The Day I Learned...

  

I can’t say I was shocked. Surprised, yes. Sweaty? Very. But not shocked.

It was evening, back in the day of few responsibilities. When I look back on this life-changing encounter with my wife, it’s boggling to think of all the free time. Floating around, there for the taking…Okay, sorry, where were we? Surprised. Right.

I’d just come back from basketball and stumbled upon an extremely frazzled woman sitting at the edge of the couch. Upon further inspection I noticed that that woman was my wife. She told me to sit down, then after some fidgeting, “Wait, take a shower first.”

I shot her a look. Something was up. Did she get a raise? No, as a public school teacher that line of thinking falls squarely in the joke category. And she wasn’t exactly smiling. So I took a shower, my mind racing with possibilities of what was coming. My wife isn’t prone to getting worked up. She’s not a fidgeter. That's my department. She’s the even in our keel, so to see her all red faced and breathing funny it had to be good. Or bad. It could be bad...

“Okay, what?” I asked, my physique shimmering in the glow of dusk. Whatever, this is my depiction, here. My wife pointed to the couch. 

"Sit.”

I sat.

“So….” She gave me a look. Like I was missing something. I sorted through my thoughts. I really gotta get my jump shot back on track.

“I’m pregnant.”

Wait. “Huh?"

More staring.

“Are you sure?"

More staring, this time with a look I've since deciphered to mean: You're an idiot. 

“Yep.”

Elation. A thrill of joy I will never forget. A family. This is great. Although we have/had that Jamaica trip planned, but…A Kid!

The reason I wasn’t shocked was because a few months prior we’d passed by the nearby CVS. My wife had mentioned that she needed to refill her birth control. I’ll never forget sitting at that light. Turn left and get the pills. Go straight and pull the goalie.

The light turned green and I plunged ahead, thus sacking the goalie. Man, such a rebel. But honestly I didn’t feel that rebellious. I was thirty-six and I don’t know how else to put this but I really didn’t think my stuff worked. We went about our business. Trying but not trying. The last thing I wanted to do was tell the world, “Hey guess what? We’re trying to have a baby!”

So on that couch I was less than shocked but more than surprised. And that euphoria that hit when she told me she was pregnant? Well, it lasted through most of that initial embrace. Goosebumps hit like a pad of bristles under my skin. My mind flooded with the happiest happy I’ve ever experienced in my life until that point.

Then it was gone.

An immense fear followed. It engulfed me like an itchy wool cloak of uncertainty. A human. A real, walking talking, pooping human. My human. I would be responsible for seeing that it was fed and clothed and didn’t like soccer (I’m kidding, he can like soccer). On top of that I had to raise it so that it wouldn’t grow up and be a serial killer. And then, after being sure that my well-fed, clothed, moderate-to-decently-raised human wasn't a career criminal, I had to hope and pray he wouldn't cross paths with a serial killer. Phew. It's not easy living in this mind of mine.

“Are you okay?”

I nodded. What in the hell was I thinking? That goalie had been the only thing keeping my fragile mind at ease. Now I was freefalling. This wasn’t like picking out a dog. Where you go to the kennel and pick out that cute little mutt. I was great with dogs. Throw the stick and the fetch the stick. This was different.

That week was a blur. Me. A father. How would this work? Everything was about to change. Alternating voices controlled my thoughts.

Everyone has kids. It’s part of life. No big deal. HUGE DEAL. YOUR KID IS GOING TO BE A BABY FRANKENSTEIN. WHAT IN THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING? YOU CAN HARDLY TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF!!!

And since that day, this has been the ongoing struggle...

I told my friends (Ha, I had friends!). Had a few guys over and we had some beers. I broke out the news. At that point my joy in becoming a dad overpowered my anxiety. But not for long. Something happened to me. 

Up until then I thought panic attacks were something the paper bag companies came up with to spike sales. But it was no joke, I’d wake up sweating, my pulse racing and my breaths light. I'd bolt out of bed, pacing, swearing it was the big one. 

Then it happened again. Wake up, bolt upright. Shortness of breath, cold feet. Sweating. It happened so frequently that I finally saw a doctor. A few test and he assured that everything was fine. Calm down.

I calmed. I quit smoking. I watched my sugar intake.. I went a little crazy and started drinking organic apple cider vinegar. (I’d read that it helped, sorta).

Again, my doctor assured me I was fine. He told me not to come back for two years. He refused to be facebook buddies with me. He pointed from his heart to his head and said, "I’m not so sure the problem is here, but here.”

I babystepped my way out of his office, officially labeled a headcase by a physician. My wife laughed out loud.

The next few months were peaceful. We planned. I started a blog to document my craziness. I found out we were having a boy. I was still scared but I had no choice but to answer the call. We were going to have a family.

And now here we are...

Book Smarts...

Recently, I went to the library to pick up a few instructional books and managed to thoroughly confuse myself. There is no shortage of books out there to educate the masses on the art of raising a baby.  Babywise, What to expect, Happiest baby, and many more of these books line the shelves, each with its own take on raising a well behaved baby.  I checked out three, no four, wanting to cover my bases.  But as I look through the mystery stained pages, I’m more convinced than ever that my baby is never going to be normal.

These books have different ways of doing one thing, sticking to a schedule.  Sleep, eat, play.  My dog does this too, but also squeeze in time to sniff the cat's  butt. (Wait, do kids do that too?)  These books stress rigid routines and schedules, and some of them are not shy about explaining the consequences if that schedule isn't followed.  I’m already quite neurotic, and if you haven’t noticed, my imagination likes to run wild.

I imagined my son after being raised on unscheduled feedings. He's left free to roam without the all important structure in his life.  Combine his mother’s stubbornness and any of my laundry list of afflictions, he will quickly become a nightmare.  A screaming demon child who lashes out because he played after sleeping, or even worse, played while eating. I'll only have myself to blame because I didn’t stick to the schedule.  What will become of him then?  The consequences could be devastating.

Somewhere there’s a lost interview with Jack the Ripper’s mother berating Mr. Ripper for not following the feeding rules or waketime.

I’m not saying this stuff doesn’t work, I’m sure it does, actually I have no idea.  But my wife has something that I don’t.  Common Sense?  Well yes, but also a motherly instinct.  As I read passages from these books to her, more often than not she’s able finish the paragraph for me, laughing as I stare at her in amazement.  It's as if there is some secret code that nobody bothered to mention to me. And I'm beginning to thing that she just might know how to take care of what’s growing inside her.

But I'll continue to read the book.  And who knows? It just may make a parent out of me yet.  That'll show her!


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A quick look at the countdown:

Looking at this makes me realize....that I need to charge my phone!

The Belly



WPClipart.com

As we approach week 38, my wife’s belly has been issued its own zip code.  It swallows shirts and collects dust off of tables.  It attracts, pulling in paint, dirt, and any other substances that come near its gravitational pull.  It’s a force to be reckoned with, fighting zippers and buttons in its quest to be open and free.  It’s round and robust, and it usually arrives a few seconds before my wife walks into the room.

At some point during the 2nd trimester, my wife's body was hijacked, starting with a cute little bump that showed up one morning.  It continued to grow and swell and now it's like a hardened shell. It's like a bumper, coming between us during.....relax, I was going to say hugs.  It doubles as a table, (she makes a mean peanut butter and jelly shirt). 

It makes bending tricky, sleeping difficult, and comfort impossible.  Simple things that I take for granted are out of the question for my wife, like say, tying shoes. It hides things, last night it swallowed a remote control. On a recent trip to Lowes, I thought about suggesting a wheelbarrow for lugging it around, but I value sleeping in the house, and let’s face it, I get away with far too much on this blog anyway.

But through it all, as her belly has swollen beyond anything I would have thought possible, I can’t help but look at it and smile, because I know what's inside, or at least I think I do.  I enjoy talking to her belly, or guessing what body part I’m feeling.  At this stage my wife is ready to be done,as she feels bloated and disgusting.  But I think its sexy.  My wife, her belly, and our child.

Dreaming...

I’m teetering, unable to pull myself up on  the cliff as my fragile grip crumbles on the ledge.  I remain still, careful.  Any movement may disrupt the delicate hold I have on my balance.  In the distance I hear a buzzing sound, faint, but growing.  I glance down, into the staggering depths below, panicking as I realize my darkest fears.  

I watch in horror as my grasp begins to slide, and I begin to relinquish any hopes of survival. The buzzing has grown to a deafening roar, grinding and sawing, it breathes warm spurts of hellish thunder on my face as it looms over me.  I have to make a choice, the end is near…until. 

My eyes snap open, I’m holding a fistful of sheet while clutching the end of the mattress.  With one foot on the floor, I catch my breath as I realize I won't be plummeting to my death.  My wife lies on top of me, breathing heavy snores into my ear.  I start to ease out of bed, ever so gently as not to wake her. I make my move to the guest room down the hall, to my sweet sleep sanctuary. Suddenly the snoring stops, I hear my wife maneuvering out of bed for her hourly bathroom visit.

"Was I snoring again?”  She asks, disoriented.

"Maybe just a little…" I answer, wiping the sweat from my brow.

Found!

I am happy to announce that my wedding ring has been found, placing me back in the good graces of my wife. The good news came when I received a call from a coworker who had found the ring that I lost two weeks ago while he was on vacation. 

Where was it you ask?  Safely tucked away at the bottom of a paper tray in the printer of course!  My wife is very pleased to say the least, and I’m happy I don’t have to shell out the extra cash for a new wedding band.  

But I may need to get this thing fitted, it’s loose and wobbly and I'm beginning to think I have shrunk. Without the slightest regard to what I was actually saying,I told my wife it must be due to the weight I’ve lost during the pregnancy.  This remark was not well received and may have negated any points I earned for finding the ring.  It seems that some of us take the long road to enlightenment...

Holding...

Kind of stuck at this point, I feel like everyday life has come to a grinding halt as my wife and I hover over the runway in a holding pattern.  We watch movies, hangout with the dogs, and otherwise, well, wait.  We may need to get out of the house, but we're not quite sure where to go.

Planning any type of outing takes strategic timing and maneuvering.  Road trips are out of the question.  Fatigue can set in at any moment, so we have to be prepared.  One minute my wife is racing through the house, folding baby clothes before rearranging furniture in the nursery, bustling with energy while racing up and down the hall.  And then suddenly all is quiet, I find her on the couch, dead to the world, sleeping through another fascinating case of Law & Order.  Just how many episodes of this how exist? 

On Saturday, I found myself talking to the little guy in her belly, singing songs and telling stories--which may be giving him second thoughts about coming out.  We placed our bets as to his arrival.  I’m thinking it’s going to be a couple of weeks, which means two things.  His mother will become increasingly unbearable uncomfortable, and I will work myself into a neurotic mess as I continue to think about D-day.  This is how I spend my weekends.

I did get my truck cleaned up on Sunday, as I prepare to sell my manhood for something more, uh, baby friendly.  Actually this decision didn't bother me at all, as I look forward to seeing a babyseat in the rearview mirror.

So goes our life during these days of anticipating and planning, with each day passing as we wait.  My weekends have changed drastically, as I kicked things off Friday by watching the baby care dvd we received during our class, only this time I didn’t laugh.  With my wife catching up on her lesson plans, I watched intently, unable to control myself from saying "aww" as the little baby took his first breaths. I’m kidding of course, I watched arm wrestling on Spike Tv, drinking beer and eating a raw steak, smoking a cigar while curling cinderblocks with my free hand.  I’m still a man, I think.

Quick Thoughts...

Week 36 is here.  Yesterday, my wife went to the doctor for her now weekly check-up.  It seems our little beano is doing just fine and could stay put for up to 5 more weeks.  I’m hoping for two, my wife is hoping for yesterday.  His head has dropped and he’s in position, confirming that yes, that was his little rear end we felt the other night after dinner.

He’s an active little guy, wriggling and moving in his cramped quarters, causing his mother a bit of discomfort at times.  The nurses have tried to guess his weight upon arrival, one has said to expect an 8lb baby, the other said 6lbs.  We’ll go with 7.

My protective instincts are kicking in too.  Over the weekend we went to see Lincoln, impressive considering it was 2.5 hours long.  During the previews, which involved many loud scenes with explosions and gun shots, my wife put her hand on her belly and whispered that our son was bouncing and jerking.  Well that was all I needed to hear as I was ready to leave, or ask the theatre to take it down a notch when she grabbed my hand, shaking her head no. 

On a side note, I hope I never become that parent, the one who writes letters to the editor, complaining about a loud rock concert downtown after dark, or starts a petition to have all sharp edges removed from knives.

Anyway, I can’t believe that the end is in sight, or rather the beginning.  It’s been one heck of a ride, and now I’ve focused my worries on the delivery.  Deep breaths...I wonder if they offer men’s Lamaze classes, or if it’s to late to attend?  The other day I said something to my wife about how the stress of the upcoming labor was getting to me....yeah I'm an idiot. 

Knocked up, New Year’s Eve, and Pee Pants.

Wow, still recovering from last night.  Things got a bit fuzzy after dark. I remember enjoying delicious homemade calzones, watching a movie, and falling asleep well before the ball ever dropped.  What a night!

The movie Knocked Up was on, and I must say, watching it with my pregnant wife gave it a completely different feel.  Instead of just another silly comedy, I found myself relating more to the baby book references, the doctor’s visits, and the conversations about pregnancy than the crude guy humor I remember enjoying so much.  And still do of course...

After the movie, we briefly tuned in for the party going on in Time’s Square, both of us thinking how lucky we were to be on the couch instead of out in the cold watching performers we would have passed on the street without a second thought.  By 10pm my wife was out, spending the waning moments of 2012 in a snoring slumber.  I didn’t fair much better, my eyes growing heavy as 11 rolled around. Adios 2012.

In the morning we woke up, and I immediately began stripping down the tree, happy to reclaim the living room that had been held hostage by the barrage of Christmas decorations since Thanksgiving. Then it was time for the dog’s run.  My wife wanted to join us and I was glad she wanted to come along, except that, well she's very pregnant, and slow. 

She waddled along admirably, and I commend her for her stubbornness stick-to-itiveness, but I tend to worry about her well being.  Not to mention the bathroom breaks.  The other day after using the bedroom bathroom, she made it as far as halfway down the hallway before stopping at the other bathroom to pee.  I was genuinely shocked as I watched it happen. 

And it's no different with the dogs.  On the trails she’ll drop trou like a woman who has long since abandoned any worries of what others may think.  When she has to go to, there's no question about when she's going.  I stand on the trails, leash in hand, bowing my head in defeat when she tells me she peed her pants just a little bit.  Pee pants, a term that is used much too frequently in our house, much more frequently than say, lingerie.

Dear Simon,

I've dreamed about meeting you since the moment I learned of your existence.  And as the date draws near, I'm counting down the days until I can hold you in my arms. But for the time being, if you don’t mind, could you try to take it easy on your mother?

If you're anything like me, and your mother says you are, I’m sure you’re getting a tad bit restless as you hear all of the commotion going on the outside.  Not to mention how claustrophobic it must be getting in there.  But Mom is having quite the time with you and the number you've done on her feet, back, wrists, and pretty much everything else.  She misses her body and wants it back (I of course love her body just the way it is).

I know it’s not your fault, trust me, your mother has made it quite clear where the blame lies.  I’m glad you’re growing and active as you prepare to make your grand entrance, but maybe you could ease up on her bladder just a bit.  She’s not getting much sleep these nights, and when she does it can be a bit terrifying.  She snores and moans, sometimes speaking in tongues that frighten your father.  But this isn't about me, I usually just head down to the other room and fall into a deep, uninterrupted sleep until morning, often times receiving a cold stare from your very tired mother as I wake up refreshed and chipper.

Anyways, she’s lugged you around for so long now, and both you and her have done so well.  Soon enough, it will be my turn to share the load.  We’ll have to work together when you get home, maybe we can figure out some sort of schedule.  I'll make you a deal, if you take it easy on us, I will see to it you never have to wear some of the more hideous clothes your mother wants to dress you in.  Yeah, they're that bad...

But I’m jumping ahead; what I really wanted to address is this whole labor thing.  Let's play a game, the goal is to make this process as smooth as possible.  For your mother’s sake let's try to set some sort of smooth birthing record.  I'm sure you must have some concerns about the whole thing yourself--which you will no doubt voice once you're out--but I think if the two of you remain calm during the delivery, we will all be fine.   After all, Dad will be doing enough freaking out for everybody.

So enjoy the warm and cozy confines of the womb for the next few weeks.  I’ll enjoy these last few weeks of sleep and try to deal with your mother as the nesting stage has arrived.  I’m looking forward to our face to face in the near future, and just remember, remain calm and head for the light.  Safe travels and I’ll see you soon.

Love,

Dad

Counting Down

At 32 weeks, it’s a little late in the game to be getting cold feet, but as the weeks fly by and the due date inches closer and closer, I find myself questioning if I’m ready for all of this.  Am I cut out to be a parent?  Just the other week used the term “milking the baby”.

Before it was all fun at games, well for me at least.  My wife’s little belly started to poke out, we were playing the name game, and planning the baby shower.  But now, as the trips to the doctor are becoming more frequent, her feet swell up like cantaloupes, and her energy has been depleted, I am constantly reminded that this will be happening soon.

The other night as I watched my wife get up to pee, sit down, and then get up to pee, it suddenly occurred to me--this whole pregnancy thing has suddenly gotten really real.

I know I know, man up right?  Stop whining while your wife is doing all of the work.  Trust me, I understand that I’ve got the easy job, but I’m supposed to be the man of the house, unafraid and strong, the protector.  I'm also just a bit nervous about this whole thing.  Because as the nursery is nears completion, and my coworkers say things like Oh wait until _____ happens! I'm beginning to get a little unravelled.

I try to shake it off, everything's normal, but then I watch my wife take more pee breaks than Willie Nelson trying to pass a drug test and I realize that in the not so distant future, after the Briggs and Stratton turn into real contractions, I will be driving her to the hospital, a nervous wreck, knowing that my life will never be the same again.

The Romantic

In the kitchen, my wife and I are both in pajamas.  She’s making a grilled cheese sandwich and I’m reheating Lasagna.  Nothing special, it’s Saturday night and we are both enjoying the night in. 

She’s wearing my Virginia sweatshirt and it stirs a memory from our dating days.  It was a different kitchen and different circumstances, but the same sweatshirt.  It was a Saturday night and our relationship was new and promising.  Good friends were visiting and we were enjoying drinks, conversation and most of all, each other’s company.  The sparks were flying as it was the start of a budding romance that was destined to change both of our lives forever.

Today, the sweatshirt is a little tighter as her belly has swelled to accommodate our son. Soon he will be here and I’ll look back and remember these little moments of passing in the kitchen.  I smile at my wife with a twinkle in my eye, the memory still fresh in my mind as I’m about to tell her how lucky I feel. We have come so far together and I look forward to what the future holds.  I lean over to kiss her on the cheek when……she passes gas. 

She’s unashamed and indifferent to the shocked look on my face.  She’s reached the point of no return; the point when caring has long since ceased to exist. If I have a problem with it I'd better get over it quickly. This is a woman fully engulfed in the dog days of pregnancy. Her wrists hurt and her back aches. Her feet are swollen gobs of puffiness and she has to pee yet again, so if I want to romanticize things I will just have to use my imagination.  

Male Pregnancy Hormones - What's Going On?

I’ve been reading about the changes men undergo during pregnancy.  Yes, men.  Although I fully understand that we get the better end of the pregnancy deal, it seems that we do in fact, go through some changes as well.  As the female hormones run rampant in my wife's body,  I was surprised to find that--in an effort to prepare for my role as nurturer--my levels of testosterone, competitiveness, and aggression will continue to decrease by roughly a third once the baby is here.  

Maybe this explains why I’ve hardly watched any football in the past month.  Or the fact that I was really excited about watching Christmas movies last weekend.  I'm not saying that I've become feminine, but this morning I caught myself performing “jazz hands” while getting dressed for work. 

It all makes sense now, last week when I found myself thinking that my truck was impractical, or the other day when I thought I could really go for a salad.  Words such as cute or adorable, have replaced grunts or mumbling.  What is happening to me? 

I’m even planning artsy craftsy projects.  Over the weekend, I bought a wooden plane for the baby's room that I plan on painting.  What’s wrong with that you ask?  An expectant father planning a project for his son. Well nothing, until...

“You’re going to paint?”  My wife asked, following up with, “You’re going to spend more than two minutes on something and pay attention to detail?”

“Yep, I’m going to paint the wings red, and maybe put some stripes on them.  Not sure about the propeller…”  I caught myself coordinating the color scheme of the plane with the curtains.  Dear God, how did this happen?

I’m very comfortable with myself, but some of these feelings are very new to me.  I’m excited, very excited, and now if it wasn’t enough to have a pregnant woman in the house, in a way we have two.

I may not be showing, and I'm pretty sure I'm not carrying a baby, but how am I supposed to interact with other males without blurting out which exfoliating cream was on sale last weekend?  I'm not far away from the following scenario:

“Hey Pete did you see the game Saturday?”

“No, but you know what I did catch?  The commercial-free airing of A Princess For Christmas on The Hallmark Channel.  It was adorable!”

Okay, hopefully it never gets that bad, but I did watch Home Alone instead of football on a Saturday night, (My team had just lost to its rival and is out of the post-season anyway), while eating ice cream on the couch with my wife.  We were only a cucumber facial mask away from a pajama party sleepover...

Oh well,  I suppose I’ve never been the manliest of men anyway.  I don’t hunt, I don’t watch UFC, and I have a blog; so maybe the hormones didn’t need much help to begin with.

Standing Firm...

Last night my wife and I went to the nearby hospital for a tour of the maternity center.  We joined six or seven other expectant couples and in between pee breaks, we familiarized ourselves with the area. 

Our tour guide led us to the front desk, the delivery room, the recovery room, and everything in between while also going over procedures and protocols that were standard and in compliance with many regulations that I did not pay full attention to.

While in the recovery room, which was very nice and almost resembled more of a hotel room than hospital, our instructor informed us that it was here that our baby would be ready for his pictures and, for those having boys, circumcising. 

Here we go...

My wife raised her hand--or she may not have, actually I'm certain that she didn't--and asked:  

“Do both parents have to sign the consent form?”  Twelve heads whipped around towards us in unison, trying to locate the source of such an odd question.

My face, elevated from it's normal stand by shade of semi pale to an immediate code red, was now flushed and broadcasted what could be described as a pleasant scowl.

“Uh, no just one.”  The instructor answered, her tone pleasant and neutral.

This did little to mitigate my wife's concern, as she looked back at me with helpless resignation, as if she were touring a puppy mill.  I stood stoically behind her, attempting to put forth the look of the strong silent type, praying silently that she wouldn't start her tangent about mutilation and cruelty.

“I think nearly 90% of parents opt for the circumcision.” The instructor went on,  but this did little to satisfy my wife.  She mumbled something to the effect of not in Africa, which I didn’t understand nor acknowledge because I didn’t feel like having this ongoing debate in front of an audience.

And it has been a debate.  This is the only decision I have been adamant about.  My wife thinks it’s cruel and will cause unnecessary harm to our son.  I counter by telling her that I’m the expert in this department.  I don’t remember it, it’s done quickly and then it’s over with.

For those who aren’t circumcised or have elected not to circumcise their sons, that is fine too.  This just happens to be the one thing I request, and I don't feel that it's too much.

My wife finally let it pass, and we continued the short tour without incident.  I’m sure that this won’t be the first time we don’t see eye to eye on decisions for our son, and I’m sure she will more often than not get her way.