Day 52: Start spreading the news

So this weekend I officially made it officially official to my family that we’re pregnant. My parents already knew, so all that was left was to tell my sister and her husband. So, I guess another way of saying this is, “I told my sister this weekend we’re pregnant.”  There. Much more concise.

Anyway, I’m a guy, and I’m not a big phone person with my family. That’s what us guys do. We leave the nest, and we start our own nest, and we’re not real big into chatting up our siblings. We’re like mammals on the Serengeti in that way.

So I probably haven’t called my sister in … oh… gosh… at least 4 years. Maybe 5. Actually, I think I remember the last time I voluntarily called my sister. I’m nearly positive it was December of 2002, or January of 2003.

So I chose to spread the news in a modern way… via email. Is that probably not kosher? Would Miss Manners disapprove? Yeah, probably. But, I’ve never been one for putting salad forks next to dinner forks in the proper order and all that stuff. (In fact, if it wasn’t for my wife, I wouldn’t send out birthday or holiday cards to my own parents. She handles all of that, and I just sign along the dotted line.) So email was “good ’nuff” as far as I was concerned.

But as is my way, I used comedy to mask my slight breech of social etiquette. Here is the email I sent…

So it’s official… we’re preggo. (Well, mostly [name of wife] more than me.) We don’t know the sex yet, and are hoping to not find out. (Ever.)  The due date is either June 4th, 6th or 12th (depending on which ultrasound you believe.)  And as best we can tell on the ultrasounds, there are two legs, two arms, and no flippers. [name of wife] is roughly 12 weeks along.

Mom & Dad already know, but we wanted to wait to tell everyone else until we neared the end of the first trimester. And so far… except for some all-day “morning” sickness for the past 4 weeks… things are progressing well.

We’re pretty sure I’m the father.

Love, me

Day 51:

“In the jungle, the mighty jungle, the lion sleeps tonight.”

Did you know that, on average, lions sleep 16-20 hours a day? As it turns out, so do pregnant women. That’s scientific fact, and you can’t argue with facts. Or pregnant women. Hey-oh!

Seriously though. My wife has always enjoyed sleeping in. I’m much more of a morning person. Sleeping in for me is 8am. Sleeping in for my wife– 11am or noon. Or 3pm.

Okay, that was a bit of hyperbole. Actually, my wife hasn’t been sleeping longer since she’s been pregnant… she’s been in bed longer, but sleeping less. The poor thing is having a hard time falling asleep and staying asleep. Me? I’m out 3.5 seconds after my head hits the pillow. But lately, she is having a hard time getting to sleep. And then, like clockwork — and this no hyperbole, she gets up every single night at some time between 3 and 4am and goes to the bathroom.

The last week we’ve gone to bed between 9pm and 9:45pm every single night. That’s pretty early for us. We used to be 10:30-11:30 goinger-to-beds. The change is fine by me, I’m getting lots of sleep. (But now I wake up at 6am or 7am. I’ve learned that my body is quite content after about 8 hours of sleep. Literally, at the 8 hour mark, I’m awake. I’m up. I can physically no longer stay in bed.)

But even though my wife is going to bed early, she’s getting less sleep. But man, can she nap. During weekdays she can’t nap, ‘cuz she’s at work. (So instead she just listlessly pushes paper around her desk to appear busy.) But on weekends… mmm mmm mmm… girlfriend… She can nap like nobody’s business. Last Sunday I think she got up around 10am, I think she was back down at 11am, slept through most of the morning NFL games, was up for lunch, and back down around 2pm.

No complaints here though. That gives me more time to veg and watch football and play Halo.

Day 50: Dream a Little Dream

Yesterday I was traveling, while my wife had another OB done. When I got home, she showed me the picture (you can see it in yesterday’s post)… and it actually looked like a little human!

So what does my brain go and do last night? It had me dream my first dream about Peanut being born! Kind of a weird dream… (aren’t they always)… but it involved (and I swear to God I’m not making this part up)… making out with Alison Janney (don’t ask)… and then she was singing the “I tried To Do Handstands for You” song (called “Bruises” by the way) by Chairlift. (Which is another thing weird about my dreams: I always dream about things I’ve previously seen or heard. Some people get premonitions, but I always get… postmonitions.)

So in my dream, I ran outside to tell my wife– “Oh my goodness… Alison Janney is in here singing! You’ve got to see this…”  And she was standing in a green field by a red hatchback car (why I remember these vivid colors, I have no idea). And she turns to me, and she was holding Peanut!

Now here’s the possible premonition part… Peanut was in a dress! BUT… I distinctly remember this… she was in a light blue dress. Talk about mixed signals! Stupid brain. Although I remember thinking in my dream, “Heh, that’s kinda funny.”

So I said to my wife, “Is it a girl?” And she said yes. And then I went to hold Peanut, but Peanut backed away and said, “Don’t touch me.”  Great. And even though she sort of mumbled it in baby talk, in my dream, I remember thinking, “Wait a minute. Are newborns supposed to be able to talk? Must be all that fish oil my wife has been taking!”  And eventually Peanut let me hold her. And then she vomited pink goo on me.

So there you go. Per that dream, Peanut is a girl. I told my wife and she said she currently feels like it is a boy. So looks like I better have two outfits ready… a light blue dress for a girl, and pink pants for a boy.

Day 49: Whoa… it’s a… human!

I had to skip from Day 44, to Day 49 to catch myself back up in real time. It’s hard to come up with something baby related every day of the week; especially when the baby is the size of a lime. (Thank YOU BabyCenter.com for your ongoing reminder of what food my baby resembles most in size this week.)

But today I legitimately have some actual baby news. My wife had a “sequential screening” test today, where they take some ultrasounds looking at thickness of the yolk sack and some other factors that determine genetic risk. And she was poked to get some blood. (Yuck.)

OB of our baby at 12 weeks.

But, on the bright side — we got a new photo of Peanut to share! And wouldjya look at that… Peanut is actually starting to look like a tiny human. You can make out her left arm curled up by her left ear, and it’s harder to tell, but you can barely see the right arm doing the same thing. And her legs are visible too. (Although there appears to be a gap between her feet and her legs… so either she has magic floating feet, or her legs end in pointy little stumps, or the ultrasound just couldn’t “see” the whole legs clearly.)

Oh, by the way– my wife doesn’t like it when I make jokes about malformities in our baby, because she feels karma will repay me somehow. So, for the record, “I [Name Withdrawn for Purposes of Public Blog], do hereby swear that I wish no undue harm, deformation, or any other malady against my unborn child. I want a healthy and happy baby.”

There. That should cover my bases, just in case.

Anyway, the OB tech also said the cranium was forming well, which is a good sign that there are no neural tube defects. That’s good. Everyone needs a well-formed cranium, right?

By the way, my wife just pointed out that I’m writing “she” in all my sentences in today’s blog. This will be explained in tomorrow’s blog.

Day 44: The Most Smartest Baby

My latest mission in Operation Most Awesome Pregnancy Ever (MAPE), is to ensure my wife gets the requisite amount of protein and fruits/vegetables. She’s been getting all the vitamins she needs on a daily basis, but my latest goal is to make sure she’s also getting 7 servings of fruits and vegetables daily. Plus her protein.

OJ in the morning is an easy one. 1 serving. Boom. Done. My wife likes carrots, so that’s an easy #2. Apples are easy to throw into her lunch in the mornings, so that’s 3 servings. Throw in some dried fruit that is easy to snack on — like apricots, 4 servings. Some days I add a banana, which I figure is easy enough, that’s 5 servings. Or grapes as a snack.

The last two are kind of tricky, because she’s not a fan of most vegetables (she likes the starches, but not so much with the broccoli). Actually, they’re all kind of tricky because even though I pack her breakast and lunch in the mornings, I have no guarantee that she’s eating them. I’m like a mom who packs my kids lunch, only to have them trade away the good stuff for french fries. Not that she’s doing that, but I can’t predict which days she feels like eating the mango slices I pack, and which days those come home untouched.

Protein is a challenge as well. The goal is 80-100g. I usually have a glass of milk ready in the morning, which is like 10g. She has some turkey sausage low-fat breakfast sandwich in the morning, which is 18g. Her lunch (usually a microwave meal) is typically about 22 g or so. That puts me at 50g for the morning. Or, if she has yogurt, that’s another dozen.

As you can tell, I’m kind of anal about this stuff. I don’t want a flipper baby because I neglected to have my wife eat grapes. I read in one of my Daddy Pregnancy books about the importance of getting lots of protein in these weeks of pregnancy, which can aid in building brain cells. And if my kid is going to get 1600 on the SATs, I need to start that protein NOW.

Day 43: Spidey Senses

I think I mentioned in a recent post about what a picky eater my wife has become. Well, she was a picky eater to begin with. Now she’s even more insufferable in her pickiness. (That’s a joke. She’s never insufferable.)

Along with that, I also noticed that she’s become super sensitive to smells. We were on a walk the other night, and she stopped and said, “Oh wow! You smell that?”  At first I didn’t. But if I really concentrated, I could smell some kind of citrus smell. Turns out we were walking by someone’s yard with an orange tree.

And then on the next block someone had spread some fertilizer. She had to walk by that entire block with her nose plugged. Normally she dislikes that smell, but now with her heightened Spidey Senses Tingling, she was on the verge of getting sick. And finally, a couple blocks later, she swore that she could smell elbow macaroni. (I wasn’t aware that particular variety of macaroni emitted a different scent than your garden variety flavor of “straight” macaroni… but apparently her Pregnant Senses could detect the shape of the macaroni too.) To be fair, I could smell pasta of some sort. But I would never be so hubristic to claim I could discern the variety of pasta.

And she’s found even more smells at home that she no longer can stomach. To wit: we’ve gone through like 3 different varieties of soaps in our bathroom. We normally get the foamy soap at Bath & Body Works, and now every type we have makes her sick. Same with the body wash in the shower. All of our usual ones make her nauseous. Now we have a shower full of like 8 different tubes of body wash. And there’s only so much wash a guy can use. Peanut will likely be in college by the time I can finish those other bottles by myself.

Day 42: The Giving Tree

This post is written with the aid of Boont Amber Amber Ale.

I’ve made it official to my customers. I visited some of my customers the other day, and I keep a picture of Peanut in my portfolio. And I hate to admit this… I even had a conference call with a customer that I wasn’t looking forward to… and I lead off the call with, “Guess what? I just found out my wife is pregnant!”  Man, did that lighten the mood.

Yes yes. I used my unborn child for selfish gain. Look, if I could fart rainbows, I’d share that will everyone too. Why not use this type of thing to my advantage. I’m a salesman. Not a preacher.

Plus, I’m hoping to score lots of baby gifts. Keep in mind, I used to work in an office where I was the only guy with 30+ women. (By the way, this is a story for another time– but an office full of women is bat shit crazy. Everyone has some beef with everyone else. Drama drama drama.)  Anyway, al it takes is just one of those women to say, “Hey, we should have a baby shower for Jeff…” and by law, the rest of the women are forced to follow suit. I’ve already got one customer promising to do this. Hopefully others will do the same.

Look. I realize this sounds like a selfish stance to take. And it’s not like I’m only in it for the gifts. But I’m a pragmatist, if nothing else. And while, we as a society, are not supposed to admit this kind of thing, I love getting gifts at Christmas. Oh sure, I love giving gifts and all that touchy feel crap. But seriously, who could hate getting gifts? Just because I’m hoping for more gifts isn’t a horrible thing, right? It’s not like I’m telling my customers directly that I want them to give me a baby shower. This blog is anonymous, they’ll never find it.*

*If you are a fellow employee at my wife’s work, ignore all of this. I would never imply that you are obligated to throw a baby shower. But if you do, my favorite bottled beer is Deschuete’s Brewery Black Butte Porter. Hint hint.

PS- Don’t tell my wife I just wrote that. She wouldn’t approve. Even if it is a joke. (Sort of.)

One of my customers who i showed my OB photo to was a doctor. She looked at it and said, “Wow, this baby looks great. A nice healthy ring around the uterus.” I’m not really sure which part of the image is the uterus, but I’ll take her word for it. After all, all that doctor schooling must’ve taught her something. And in addition, I’m not even sure what it means to have a healthy ring around the uterus. But she made it sound like a good thing. Whatever it is/does– my wife has it and apparently I should be happy.

And of course everyone made the joke. “Oh it looks like you.”  Which is getting old to me. But, that was the exact same joke I made in the doctor’s office. So now I know how the OB technologist felt when she mustered up forced grin. Note to self: OB techs hate jokes about how “it looks just like you.” Avoid all such humor.

Day 41: Old Mother Hubbard

The next day. (Wink wink.*)

* Oh. I should point out that joke will only make sense if you read “yesterday’s” post.**

** Same with the “yesterday” joke in quotes.

My wife still has day-long morning sickness. And every person I speak with has a different solution to cure morning sickness. “Drink Squirt!” “Eat ginger.” “Poop on your face.”  (I made up that last one. The IPA is kicking in.)

The problem is my wife loathes the taste of ginger. We have a cupboard full of ginger-hybrid food. Ginger snap cookies, ginger crispy wafer things, dried ginger, ginger soda. Basically, she’ll drink Canada Dry Ginger Ale, but that’s about it. (Which, between you and me, I’m not really sure actually has ginger as an ingredient.)

FYI, if you know anybody whho works for the Canada Dry company, don’t tell them I said that. The last thing I want is to have the nation of Canada Dry mad at me.*

*That was a crap joke.

Not only do I have a cupboard of ginger products… I have a cupboard stocked fuller than I ever have before. Why you ask? I thought you might. My wife has always been a picky eater. One of the pickiest people I know. Well, now she’s in this phase where everytime we’re at the grocery store, she finds some new product that sounds delectable to her. Well, we get home, she has one bite… and she says, “I don’t like that.”

So now I’m faced with a cupboard of barely touched cookies, crackers, chips… and if I don’t eat them, nobody will. What am I supposed to do against such incredible odds? It’s either throw out a butt load of food* (butt load = 1 cubic quart), or finish it myself. Trips to Trader Joes have transformed into fun visits of exotic food we rarely try, to a daunting mountain of food I’m going to have to eat by myself.

And she’s starting to become hyper sensitive to smells. She’s like… Spiderman. Wait. Was Spiderman sensitive to smells? Or did he just have “spidy tinglings?” Was there a superhero with above average sense of smell? Hmm. I can’t think of one of the top of my head. Well, if there was one, that’d be her right now.

I had to drive her to work this morning (because our other car was in the shop — yeah, that’s right, we have two cars, I’m totally bragging)… and we come to a red light, and she says, “Someone is smoking.”  I didn’t smell it myself. I looked around, and the lady to the lane next to us, and one car back, was indeed smoking. Wow. That’s pretty impressive. But, then again, she could just be saying that at every red light, and she finally got right. Who knows.

Day 40: What’s Next?

Okay,

So here’s my dirty secret: This post wasn’t really written on Nov 11th, as the byline would otherwise have you believe. I’m about a week behind on my blogging, so I’m doing a handful of posts right now. Just think of me as a blogging camel.

To be honest, I’m not sure I’ll be able to come up with 7 posts in order to catch up. Because really, I don’t have 7 different interesting baby things to talk about. But, I’m sitting at my hotel bar, watching Monday night football, with a beer, in hopes of jump starting the ol’ creative juices.

And see– I’m already like 3 paragraphs in, and I have yet to discuss anything of substance. I’m king of bullshit stretching book reports and the like.

Here’s the most recent baby news: Peanut is still there as best we know. I’m not sure when my wife’s next ultrasound is. Next Thursday, she has a “sequential screening,” which is a non-invasive test for certian genetic problems. Based on that result, you get a risk score — 2% to 90% or something like that — and they tell you what your odds are of having some genetic problems. Plus, I think she has to get stuck for a blood draw to see if she’s a carrier for cystic fibrosis, or something or other. The doctor told us, “We first check one of you, and if you’re not a carrier, than your baby is safe. If one of you is a carrier, we have to check the other parent.”  Being the galant, chivalrous husband I am, I prompty volunteered my wife to be the first one to get stuck.

Look– I don’t like needles. I do a lot for my wife. Back off. You know what. I don’t need to justify myself to you.

Oh, and just in case you were wondering– yes, my wife still has day-long morning sickness. Poor girl.

Day 39: Drawing Lessons from the Boob Tube

I never realized, until we got pregnant, how many shows are about pregnancy. Just this week, each night of the week a different show I turn on is about someone being pregnant. It’s almost like the Television Gods are sending me a message. And with each show, I learned a valuable lesson about life:

Monday: The sitcom How I Met Your Mother is about one of the couples wrestling with the pros and cons of trying to have a baby. Lesson learned: Pregnant wives don’t like it when you yell, “Don’t do it!” to the characters on the TV. Even if you do your best to convince them it was all a joke — don’t joke with pregnant women.

Tuesday: Eli Stone has a character who is wrestling whether to keep her pregnancy. Lesson learned: Don’t yell to the character, “It’s not worth it!”  Really really. Don’t joke with pregnant women. (I’m kind of stupid in the fact that it usually takes me two mess-ups before I learn my lesson.)

Wednesday: The movie Juno is on 24-hour loop at Cinemax. Lesson learned: Pregnancy looks painful. I get squeamish just watching fake births on movies. I’m not sure how I’m going to like it in real life. (I have to close my eyes when I watch Jen get needle shots. I don’t dig needles. Cutting an umbilical cord… not sure that’s going to happen.)

PS- Tonight’s Juno was followed-up by Zane’s Sex Chronicles on Cinemax. Ahhh, Cinemax. I love your B quality soft core porn.

Day 38: This post has nothing to do with Peanut

Preface: This post is written with the aid of two Margaritas.

I’m sitting in my La Quinta Inn room, just flew in. And my first stop was at my favorite Mexican restaurant in Tucson. To be honest, this place is so good– it might be one of my favorite Mexican restaurants ever. See, I’m a big chip-and-salsaholic. Ask my wife, I could eat Mexican food 7 days a week. I love places that give you food before you eat food.

This place also has one of the best house margaritas I’ve had in recent memory. I usually just get one drink, but this was so good, I had to get a second.

I’m eating alone because this is a business trip, so my wife is at home. Which means it’s a chance for me to sneak all the alcohol I can. I’ve tried to be somewhat reserved when going to dinner with her. Since she can’t drink, I’ve tried my best… well, not my best… I’ve given a mediocre-try to limiting my alcohol intake when dining with my wife.

Okay, here’s the thing: I’d love to be able to tell you that I’m such a fine, upright husband that I’ve sworn off all forms of alcohol in front of my wife. But, I’m not that good. Let’s just say I haven’t had more than one… er, two… well… I haven’t gotten completely drunk in front of my wife, as a sign of respect.

The restaurant I ate at was El Charro Cafe. For me, a good Mexican restaurant begins with good chips and salsa. And their salsa is frickin awesome. The beans are delicious, the rice is good, literally– everything about this place is delicious. It’s bad when I plan my trip around visiting a Mexican restaurant, instead of caring about getting a hotel room near my customer. (By the way, I can see the restaurant from my window.)

I realize this isn’t really baby related, but since your’e my captive audience, I’m going to use this opportunity to explain a dirty secret of the Mexican restaurant industry: The second basket of chips is always better than the first. I don’t know why they do that. And I don’t know if it’s some sort of collusion in the Mexican Restaurant industry — because all restaurants seem to do it. But I’m telling you, the second basket is always fresher and warmer than the first. (And thus holds salt better.)

Oh, by the way, I need to go to the gym. Ever since going back to standard time, it’s been dark when my wife gets home, and we haven’t gone on our usual walk. If I don’t get myself to a gym, I’m going to challenge her for “who can put on more weight during this pregnancy.”

It’s hard for a guy — well, for a guy shaped like me — because when I put on weight, it goes straight to my belly and chest, above my waist. So my pants never get tighter. So it’s very deceptive. I think to myself, “Wow… these pants are super loose! I’m as thin as ever.” But what you don’t realize is that you’re just growing a muffin top above your pant line.

My hope is that by admitting my shame to you, it will spurn me into action. But, let’s be honest: probably not. My weight gain is going to be like the financial bailout — I won’t be able to stop the disaster, all I can do is hope to contain it .

Day 37: This post is chock full o’ baby news

Last night my wife went out with one of her friends to their favorite gay disco. (Sorry, I think you kids today call them “dance halls.”)

This is how exciting my life is: She went out. I stayed home and played Halo 3 until about 10:30, and then I went to bed, and fell asleep watching Bill Maher.

Don’t get me wrong– that’s about as perfect of a night as I could plan. I could stay home playing Halo 3 until the cows come ho… er, wait. Poor choice of words. Until my wife comes home. Whom I love very, very much and in no way would ever insinuate that she is a cow because I was only using a popular saying which had no connotation to my beloved wife.

Okay, now that I’ve got that out of the way…

Like I was saying, that’s a perfect night for me. I’ve never been a going out dancing kind of person. Give me some beer/alcohol, a computer/console game, and let me be. It doens’t take much to make me happy. My wife came home after the club closed, and I’m proud of her that she abstained from all alcohol. Oh sure, you might say, that’s easy. Just don’t order alcohol.

Oh no, my friend. You don’t understand. We have some close friends who are bartenders at the club. Which means you get a free shot or a drink put in front of you about every 10 minutes. At first they started questioning why she wasn’t drinking, and then her friend started taking the shots for her when the bartenders weren’t looking. Way to take one for the team! That’s my kind of sacrifice. “Oh okay, if I have to drink another drink for you… I guess.”

Oh, now that I have you suckered in halfway through this post, I should point out that it has nothing really much to do with baby stuff. I’m just filling space now. Seriously, there’s only so much baby stuff I can talk about. Unless the baby suddenly and spontaneously sprouts horns or wings or something, it’s safe to assume the fetus is basically the same as it was yesterday, except perhaps with a few more stem cells.

Where was I? Oh yes. So she came home sober* (first time in awhile after attending this particular club… I joke I joke), and her biggest concern was that she subjected Peanut to loud music. I assured her that Peanut likely didn’t even have ears yet, so I doubt the loud thumping music would have any impact. I don’t know if that’s a fact — but I’m the master at saying bullshit facts completely authoritatively. I mean, if Peanut does have ears, well you can’t hop in a time machine and go back and do anything about it. So the only thing you can control is how much you worry after the fact. And if my skill at making up facts in a convincing manner can help my wife worry less, then you bet I’m going to look her in the eye and say, “Fetuses don’t grow ears until week 11.”

But you have to appreciate that kind of caring on her part. I would never have even thought of that. But my wife considered the volume level when thinking about Peanut’s safety. How sweet is that?

Then today, we went to a house warming party for one of her co-workers. And she decided that would be the appropriate time to let the cat out of the bag. I’m glad she’s doing that. You know me — I wanted to tell everyone the day I found out. I’ve done a 90% good job of keeping it a secret. (With a few exceptions here and there.)  Before, I think she was hesitant to tell people, waiting to get past the danger zone of the first trimester. But with every passing week, I think she’s getting more comfortable and confident that this will be a viable pregnancy. So that’s a great sign.

And her female co-workers reacted as you’d expect: some high-pitched squealing, some hugs, and lots of cooing. They asked me what I thought, but I was focused too much on finishing the plate of mini-weenies wrapped in pastry dough. Seriously. I had like 10 of them. But I used my trademark sense of humor and gave a nonchalant,  “Ehhhh.” They laughed. Yeah, I’m awesome.

By the way — that’s one thing I have no problem doing: eating in front of people. Whenever we walk out of some party, my wife says, “I wanted to eat more, but I didn’t.” And I’m like, “What are you talking about? They had so much food! I’m stuffed.” Apparently even if they enjoy the food, women don’t eat in front of each other. Which I don’t get. I ate like a dozen hot dog weenies, a dozen pinwheel cheese things, some mushroom turnovers, some chips and salsa, some fudge, a bowl of Posole, some spinach dip and crackers, some mini-quiche. I could go on. Anyway, I’m all about sampling everything they have to offer.

Day 36: My Child, The Annointed One

So here’s the thing: I’m a bit of a perfectionist. I’m a huge procrastinator — but when I do set my mind at completing some task, I’m anal to a fault about it. Like cleaning the bathroom. You wouldn’t think one could be too much of a perfectionist when it comes to cleaning the bathroom. I hate cleaning the bathroom. But when I get around to doing it, I scrub that mofo like I’m trying to scrape the white off the toilet.

*In fact, a little bit of bragging here: I once had an apartment manager, during the check-out inspection, tell me that we had the cleanest toilet he’s ever seen. I’m just sayin’.

And the same want for perfection holds true in how I’m approaching Peanut. If you’ve learned anything from my previous posts, it’s that I’m a bit obsessive about doing things correctly when it comes to this unborn baby. So in my persuit of raising the most perfect homo sapien in the existence of humankind, (e.g., “not fucking up my child”)… I picked up a couple of books on fathering at my local library. The first book is, “Be prepared : a practical handbook for new dads,” and the other is: “The expectant father : facts, tips, and advice for dads-to-be”. (By the way, suck my dick, Amazon.com. The library is FREE.)

I’m not ready to give you a full review of these books, as I just picked them up and to be honest I’ve barely cracked the spine. But one thing that did stand out to me is that all of the books for dads include large print (I guess to give us a sense of accomplishment, like we’re really tearing through the book… which honestly… I appreciate because it gives me a sense of accomplishment, like I’m really tearing through the book)… And they also feature lots of numbered lists and charts.

I guess that’s because they figure us men more analytical and more of “list checker- offs.” Which, sadly, is spot on. I love me some to-do lists, the way things are distilled down into pithy little bullet points. We men are doers; we’re builders. Give us a set of simple instructions, and if we bother to read them, we can build the world.

So I’ll report back at some time in the not-too-distant future about how I’ve learned to become the most perfect father in existence. Although I suspect they’re going to be more about things to do when you’re wife is pregnant, and how your life is going to change. But really, I’m most interested in making sure I raise a kid that doesn’t have a crying fit at the grocery store or hit other kids on the playground. Is this just an impossible dream?

Day 35: Paging Dr. Right

Thanks for all the room, mom

Today was our second OB visit with our second OB doctor. We didn’t really click with the first OB we tried. And I’m happy to report that this one was much better.

So we go to the office, and the staff was friendly off the bat. And the office was nicer. Yeah, I realize that probably should matter — like when voting, you probably shouldn’t care whether someone is black when deciding if they’d be a good president — but let’s face it, that sort of thing happens.

Anyhoo… I’ve worked at a few medical clinics… and I’m telling you, a clinic is only as good as their front desk staff. No matter how great the doctor is, if the front desk staff is disorganized they can lose your folders, and/or file your stuff wrong. (Case in point: The staff at the first OB place never called my wife with the results of her blood work. She had to get that from the second OB doctor today. Oh, and the results were all normal, thanks for asking.)

So the first thing we did was sit down with the doctor in his office, and he took time to talk with us. That in itself blew me away. The doctor is probably in his mid 50s, and he’s a distance runner. (Read: Tall, thin.) He’s Jewish, and has that kind of Jewish nervous energy about him… but I’m willing to overlook that because he took the time to answer all of our questions and more.

Then we went into an exam room, and he did a battery of tests, and did another ultrasound. He told us that from the date of LMP, we were due June 4th. But after he measured Peanut on the monitor, his better guess was June 12th. Maybe we’ll start a betting pool to see who can pick the actual date.

Side note: New favorite joke. Whenever we get one of these print-outs of Peanut, which is essentially a blob in a larger blob, I like to loudly announce (so the staff can hear me), “It looks more like you.” (Seriously, all I care about is making the front desk staff laugh. The doctor talks and to me it sounds like, “Wahwahwahwah wahwahwah…” and I’m in my own world thinking of jokes to make about my blurry sonogram picture.)

My wife got to ask all of her questions, and he seemed very knowledgeable and gave friendly answers. And he set my wife up with a bunch of genetic tests, that the previous doctor didn’t even mention. He seems much more thorough. And plus, his front desk staff was on the ball. By the time we came out they had pamphlets ready, appointments set up, and forms ready to go. Here’s a hint: See how cluttered the desk is at the front. If there’s loose paper everywhere, run… because they’re going to misplace your insurance information and/or not process the claim properly. This second OB’s office, on the other hand, was neat and orderly. A very good sign.

So all in all, I think we found the man who is going to drop our baby. (By the way, I got in trouble earlier for making that joke. My wife said, “If he had a history of that, I think it’d be in his disciplinary report I read.” And I said, “Maybe they have an allowable number of drops per delivery, like a threshold, before it gets reported for disciplinary action.” “I’m pregnant… are you trying to make me nervous about giving birth?”  Sigh. You just can’t win with a pregnant woman. All they have to do is pull out the, “I’m pregnant” card and it immediately trumps all other cards, like the Queen of Spades. No matter what else follows. As long as it starts with, “I’m pregnant…” you immediately lose all arguments/debates/conversations. “I’m pregnant… You should wash the car.”  Boom, done.)

Oh, two important things about the photo that I wanted to mention: Since I the doctor estimated the delivery date to be June 12th, based on the size, that means he thinks the baby is probably closer to 9 weeks, rather than the 10 week estimate I’ve been using. So I’m through with all this trying to remember how many days along my wife is. Odds are, it’s all made up anyway since we don’t really know the precise conception date. So, I’m going to stick with just listing the # of days since I found out, since that’s the only date about which I can be sure.

Secondly, I got my first piece of bad baby news on this OB visit… on the size, when he said, “Your baby is a little small for 10 weeks…” I sort of got defensive inside. “Fuck you, you quack. YOU’RE a small baby. How do you like that, Dr. Dipshit.” So that’s not a good sign. But, I now understand he meant that the baby is the right size for 9 weeks.

Last thing about the picture: Notice how the baby hardly has any room? The dark space to the upper left is my wife’s bladder. She had to go pretty badly, and it was squeezing Peanut’s space. I said, “You have to hurry up and go to the bathroom, Peanut doesn’t have any room to breathe.” Then she muttered something about baby’s not breathing, or I don’t know. “Wahwahwahwahwah…” I was already off thinking about my next joke…

Day 34: OB Visit, Take 2

Days pregnant: 69 U.S., 55 Europe

Nothing much to report on the baby front. Tomorrow is our second OB “Try Outs.” We’re visiting Doctor #2, to see if we like this cat any better than the first lady. Oh, and the first lady was awful, so unless he greets us with his pants around his ankles and/or a raging erection poking out from under his doctor’s smock… he’d be hard pressed to underwhelm us further.*

*And even then I would still consider him. After all, if the guy has the balls (pun intended) to greet us staring down the barrel of his penis… that’s a doctor who loves life! I want that guy. (As long as he never directly faces my wife’s vagina. Hmm… on second thought, maybe that’s a bad idea.)

During our last OB visit, my wife had some blood work and urine tests done. Just routine stuff, as I understand it. So I think we’re supposed to get those results as well. (Which is weird, because I would have expected to have received them already. I think that other OB’s office is incredibly unorganized, and they probably have the results sitting on the fax machine and haven’t told us yet.)

And just maybe we’ll get a new ultrasound scan of Peanut. That’d be kind of cool. She’ll be just about finishing her 10th week, so we’ll see whatever the ultrasound can tell us about Peanut at 10 weeks. (“Good news, you’re baby doesn’t have 8 limbs.” I don’t know.)

Oh, and today my wife bought her first pair of pregnancy pants. (With the big elastic waist band thingy.) So… yeah. I guess that’s cool in a “pregnancy milestone” kind of way. I think the cutest part about it was that she seemed quite excited about it — like she couldn’t wait to buy it. So for nothing else, I’m excited that she’s excited. (But I also have $25 riding on the Denver Broncos game tomorrow, and that has me more excited, if it helps give you perspective on how I place “stretchy waist pants” in my excitedness rankings.)

Day 33: “The Baby”

Days pregnant: 68 U.S., 54 Europe

Man, it is getting hard not to tell people. There are so many friends and customers and co-workers who I want to share the news with. But, I’m being good and holding off. My wife wants to continue to wait until the end of the first trimester (although each week it seems like we both let it slip to one more person we know).

The weekend after Thanksgiving, I have a big work conference in Chicago, and I’m going to tell everyone then. And then it’ll be safe to tell my customers. Is it wrong that I’m looking forward to telling the upset customers first, in hopes to get in good with them?

Speaking of using the pregnancy for nefarious reasons: last week one of the people I spilled the beans too early was a former co-worker who wanted me to go out drinking with them. I usually enjoy hanging out with this group of fellas… but I’ve been trying to focus more on being home instead of hanging out with friends… especially on Friday nights. And since my wife can’t drink, I’ve tried to limit my drinking too. Which basically means I’m as much fun as a wet rag, and sorry, I’m not going out with you anytime soon.

So I officially used my first “pregnancy excuse” last week. And we’re not even through 10 weeks yet. Already this baby is paying off dividends. (Speaking of dividends, my dad likes to remind me of the tax breaks I’ll get once we have a kid. But, that’s a dad for you.)

I look forward to all the built-in excuses the baby will afford me. “The Baby.” What a great couple of words. It’s like a free get out of jail card from everything you hate in life. Awkward dinners, boring parties, uncomfortable confrontations, you name it.

Want to leave a party early? “Sorry, we have to get the baby to bed.” “But it’s only 3pm.”  (Sounds of tire screeching off)

Want to get out of a customer visit? “Can you come visit us tomorrow?” “Sorry, the baby is colicky.”

Want to avoid buying your relatives Christmas presents? “We’re saving our money for… yup… the baby.”

Day 32: A break during the break

Days pregnant: 67 U.S., 53 Europe

I know I know. You’ve patiently waited. Finally. An actual post relating to the pregnancy.

So we got some good news today on the financial front! One of the things we’ve (I’ve) been dreading is the financial hit that we’re going to take while my wife is off during her pregnancy.

Quick tangential thought: I wonder if squeezing a bowling ball out of your vagina is worth 3 months off from work? If someone said to me, “Jeff, pass this kumquat through your urethra, and we’ll give you 3 months off from work…”  Would I do it? I’m seriously considering it.

Anyway, back on track… So here’s the good news… The state of California covers 55% of your salary for 6 weeks (30 work days?) while you’re off during maternity leave. Then, the Californian Family Medical Leave Act (FMLA) covers a 2nd 6 weeks (another 30 work days) at 55%.

So that’s 12 weeks that my wife will be getting 55% of her salary covered. Thank you, Democrats.

But, wait, there’s more: My wife’s work has thing secret “major sick leave” thing, where every year you work there, you get a week accrued. Nobody knows about it, because apparently they don’t want you using it. But my wife talked to her HR rep today, and he confirmed that it exists, and that she has 6 weeks (30 days) saved up.

Since the state “only” covers 55% of her salary during those 12 weeks, her HR person said that her work will cover the remaining 45% from her major sick leave accrual. How cool is that???

So quick math tells us that she needs to come up with 45% of her salary for 60 days. So 60 days @ 45% = 27 days. Well, she has 30 days of major sick leave saved up, so she can apply that.

Which means: For 12 weeks, her salary is covered at 100%. Plus, she’ll have a few more days left over, and sne can also use vacation or normal sick days on top of that.

So YAAAAAAY. We still have to start saving in a major way for other things, but this is a bit of good news. In addition, her work offers flexible spending accounts that are pre-tax deductions that you can set aside for things like child-care. We still haven’t decided what we’re going to do for child care (Nanny? Day-care?). We have no relatives down here. I have a sister-in-law who says she’ll be our nanny if we move up there. But, then we just need someone to buy our house at the price we paid, and that would be no problem. Any takers?

PS- My alternate plan is to go on the gameshow “Are You Smarter than a Fifth Grader?” and win enough money to pay off most of our house, which would allow us to move and be closer to family. If you or anybody you know works for that show, drop me a line. PLEEEASE.

Day 31: Papi Homer

Days pregnant: 66 U.S., 52 Europe

I just heard the refrigerator door beep, because it was left open too long. Remember back when we were kids and the most dangerous thing in our lives was the fear of getting locked in an empty refrigerator that you were playing in. You know, now that I think about it — I’ve never seen an empty refrigerator in someone’s front and/or back yard. That’s crazy. Why did someone waste time trying to educate me on the dangers of playing in refrigerators. Weird.

Speaking of refrigerator doors… (This segue is about to blow your mind)… The wife and I were standing in the ice cream aisle at the grocery store today, and I pulled my first “new dad Homer” move. (See, what did I tell you? I’ll wait while you pick up the shattered pieces of your mind off your carpet.*)

* They sell carpet deodorizer / mind-cleaner at Bed Bath & Beyond.

Back to my story… we were at the grocery store, and my wife was jonesing for some ice-cream, with a capital J. She grabbed a pint of Hagen Daaz “Chocolate and Peanut Butter” ice-cream.

Now, let me preface with what happens next with this (as if I could justify iT): I’m a calorie counter. I have been for most of my adult life. I come from a hearty stock of people, and I’ve always had to watch what I eat. Left to my own devices, I could eat myself into a 350 pound coma. (In fact, I think I had uncles on both my mom’s and dad’s side who likely reached 350 in their zenith.)

So, I took the pint, read the label and declared, “Whoa! 27 grams of fat in one serving? This entire pint has more than 100 grams of fat! That’s like 3 days worth of fat.”

Well, needless to say, that didn’t sit too well with the wife, who reminded me how rude it was to tell a pregnant woman what she couldn’t eat.

(To be fair, she did change her mind and agree that perhaps it was not the most healthy ice-cream to buy.)

But the damage had been done. I already planted the seed of doubt in her mind. She knows I’m worried about her … you know… getting all pregnant woman sized. Which in hindsight I realize was wrong of me.

I talked about it with a buddy of mine, and his advice was surprisingly refreshing to me,

Dude, she has a LIFE growing inside of her because of you. Let her eat whatever the hell she wants. She’s miserable, her stomach hurts, she’s going to be going through so much, she’s probably scared and nervous… LET HER EAT EVERYTHING. And not only that, you should be the one leading the charge. Buy her or bring her whatever she wants. You’ve got it easy. Hell, the fetus has it rougher than you do. All you have to do is watch the baby come out. She’s going to get fat. Accept it and love it. Don’t fight it.

I should point out this was unfiltered, and there may be terminology in here that some of my more delicate reader(s) might find offensive. (i.e., the “she’s going to get fat” comment.) What my buddy of course meant was, “Putting on weight during pregnancy is healthy and natural. You should support that.” That’s what “she’s going to get fat” means in guy translation.

And this morsel of advice from a trusted source who shall remain anonymous:

I think that eating a lot and a lot of weight gain is normal for a first pregnancy.  I think most first time moms to be go a little overboard on the eating and indulging because they think they can.  I remember I was eating a shit load, ever since I first found out I was prego.  It was not only an excuse to eat a lot…you could actually get away with it…and I had no idea how much I would end up gaining…and now in aftermath I would have done things differently, but at the time eating a lot sounded great and I would bite [name of husband]’s arm off if he tried to stop me.

So after getting those two pieces of advice… I recanted. I admitted the error of my ways. And went to the store, and bought my wife a pint of that chocolate and peanut butter ice-cream, as well as some half-off-day-after-Halloween candy, and Spaghetti O’s (with meatballs) that she loves.

Now that I think about it, I think I’m more afraid about me putting on weight. Because I don’t have an excuse like my wife does. One of the “For Dads Only” books I read basically said, “Look, there’s going to be a lot more food in the house during pregnancy, and you’re going to make the mistake all fathers make: You’re going to eat more along with your wife as she eats more… and you’re going to get fat.”  (I’m sure the book meant, “Fathers putting on weight during pregnancy is health… nahh. You’re going to get fat, dude.”)

Day 30: Halloween Wrap-Up

Days pregnant: 65 U.S., 51 Europe

Had a nice, relaxing Halloween last night. We had a couple big bags of candy from Costco, but a couple smaller bags of our favorite candies. And we only have a few candy bars left. Probably had 200 kids or so come by.

We went to Costco a little before 6pm, and we got some cheap dinner at the Cotsco Cafe (pizza for the wife, turkey wrap for me). Then we brought it back, sat at the end of our driveway, and handed out candy for a couple hours. I was in my Ghostbusters costume (same one from last year, but that’s our secret.) The weather was nice and mild, so all in all, an enjoyable evening.

I had successfully avoided Halloween candy this entire season. That was a little promise I made to myself, to keep me from eating my own weight in Butterfingers. Mostly because with my wife eating more beacuse of the pregnancy, I find myself doing the same thing. Only, I don’t have a cute excuse when I put on 10 pounds. Pregnant women “glow”… fat men just look… fat.

And I’m happy to report that I successfully waited until I handed out my first pieice of candy, before I partook of our Halloween stash. But, oh how I partook of it. I made a point to sample most everything we had. And I swapped with the neighborhood kids across the street for some of their candy (they had milk duds, mmmmm).

Speaking of neighbors… we had a few people walk up and say, “No cider this year?” I guess my spiked cider (cider+rum) freebie from last year was more popular than I realized. And these were families I don’t even recognize. People who don’t live on our block. So that was pretty cool. Because, as you no doubt know by now, I’m all about block parties and barbecues with neighbors. I can’t help it. You can take the boy out of the suburbs, but you can’t take the suburbs out of the boy.

(Not that we’ve been invited to any neighborhood parties, but I hope when we have kids, that will all change. The block has a little clique of parents who get together on various holidays and have a party, but we’re never invited. I realize we’re new to the block, and so I hope Peanut will finally be my ticket into their elusive little club. The sad thing is, I don’t even really feel like hanging out with them, I just want to be invited. Then I can turn them down. Is that wrong?)

And what’s with teenagers who don’t even dress up but come asking for candy? Lame. A.) I make every kid say trick-or-treat if they want candy. I’m not just going to give it to you because you walked up to me and held out a bag. How rude. B.) If a teen isn’t wearing a costume, I make them tell me what their costume is before I’ll give the candy. “Look, you don’t have to have a costume, but I want you to be creative and tell me what you’re dressed as.” One large kid in a t-shirt and jeans said, “I’m a skinny kid in a fat suit.” Boom. Done. He got extra candy both for originality and for not being afraid to joke about his size.

Also, the other thing I make it a point to do when handing out candy is greet all the kids who live near me by name. A.) I want them to think of me as a cool “grown-up”, B.) I am reducing my odds of being TP’d or egged when they become teen-agers because I was nice to them, and C.) I want them to like me more than the other dads on the block. Is that also wrong?