then back up to my wife like a child caught in the act.  Crap.

I gently eased off of the white carpet, shamefully removing my shoes in the hallway when I noticed Mason--our puppy, stretched out on the bed, sound asleep on the white comforter. This is why my wife can’t have nice things.

Greetings From Jamaica!

What could have been....

 

Our tickets were bought, our reservations made as an all expense paid belated honeymoon was all set. But then, the news came. Pregnant? I'll never forget calling Sandals to cancel a trip to Negril.  How could this happen? Well I know how, but I was still a bit surprised. I have a feeling this won't be the first time our son changes or rearranges our plans. Or our life.

So as I spend this week at home, raking leaves and preparing for hurricane winds and heavy rain, dealing with the numerous political zombies banging on our door and wandering the streets in hopes of securing votes, I will try to think of what is coming instead of what could have been.

We could have been swimming up to the bar to order colorful drinks early in the afternoon. We could have been zip lining, sight seeing, and basking in the sun.  The biggest decision I would have had to make this week would be deciding if the shirt I was wearing appeared clean enough to wear to dinner. So what happened?

Well birds happened, bees happened, and deciding not to renew that birth control prescription happened. So that leaves us here, preparing for Sandy and a baby shower next weekend. Maybe we'll do a Jamaica theme...virgin daiquiris anyone?

In all honesty, having a child is right up there with marrying my wife as my greatest moments, and I am glad to make any sacrifice needed for him. We've also been offered a rain check on the trip, so don't feel bad for me, even if I am a bit dizzy after the plasma donation in an effort to pay for the Pottery Barn curtains we hung in the baby room yesterday.

Random Thoughts



Layman Farms

We’ve entered week 26, and my wife’s ankles have swollen beyond recognition, I try to remain positive, telling her that no, they really don’t look that bad.  She sleeps with anywhere 4-7 pillow in the bed and the bathroom trips have picked up again, mainly due to the gallons of water she has consumed.

But somehow, she has kept her sense of humor intact.  She remains upbeat and positive and keeps me laughing through it all, which is more than I could say if the tables were turned.

On the way home from work a few days ago, she stopped at the grocery store to “pick up a few things”.  She arrived home a half an hour later with three or four bags full of the most random contents on the shelves, it looked as if she had swapped grocery lists with Rain Man.

“I thought you were just picking up a few things?”  I said to her, confused as I searched the contents of her bags.

“Pregnant and hungry is no way to go to the grocery store.”  She mumbled through a mouthful of triscuits.

And on that note, here are some random thoughts from the week:

We ventured out into the shopping mall last Saturday and I immediately noticed that I’ve fallen into no man’s land as far as age groups are concerned at the mall.  You’re either a teenager, an employee, or retired. There seems to be no middle ground.  I felt like Michael Doulgas’ character from the movie Falling Down as I stared at the teenagers who wore fashions I couldn’t comprehend. 

The other night my wife and I were on the couch (Her feet in my lap of course) when the phone rang.  We looked at each other, puzzled, as if to say Who in the world is calling at this hour?  It was 8:45.

Child care is seriously expensive.  Who knew?

I would like to say thank you to the soon to be grandparents, Simon is truly going to be one lucky baby.  He will have five Grandparents that all love him dearly, and have sent down very nice furniture for his room, which by the way, is quickly becoming the nicest in the house.

Why do girls in their 20’s and 30’s still refer to themselves as princesses? There is no reason for you to wear a tiara in your cubicle. Ditto for Barbies.  Maybe it’s just me..

When we were at the corn maze last weekend, I found myself checking out the strollers, comparing the styles and models.  I found myself checking out strollers...Five years ago me called, he says wow...

I’ve also found myself noticing little kids whenever we’re out, sometimes I'll smile at them without realizing that this could be interpreted the wrong way.  That is until a protective parent comes grabbing their child while scowling at the weirdo in the mall, hanging out near the strollers, berating the girls wearing tiaras.  What has happened to me?

Baby Care Class

I write this post filled with an array of knowledge of all things pertaining to baby care.  Go ahead, ask me something, anything.  Actually don’t.  I left this class more scared than informed, certain that I will never safely secure a baby seat.  I’m also uncertain as to what a crying baby needs, or how in the world I am supposed to differentiate a healthy stool texture from an unhealthy one for that matter...I didn't know I had to look at it!

Anne with Alfred

We arrived at class early, as I had rushed my wife out of the house to get there on time.  As we walked in, we were offered a baby, and to my wife’s dismay, I picked out the biggest one I could find.  I named him Alfred, so I wouldn't call him Simon and get all attached. (He was very realistic).

As the other families joined us, I recognized the doe-eyed look of the other expecting fathers walking into the classroom. 

Our instructor, Charlotte, was a pleasant lady who apologized for the scorching temperatures in the room, probably not the best environment for the very pregnant women to be sitting in. 

She asked how long we thought the average delivery time is for first time mothers.  My wife immediately chimed in:

Alfred and Me

“10-15 minutes?”  The room laughed, and this was when I realized I was sitting next to the class clown.

Our little comedian made remarks about the instructional videos, breast feeding, car beds, diaper changes, circumcisions, and much more. 

She pointed out that I had drowned the baby in the tub, clunked his head while changing his diaper, and possibly dislocated his arm while attempting to get his little onesie on correctly.  But Alfred took it in stride, he was a trooper who I’m sure had been manhandled by far worse than the likes of me.  Besides, he looked completely content in the neat swaddle I had wrapped for him.

For the remainder of the class, I frantically scribbled notes while my wife occasionally snorted in my direction, doing everything short of calling me a nerd.  It seems the teacher is quite the unruly student.

As 9pm approached, the yawns began to spread throughout our anticipating class and it was clear we were on borrowed time.  Charlotte wished us luck on our delivery and sent us on our way,  armed with another instructional dvd to watch at home and a few helpful websites.  All in all, it was $20 well spent.  Next up for us is a tour of the maternity ward, or as they call it, The Birthing Unit, which sounds to me like a facility at Sea World.

Labor Day

Here's my vision of how it may happen:

I arrive home from work giddy after receiving a raise and a promotion. The dogs greet me at the door with wagging tails, their breath smelling of peppermint. 

The house is still sparkling clean from the maid service that mistakenly arrived yesterday and cleaned the house before realizing it was the wrong address.  Afterwards they refused payment and even offered to come back the following week as a courtesy for our inconvenience.

I begin dinner preparations for my wife, Anne, who is on her way home from yet another rewarding day of educating the future leaders of our country.   

She pulls into the driveway, I step out to meet her and notice the glow on her face radiating warmth into the cold January night.  I help her with her things, kissing her on her rosy cheek as I help her inside.

“How was your day?’  I ask, genuinely interested.

“Delightful dear, the children took turns massaging my feet as we went over lessons.”  She answers, cheery as ever.

“Tonight’s the night, January 30th.  How are you feeling?”

“Surprisingly well, you know, I was thinking, why don’t I give you a back massage tonight, you’ve been doing so much around here.”

“Only if that’s what you want honey.”

“I would love nothing more.”  She answers, the stars twinkling in her eyes.

We enjoy a delicious dinner, after which Anne and I settle in to watch Sports Center, our nightly favorite.  While watching the highlights, my wife jerks, touching her belly with a surprised look on her face.

“I think that was a contraction!”

Ever so calmly, I walk over to the packed and prepared bag near the door, confident and under control. We head to the hospital and I hold my wife’s hand, smiling as we prepare to welcome our son into the world.

“Hopefully they will have Espn on in the television in our room, so you won't miss your game afterwards.”  She says as we back out of the driveway, concerned that I might miss the basketball game.

We arrive at the hospital and 45 minutes later my wife gives birth to Simon.  He cries briefly upon entering the world, before going back to sleep.

I’ve never seen anything like it!”  The Doctor exclaims and we all laugh.  Later that night, after all is quiet, we smile at each other as we lie in bed together as a family…..and then watch the game.

Gifts From Grandma...

Recently, I received a text from Simon's Grandma Diane down in Texas titled Future Present for Simon. It seems that Grandma has quite the mishcievious notion of how how my son will pass his time.  I opened the link to find this contraption:

 

 

 

 

From the website: This is the snowball-hurling slingshot that brings snowball battles into the 21st century. A baseball-sized snowball is placed into the slingshot's muzzle, drawn back, and fired at opposing forces, helping to facilitate their hasty withdrawal or surrender.

 

That's right, what boy doesn't need a snowball slingshot?  I'll keep an eye on the mailbox for the BB gun and/or machete.  I can't wait to see what Grandpa has in mind....bottle rockets?  Or better yet how about live hand grenades?  I'm beginning to think that they are secretly bankrolling karma with sufficient ammunition to wage its battle against me.   

 

But I have to admit, that sling shot is pretty sweet...

 

 

 

Third Trimester Romance

I've been told several times that romantic evenings will become scarce once the baby arrives.  And I've already noticed that as the pregnancy has progressed, our idea of romance has “progressed” as well.  Progressed as in changed dramatically.  Between work, being uncomfortable, and being exhausted, Anne has been unable to focus on little else as she enters the third and final stage of creating life.  But last night, as the dust settled, I saw her smile with delight.

Let me explain, our house is a fixer upper that we bought two short years ago and slowly--through constant weekend projects--have been able to update and modernize.  But we still have a ways to go.  To make a long story short, there was no dishwasher.  Not a big deal for the two of us, but adding another human to our household changes things a bit. 

About four short months ago I found one on sale at Lowes and brought it home thinking that my wife would be impressed with my initiative.  Four long months later, the dishwasher had become a piece of furniture in the sun room, greeting her every day as she walked inside, (I barely noticed it).  The dishwasher spoke to her, Hello Anne, go ahead and set your pocket book on me!   Look at all this mail I’ve collected, (I hear it with an English accent). Hardly a day passed without her asking me a simple question, a six word sentence I have come to loathe:  Have you called about the dishwasher?

So I took matters into my own hands.  Installed the dishwasher you ask?  No, I called a guy, and he installed the dishwasher.  Yesterday I came home with flowers in one hand and dishwasher detergent in the other.  We ordered Chinese food and enjoyed a romantic dinner at the table with the enchanting sounds of power tools buzzing in the background.  At 10pm our handyman came up from air….mission accomplished; I can proudly outsource my position as dishwasher to the mechanical box under the counter.
 
Our house, our lives, and our relationship are undergoing many changes, from the insignificant and slight variations, to the big time, game changing, scary as hell variety.   Last night's dinner was a perfect example, as it is definitely not what I would have envisioned as a romantic evening when we began dating four years ago...it is much better.

One Of Many

As a newbie to the blogging world, I still have a lot to learn.  Sure, there's the technical stuff like SEO--a mind boggling puzzle with many confusing and mechanical pieces, but also other stuff, like just how vast the Internet ocean is for instance. 

One thing I have learned is that I am not original.  I'm certainly not the first father to blog about his unborn child, or the second or third or even the thousandth.  There are hundreds of thousands of daddy blogs out there, from the streamlined sites that look professionally designed to the basic simpleton like me, plucking on a keyboard in his spare time. 

What I found to be interesting however, is that each one is unique, as no two dads are alike.  With so many different styles ranging from the educational to the, ahem, silly, there seems to be something out there for everyone, and then a few left over.

Single dads, gay dads, married dads, and scared dads….dads in all sorts of arrangements, with blogs that are funny, original, and well written.  They also have one major thing in common--the fear of making mistakes.  Some of these blogs were well established and went back three or four, or even five or six years.  A few caught my eye and I went back to the first posts, reading the progression from terrified, expecting dads to what looked like proud, confident fathers with beautiful pictures of smiling boys and girls.  And this gave me hope.

Instead of feeling small and irrelevant, I feel comforted by the fact that I'm not alone, that what I'm feeling is normal for many fathers.  It seems that there are many of us out there worrying and I actually think that's a good thing, because it means that we care.

I'm very much excited about becoming a father, in fact I haven't been this excited about something since the day my dad gave me a can of Jolt Cola when I was 9 years old, (which I'm sure he immediately regretted). So please, bear with me through my blunders and grammatical errors as I'm still learning how to be a better writer and a better husband, and in three short months, a better father.

Thanks!

Grandpa...

When I was younger, my dad could always be counted on to embarrass my sister.  As she entered her teenage years, it was as if her hand was glued to her forehead as she walked behind the rest of the family with her head down during public outings.  School events, sleepovers, or a trip to the mall would often end with my sister rolling her eyes and covering her face.  Between my dad and me, my sister’s social life often times took a hit.

As a little brother and a constant pest, I found my father’s antics (and my sister's mental discomfort) to be hilarious. Later I learned from my aunts how he had tormented them as a child as well.  Not that they were totally innocent, it seems my family has a long history of pranks and practical jokes throughout the years.

But today my dad is a reserved man who carries himself with dignity and respect.  Often shy and introverted, it takes some poking and prodding to get him to come out of his shell.  See for yourselves, a quick look at the man who raised me:

Here's a picture of Grandpa on a recent shopping trip out on the town.  Looks like he's found a hat and a necklace of some sort.  This is why my sister would stay in the car when we were kids.

And here's another, shortly before security escorted him and Grandma out of the store.  Let's hope that's not a gift for Simon!

He will be a great role model and influence in his grandson’s life, just as he is in mine, teaching him invaluable lessons about fire safety or the art of finding a great deal at the flea market.  But perhaps most importantly, he will teach him all about having fun.  Under adult supervision of course...

Spent

My wife likes to be productive on weekends, and now that she's nesting she's been getting her money's worth.  Friday evening to Sunday night was jam packed with a little bit of everything, dinner with friends, taking down some trees in the backyard, chopping wood, cutting grass, raking leaves, hanging a ceiling fan, shopping, and even squeezing in a cheesy eighties movie on Netflix.  We ended the exhausting weekend Sunday evening with steaks on the grill. (Because I was told Simon needed steak.)

The ceiling fan installation was interesting to say the least.  Taking nearly three hours to complete, things got rather chippy between my wife and I during this team building exercise.  As the third trimester approaches, I'm not sure how I'm going to get her to stay off of her swollen feet.

On Sunday I fell victim to a sneak attack shopping excursion that somehow I didn't see coming. What started as a “quick trip" out just “to grab a few things” turned into me standing in a sea of maternity stretch pants while the theme from The Titanic played loudly overhead.

While my wife was in the fitting room, I began to wander--as I sometimes do, stumbling into the baby section and finding this moose onesie for Simon.

As I stood there with a goofy grin on my face, staring at the little outfit, I heard my name being called from the fitting rooms.  I snapped out of my daze and returned, finding my wife barefoot and pregnant in the store wearing some kind of grill cover brown corduroy stretch pants.

“Well?”  she asked.

 

“How do they feel?”  I replied, staying neutral.

“Good”

“How much are they?”   I asked, as this is how most of my clothing decisions are made.

 

“$50” She said, without looking up to see my overly dramatic expression.

“I don't know, will they even fit in a month?”  This is the only time I will ever in my life be able to get away with this question.

“Well they're stretchy, plus my butt shouldn't get any bigger.”

“Well, it's up to you.”  I mustered, swallowing hard under extreme caution.

Thankfully she decided against the cords, finding two other pairs of stretch pants  that made her happy, they were also on sale which made me happy.  And I did find that outfit for Simon, so that made it all worthwile.  As for these busy weekends, I'm thinking about declaring Sundays Project Free Day, I'll keep you posted on how that turns out...

The Pep Talk...

I don’t think a career as a motivational speaker is in my future.  For one I'm terrified of public speaking (unless you count Karaoke), but more importantly I'm highly ineffective.  I came to this conclusion only recently, after noticing that my wife seemed a bit discouraged after a string of exhausting days and sleepless nights. I decided to act, armed with my knack for never knowing what to say combined with my newly acquired knowledge of all of this pregnancy hormonal stuff, I sat down next to her and like any good coach, attempted to cheer her up with a good old fashioned pep talk. 

Let me just say this, things didn't go as planned. It’s a good thing I wasn’t leading troops into harm’s way, or a football team onto the field because the results would have been ghastly.  In my head this endearing speech concluded with her being inspired to finish the pregnancy with a blitz of enthusiasm, I would give her a smack on the rear and tell her to go get ‘em as she ran back onto the field, (I had a whistle and a headset too).  That's the way I pictured it anyway...

Your doing great!...I'm so proud of you....Only a few more months!...You're in the home stretch now!

I smiled, satisfied with my efforts, carefree and happy.  Look at me, I’ve got a baby boy on the way and all I have to do is wait for him to arrive.  And then I made a big mistake.  Trying to illustrate my feelings and show her that she wasn’t alone in this, I continued, inserting myself into the equation:  One day we’ll look back at this and laugh!

I had used the delicate We.  The hormones that have taken root inside my lovely wife came to life, and like any good coach, I knew it was time to take a knee and head for the bus.

I'm not exactly sure how this whole WE thing works.  Here's what I've gathered. We are not having a baby.  We are not pregnant.  We are not developing stretch marks. 

However, WE do need to clean the house, WE did this to her, and perhaps most importantly, WE do need to know when to stop talking.

The we in pregnancy is tricky.  Sometimes it works, other times it will get you a cold stare from the one who’s really pulling all of the weight (1.5 lbs!).  In the future, I will try to use the we in the correct context, as in WE are still learning how all of this works...

Hidden Agenda

Who am I to question Heidi Murkoff?  Her book has sold over 34 million copies and even been made into a Hollywood movie.  It is an invaluable resource that is helpful, knowledgeable, and a must read for all expecting parents.    

At home, I consider myself involved as much as possible in the pregnancy process, trying my best to overcome fears and prepare for fatherhood.  As I read through this pregancy bible, I've noticed a few things.  There's some pretty harsh language towards men.

Here's an excerpt:

Your baby is growing by leaps and bounds, reaching nine inches in length and passing the pound and a half mark. Under his skin, capillaries are forming and filling with blood and by week's end, air sacs (also lined with capillaries) will develop in his lungs, getting them ready for that first breath.

Did you catch that?  Very subtle but it's there. Sometimes you have to read between the lines. Here’s what I got out of it:

While you continue to sacrifice your body, expending energy as you create the tiny miracle growing inside of you, your man-child husband contributes nothing.  He lies on the couch, sprawled out watching football while contributing nothing to the cause.  If you had a real man he would understand your feelings and offer to massage your feet while baking brownies in the oven.  He would feed you grapes by hand, fanning your flushed face in between vacuuming the house during the commercials breaks of the Lifetime marathon, He's Guilty!

There is a slight chance that I may be reading into this a bit more than I should, but I think I'm on to something here.  What to Expect?  More like What is Expected.  Now if you'll excuse me I have a batch of brownies to check on...

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Handy Man...

Unfortunately, my son will not be blessed with a father who's a carpenter.  I've never been exceptionally adroit (Ha, word of the day on my dictionary app) with a hammer. When it comes time to build that tree house let’s hope he isn’t looking for quality ingenuity.  I have improved out of necessity after buying a foreclosed house, but I’m never going to be the tool belt wearing handyman who builds a deck on the weekends. 

Recently, when we went to put the crib together, I took it out of the box and was relieved to see that there were only six or seven parts to be assembled.  Even I can’t screw this up, I thought.  Well….

I managed to get the thing together in record time and had a few screws left over in the process. As my wife and I took a step back to take a look, we both noticed the large sticker that said INSIDE BOTTOM.  Oops.

Eventually, under my wife's watchful eye, I was able to get everything assembled, even tossing the dog into it to make sure it was sturdy enough to hold a newborn.  I'm kidding, although now I'm starting to think it may be a good idea, I don't want my son's first night home to be a disaster due to his father's shabby craftsmanship.

 

Stuff My Wife Says..Vol I

Once again I'll go to the endless well of material that is my wife.  She is especially amusing when it comes to a good quote, every day she says something that makes me laugh, sometimes intentionally, other times not so much.  Being pregnant has only enhanced her ability to butcher a song title or come up with a zinger.

For instance, the other day, after trying on a couple of maternity shirts that had arrived in the mail, she seemed discouraged.  

"What’s wrong?"  I asked, noticing her annoyance.   

“This shirt looked much cuter on the mannequin.”  She replied, flapping her arms.

Now I'm not sure how a headless, anorexic pregnant mannequin looked cute, but I kept this to myself.

At times I have to hide my laughter because she’s completely serious.  Here are a few other gems from this weekend:

When I asked about old Christmas cards:  “Either keep them or throw them away.”  As opposed to donating the cards, with our picture on them, to the Goodwill

When she picked up my new Iphone:  “I can take a picture and text it!”  This is a special feature that has only been around for twelve to fifteen years.

When she was unhappy with a picture of her I posted on facebook:  “It’s because you were sitting down when you took the picture.”  It's all about the angles...

Looking at the elderly neighbor’s tall grass a few houses up from our house:  “I think we should cut his grass this week.”  We also need to give her a back massage...

Feeling our dog’s ears this morning as we woke up:  “We may need to get him some ear muffs.”  I’m 90% sure she was kidding on this one, but if I see my dog wearing a furry pair of ear warmers I won’t be totally surprised.

These are just a few of the things my wife says that keep me laughing.  Whether intentional or not, it’s just another entry on the long list of reasons of why I will be forever entertained by this wonderful woman. 

New Tricks..

We have two dogs and a cat.  The cat stays outside most of the time and is very low maintenance.  Our oldest dog Bruce, is an easy going 6 year old lab mix who likes to eat and take naps.   

 

But then there’s Mason. Not quite two years old, he's part Husky and part God only knows what. Mason is pure bred crazy and a full-time mess, a tongue wagging terror with the energy of a hummingbird washing down speed pills with Red Bull. 

                                

He's up at 7 every morning and stays full steam ahead until 9pm when he falls down and goes promplty to sleep, or as we say, charges.  He's eccentric, quirky, and extremely active, or as his want ad would read: full of life! Not that I've ever thought about it in my head.

But sometimes I do worry what will happen when we welcome a little one home in a few months, I’m not sure what kind of progress we can make in such a short time as I thought we would be just a little further along in the maturity department by now.

At night, he climbs into our bed and  sleeps at our feet (I know, it's our fault for letting it go on for far too long). My wife, in an effort to get him to sleep on the floor, bought him his very own dog bed, just like his brother Bruce.  But something tells me he didn't like that idea...

He is a dog that only we could love, and I suppose that's why he's still with us.  I'm not sure anyone else would put up with him.  As bad as he can be, it's hard to stay mad at him when he curls up next to me, looking up with his bright blue eyes as if to say, Man you're a sucker...

So as our life with Mason goes on, our progress slow but detectable--at least to us. My wife has taught him a few tricks and is optimistic about what the future holds. As we continue to work with him, I will continue to hope for a miracle, that his 2nd birthday brings disipline, calmness, and obedience...or at least two out of the three.

 



 

 

The Versatile Blogger Award!

Being very new to the blogging world, I didn't check my blog for three whole days.  So what did I miss?  An award!  Blogger extraordinaire (and Anderson Cooper star) Julie DeNeen awarded me (and others) the Versatile Blogger Award!  Being one of those people who never win anything, I was delighted to find this honor had been bestowed upon my clueless little blog.  Thanks Jule, your tireless energy and witty projects are an inspiration to us all!

As part of the deal, I get to nominate up to 15 fellow bloggers.  Here's one. 

Zanzibar Life

Discover the beauty of this East African island through the eyes of an American looking for a simpler life.

My cousin Christine lives in Zanzibar with her husband and two small children.  Follow her remarkable journey as her blog posts are a refreshing perspective of living simply in today's fast paced world.

Also part of the deal, I have to write 7 things about myself.  Bear with me, I'm not that interesting.

1. I'm terrified of becoming a parent. (The responsibility of making sure he turns out okay)
2. I write on a blog yet I'm too shy to tell anyone about it.
3. I can't read a tape measure
4. I'm 37.  Sometimes I behave like a 7 years old, while other times I behave like I'm 77.
5. When I'm with Democrat friends I become conservative and when I'm with Republican friends I argue liberal points, I like to stir the pot.
6. My stepmother is an award winning author who has published 18 books, that's who I call for writing advice.
7. My wife is an amazing woman and an excellent sport about the whole blog thing.  (That or she knows only five people read it)

So once again, thanks to everyone out there in blogland, see you around!

The Boss...

Recently, while far away from my wife, I Googled Does being pregnant make you bossy?  I found no definite answer but instead managed to find results that made me feel like jerk.   Scrolling down the screen, I spotted words such as hormones, swollen, weight gain, and other adverse effects of carrying a baby.  With all of this happening to my wife's body, I’m feeling down? 

Let me explain, here are a few examples of the plight of the expecting father:

I am no longer a husband.  I am the man who did this to her. As she puts her anti-stretch-mark-cream on her belly I can feel a chill up my spine from her ice cold stare.  Where is the Glow?

She will change her mind in a second without notice and then I am to adapt on the fly to her fleeting wishes.  A pregnant woman’s logic, however skewed, is not to be questioned.

I am never, ever to complain about being uncomfortable, sick, or upset until I try caring my big-headed baby around every day.

As soon as a discarded item hits the trash bag the garbage stinks and therefore must be taken outside.  She has the sense of smell of an English Foxhound.  The other day she smelled a picture of an orange.

My already irritating habit of leaving kitchen cabinets open is now a capital offense, punishable by 30 tongue lashings and a cold shoulder.

If I want to sleep in the bed with her I had better cling to the edge and wear a gas mask not use any covers.

And finally, last night I was on the customer service line with Target in regards to a crib (Thanks Grandma and Grandpa!) we received with a broken part.  Having worked customer service long ago, I always try to be as patient and polite as possible.  My wife circled as I spoke, ready to pounce while asking questions and instructing me on what to say. I tried to pleasantly gather information from the agent on the phone, while trying to listen to my wife at the same time.  After a half hour of this I was exasperated, I snuck into the other room, looking both ways down the hall as I whispered, Listen lady, we can do this the easy way or the hard way, we have to work together… trust me, you don’t want me to hand the phone over to my wife!