Free Range Kids

I referenced a story in a post a couple months ago about a mother who caught hell for letting her 9 year old son ride the subway alone in New York. Salon.com has an interview with the mother, who has released a new book, “Free Range Kids.” Here’s the article: Stop Worrying About Your Children.

Some great quotes from the interview:

If you were a child in the ’70s or the ’80s and were allowed to go visit your friend down the block, or ride your bike to the library, or play in the park without your parents accompanying you, your children are no less safe than you were.

But it feels so completely different, and we’re told that it’s completely different, and frankly, when I tell people that it’s the same, nobody believes me. We’re living in really safe times, and it’s hard to believe.

Another one, which is exactly the point I made previously… (my older sister used to walk me home when I was in kindergarten, and she was in 3rd grade)

Maybe the 7-year-old will walk the 5-year-old home, and nobody would say: “Oh my God, where are the parents? Let’s arrest them.” Perhaps your child is in .00007 percent more danger, but the danger is so minute to begin with. There is a 1 in 1.5 million chance that your kid would be abducted and killed by a stranger. It is hard to wrap your mind around those numbers, and everybody always assumes: What if it’s my 1 in 1.5 million?

If you don’t want to have your child in any kind of danger, you really can’t do anything. You certainly couldn’t drive them in a car, because that’s the No. 1 way kids die, as passengers in car accidents.

I realize that this could seem antithetical to my Papi Nuevo researchaholicism, such as the recent posts I’ve made about trying to find phthlate-free and PBA-free plastics. But here’s my current outlook and where I make the (however thin) distinction: There are tangible things I know I can protect my child from: harfmul chemicals like those found in plastics, baby wipes, lotions, creams, etc. And there are conceptual things that I could only hope to protect my child from, but that I have no control over: like playing outdoors.

Example: the odds of my child choking on a chicken bone are probably 1 in 1.5 million as well. Should I prevent my child from eating chicken? No. Should I research the chicken brand I feed my family to make sure it is free of hormones and toxins? Yes. I can prevent hormones from getting into a child’s body. I can’t prevent them from choking on a chicken. However, I can give them the tools to eat slowly, be careful with chicken bones, not talk to strangers, run if somebody talks to you, etc. (I just mixed my analogies, but you see where I’m going with this.)

I hope that I am part of a group of parents who were children in the 70s and 80s, who are returning to the concept of “let them play outside.” Hopefully the cultural pendulum is swinging back in favor of teaching responsibility and independence. Last point I love:

And when I say: “Walk to school,” you’re thinking, What about that girl in the trailer park in California who was walking to her friend’s house the other day? [Sandra Cantu, 8, of Tracy, was murdered in late March 2009. The chief suspect is the child's Sunday school teacher, who is also the mother of one of the girl's friends.] That’s the image you have. You get despairing and worried, and then you remember afterward there was probably some expert on TV saying: “Parents, here are some tips for you.”

As if there is a tip that can tell you, “Remember parents: Don’t ever let your child out of the house to go visit a playmate.” That’s what the tip would be, and it wouldn’t make any sense. Preparing for such unlikely scenarios is like preparing for, “Remember parents: Asteroids happen, so keep your children inside!”

But of course, as I’ve said previously, I reserve the right to totally change my opinion on all of this, and be one of those parents who buys knee pads to make crawling safer.

Even MORE to worry about

My wife and have taken (or are signed up to take) a battery of pre-baby classes: Breast Feeding, Baby Prep, Lamaze. And with each class we get a litany of new “do’s and dont’s.” Which, at the time when you’re sitting in class makes sense, but when you get home, you realize you forget — “Oh my god, how many times a day are we supposed to swab the umbilical cord? Did she say to use alcohol or soap and water? What did she say about giving sponge baths? Was it 2-3 a week? For how long again? How much tummy time are we supposed to squeeze in each day?”

It’s crazy. With all these things we are supposed to remember to do, it’s remarkable any baby has ever lived past the 15 day mark when their belly-button chip clip thing falls off. I mean, look. Here’s the thing: we are the end-product of tens of thousands of years of breeding. We are the survivors in a long line of homo sapiens. The majority probably didn’t make it. But we, we are the select few who were strongest. I don’t know how cavemen cut off their umbilical cords, but I guarantee they didn’t have Q-Tip swabs prepped with betadine.

So I woke up this morning with a dizzying array of tasks in my head: if we have a boy, must sponge bath baby in this manner; if girl, then do it in this manner; sponge bath so many times per week; clean the belly button X # of times per day; breast feed this often; get this much belly time; sit the baby up this way; when bathing, hold your hand here; when breast feeding, tilt the baby like so; here’s how you wrap a baby in swaddling; don’t use this kind of powder; try vegetable oil for dry skin; don’t put soap on the baby’s face; clean the bottle like this not like that; fold your diapers this way…  ARGH!

On one hand, I’m glad to be taking courses and starting to think about all of this. On the other hand– screw it! I’m starting to feel crushed in the weight of things I’m supposed to remember to do. Just have the baby and let the chips fall where they may. The name of the course we took last night was “Baby Prep class.” Honestly, it made me feel less prepared than I was before I took the class. Oh sweet lord baby jesus — there is so much to be done. So much to buy. So much to prepare still. Heck, I was starting to feel queezy after the first 15 minutes of the “prepping your home for baby” segment of class. (Note to self: Must go to Home Depot and after a short breakdown, must pull self together and start babyfying any corner of my home that is more than a 65° angle, and wrap everything in foam and latch every handle.)

Okay, I’m glad I got that out. There. I feel better. Now, just tell me how often to apply vaseline to my baby’s bottom and I’ll do it. (FYI- every second or third diaper changing.)

Day 102

What is wrong with society that someone makes a $900 stroller/crib/car-seat travel system? And what is wrong with me that I really want it?

Last night was round 2 in our Registry Creation saga. I don’t have the actual data to support this next claim (as with most of my claims), but I’m pretty sure we’re averaging about 38.5 minutes per item. That’s got to be some kind of record, right?

And actually that number could go higher, because we still haven’t fully decided on a stroller/car-seat thing yet. And no, I’m not kidding about wanting that $900 one. The gadget freak in me loves the idea, but the practical person in me realizes that it may be a bit expensive for our means. But I’m torn — do I want it because it is $900? I mean, if it was $100, I probably wouldn’t have even given it the time of day. I guess that’s why we have ConsumerReports.org around, so we can wade through the mire of BS marketing and pricing, and find out the true value of the products. And to keep me from immediately being drawn to the most expensive item simply because… well… because it’s the most expensive item. (Expensive = best, right? Er… right? Hello? Is this thing on?)

The primary problem with Consumer Reports is they haven’t updated most of their baby ratings since April 2007, and sometimes they only rate a handful of items, which yields no indication as to the quality or efficacy of items they chose not to rate.

So this is where we’re at. The items that had a clear winner on Consumer Reports were swiftly added to our registry. But there are two groups of items that are posing trouble for us:

1.) Items that are not reviewed in Consumer Reports / not very current in Consumer Reports

2.) Items that we’ve decided to purchase, but that are not sold / available at Babies R’ Us.

In the case of #1, we’ve had to turn to other review sites… which are mostly based on user generated reviews. And there’s one thing I’m sure of: most of society is stupid. We’ve been using Amazon.com, since it seems to have the largest pool of products and the largest base of user reviews. The problem is, for each product, you’ll find 10 5-star ratings, and 10 1-star ratings. People are idiots. Some people give one star because their fat baby won’t fit. Yeah, like that’s my problem you don’t know how to properly breast feed your chubby cherub. Or some people give 5-stars and say, “I haven’t delivered yet, but I just know it’s going to be a great product.” Wait… so you haven’t even used it yet?

Or some reviews have nothing to do with the product at all. “Amazon.com took too long to ship, so I’m giving this product 1-star.”  One thing I appreciate is that Amazon.com shows you rankings for that category, and makes it easy for you to see how similar items ranked in that category. The problem is — what are these supposed rankings based on? More often than not, the bestselling item was the cheapest. So that really doesn’t help me. Or you have to be careful of the items that have 1 review of 5 star, vs. 150 reviews with an average of 3.8 stars. (Oh, and if you really want to have some fun, try searching Diaper Pails. Everyone simultaneously hates and loves every diaper pail product. “It stinks!” “It’s great.” “My kid knocks it over.” “My kid leaves it alone.” It’s almost as if for every unique human out there… there is a unique perspective. Weird. How come humans can’t be more like Borgs with one opinion on everything. Sigh. Don’t they realize all these nuanced opinions are driving me crazy. JUST TELL ME WHAT TO BUY DAMN YOU AMAZON.COM!)

So along with Amazon.com, we’ve found a few different sites to be useful when trying to get the widest cross-section of user opinions. (Walmart, Target, BabyEarth, About.com.) If you have any sites, please do suggest.

Long story short: It’s been difficult to get a clear consensus on nearly any product. There are some that are obviously unanimous winners no matter which site you check with, and those are going on our registry. But, this segues me to issue #2 above… some of our preferred products are not sold at Babies R’ Us. And, rather than compromise simply for registry purposes, we’ve decided to start a 2nd registry at Amazon.com.

Is that weird? Tell me that’s not weird. It’s modern, in a trendy kind of way, right? Not just computer geeky? Wait. Only tell me if you have something positive to say. Otherwise, I don’t want to know.

Better yet, just give us money, and I’ll go shopping for the cheapest price I can find on-line. That’s what I’d really like to do. Give me the money for what you want to buy me, and I’ll go find it with free shipping and free tax and the lowest price available. It’s a win win.

Except for my wife who vetoed that idea. She tells me her vote is worth more because she gets to count the baby’s vote too. Harumph!

Day 91: The kinda’ post you’ve patiently waited for

Oh boy, this blog entry is going to be huge. It’s chock full of so much goodness, you would need 8 bowls of your regular blog to match the bloggy goodness you will get in one Papi Nuevo entry.

Peanut 18 weeks 01/02/2009

Oooh, where to begin. Let’s start with… NEW PICTURES! (Because let’s be honest– that’s the first thing your eye went to, so let’s just get it out of the way.)  To the right is a picture of Peanut, at (roughly) 18 weeks. Keep in mind this is a slice of Peanut that you’re looking at– imagine if Peanut was cut clean in half. (So that’s why there’s no arms or feet — at least I hope.) Man, look at that spine. Creepy. But the doctor assured me that a spine was — apparently — a good thing, so at least I know we’re having a vertebrate and not a zooplankton baby. (Invertebrate jokes!!! Yes!!! See, this entry is only 2 paragraphs old, and I’m bringing the A material.)

My wife hasn’t felt any movement yet, and she’s nearly 18 weeks along. The doctor said that’s normal, and that most first time mothers don’t experience movement until week 20, on average. I guess mom’s who have had babies before start to feel movement around week 18. (I guess when you’re a first time mom, you assume it’s gas?) By the way, they have a name for this: quickening. Now, call me crazy (“crazy”), but I thought that was a Highlander movie. (When you cut off the head of an Immortal and all the power transfers to you, thank YOU very much Christopher Lambert.) I wonder which use of the word came first? Hmm. I feel like someone at EMI Films should’ve thought that through a little better.*

*PS – For that brief tangent, I did a quick IMDB.com lookup of the “Highlander” movie series… EMI Films… wow. What a powerhouse production company. Their last few films consist of, “Culture Club: Greatest Hits”, Please Hammer Don’t Hurt ‘Em: The Movie (1990), and not only “Evil Under the Sun” (1982), but also the award winning “Making of ‘Evil Under the Sun’” (1982). Spectacular. Can I just take a brief moment to tell you how tickled I am by the suffix “The Movie” after “Please Hammer Don’t Hurt ‘Em.”  You know, so you don’t confuse it with “Please Hammer Don’t Hurt ‘Em: The Video Game” or “Please Hammer Don’t Hurt ‘Em: The Parcel Post Letter with Signature Confirmation.”  I think more films should add “: The Movie” after the title, to make it sound more venerable. “Schindler’s List: The Movie”… so you don’t get confused and think you’re going to watch a 3 hour pan across an actual list. (Did I just make a Schindler’s List reference? WOW.)

Anyway, back to Peanut’s picture. As you know, 18 weeks is sort of a guesstimate. In the lower right corner of the pic there are 3 different EDDs (Estimated Delivery Dates?) based on a few different measurements. LMP = last menstrual period, and by that the date of birth is still estimated to be 06/04/2009. AC = Abdominal Circumference, and by that measurement, the EDD is 06-07-2009. (Which I think was also the EDD in the last picture we had a month ago when they did the CRL or “Crown to Rump Length” measurement.) Which is somewhat of a relief, because I come from a hearty stock of people; how do you say… people with a healthy “AC.” Not that I expected my fetus to be shaped like a Turnip… but I’m just relieved that the sonogram estimate didn’t assume my baby was due next month, that’s all I’m trying to say. And finally, the FL (Femur Length) indicates a delivery date of 05-28-2009. (But they all have an error factor of about +/- 12 days, so the FL could still indicate a baby in the first week.) Although it’s kind of exciting to think that Peanut is already “tall for his/her age.”(Yeah yeah, I know — there’s probably no correlation between FL and actual heighth of the baby as an adult, but still… a guy can dream can’t he?)

By the way, the sonogram we got back in June that estimated June 7th as the delivery date said it had a 3% margin of error, I think. So that’s the date I’m sticking with. But a pool will be starting shortly.

Fetus Food Equivolent o’ The Week: This week, BabyCenter.com tells me that Peanut is the length of a bell pepper. Now when I have fajitas, all I will think about is eating babies. Wonderful job, BabyCenter.com.

Lesson Learned this week: Trying to go toe-to-toe with a pregnant woman on meals is a bad idea. (I don’t want to increase my AC.) We went to a drive-thru donut stand the other day and ordered 1 old fashioned. I was a good boy and did not get anything. But damn, that’s really hard to do. And I can’t pretend to be all pious — because I had about 1/4 of the donut anyway. When I eat with my wife I call it solidarity, when I choose not to, I call it will power. It’s a win win really.

House update of the week: Two updates regarding the house. #1, we had a pest control guy come out, but since we don’t have an attic (only a 12″ crawl space), and since we don’t have access to said crawl space, he couldn’t do anything. But he did make some recommendations about covering gutter spouts, pruning our palm trees, and wrapping some sheet metal towards the base of the palm tree trunk. (So the rat can’t climb the palm tree.) So we went to home depot and picked up all that stuff. And while there, we also found an electronic rodent thing-a-ma-jiggy. You plug it into your wall, and it apparently sends a signal or buzzing or something through your house’s electrical wires that annoys rodents. The good news is — we haven’t heard from the rat in the past 4 nights. So either we’re sleeping more soundly (that’s not it), or the fixes we put in place worked.

House Update #2: I’m happy to report I did my math wrong, and we may still qualify for the Hope 4 Homeowners act. So I’m going to start the ball rolling on that and see how far we get. We may end up not qualifying — because we’re not really down on our luck — but boy oh boy would that be sweet if we did. I would happily walk away and move up to Portland near other family. But, I don’t want to get my hopes up, so I’ll reserve excitement until we know more.

We also spent the past few days looking up houses online near Portland. (Well, about 30 minutes outside of Portland, in the same town as my brother-and-sister-in-law.) On the surface, I tell my wife, “Why do you do that to yourself? You know we can’t move yet.” It’s like the debate between Red (Morgan Freeman) and Andy (Tim Robbins) about whether hope was a good thing or not. “Let me tell you something my friend. Hope is a dangerous thing. Hope can drive a man insane.” But, between you and me and the 3 billion people on this planet who have access to this blog, I enjoy it. It’s fun to dream of owning a new place. As Andy writes back to Red, “Remember Red, hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies.”

Random Reflection on Life o’ the week: It’s weird to be an adult and think to yourself, “I want a new house.” And really, there’s nothing stopping you from doing that. (Well, assuming you aren’t trapped in a cruddy mortgage like we are.)  Or similarly, “I want a new car.” And boom. You can go out and finance one. That is still weird to me. Every day I decide to wake up and put on pants. And just like that, I can wake up and make a life-altering decision like, “Let’s buy a house.” I guess I’ve been an adult for awhile, but that concept still feels foreign to me. As I sit here and type, it’s strange to look around and think, “Holy crap. This is all on me. If I lose my job or something happens… this all comes crashing down.” Sort of a “flying without a safety net or parents to fall back on.” I feel like I just aged a wee bit from I was when I started typing this paragraph. Hmm.

Day 85

For Christmas, we went down to my wife’s sister’s family’s house’s place’s place. Next Christmas will be Peanut’s first Christmas. So this was really Peanut’s 0th (zero-th?) Christmas.

I like the Holidays… but I’m not a gonzo nut about the Holidays. Like, I know people who go crazy on their decorations, and I’ve worked with people who define themselves by the Christmas season. That’s not me. We’ve got some light decorations up (thanks to my wife), but other than that, we didn’t do Christmas cards this year, and we didn’t exchange gifts, nor did we put up a tree this year. (We do in fact own a fake tree which we normally put up… but we both were too lazy; my wife because she was pregnant, and me because I’m just lazy.)

So next year for Peanut’s first Christmas, I’m thinking, “Why even bother celebrating?” Peanut won’t know it’s Christmas. Heck, I could probably slide by until age 2 or 3 until I really have to even bother with the whole, “Oh my goodness, WHO ate the cookies and drank the milk? <burp> Must be Santa!” OR, will I somehow be magically transformed like Ebenezer Scrooge after his visit with the Ghost of Christmas Future, and will I insist on celebrating as my heart will be transformed by the birth of my child? Mmmm. Not likely.

I’m just Scroogey enough to not even care about buying presents for Peanut’s first Christmas. (That’s what Grandparents are for, right?) Or first birthday, for that matter. As I see it, any time the person who is being celebrated has no idea they are being celebrated, then you can probably skip it. This holds true for babies, and the elderly.

Is that wrong of me? Selfish as a (soon-to-be) parent? Miserly? Bah-humbugish? Or just plain practical? Oh, I’ll probably take a photo or two to satisfy people who want to see photos… but I really don’t think any of MY friends would care that much, in the way I’m sure my parents would probably care about seeing photos of Peanut’s first [fill in the blank] (Christmas, Birthday, Halloween, Posting of Bail, etc.].

In fact, quite the opposite — my subversive sense of humor has me wanting to lean the other way and take offensive photos with my baby on these Holidays. (Surrounded by empty bottles of alcohol, next to a bong, etc.) But, luckily for my future baby, that’s what my wife is here for — to stop me from doing stuff like that. She’s the judicial branch to my legislative branch… or whichever branch the judiciary has checks and balances over. I hate it when my pseudo-intelligent analogies go awry.)

Anyway, I see the parents on our block who go hog wild on a child’s birthday — with jumpee inflatable things, and pony rides and all that crap. And I’m definitely against crazy big birthdays. (A rare one every now and then is cool, and can be a great surprise — but not every year.)  Similarly at Christmas — when I grew up, I could count the number of presents we would get on one hand. But I’ve seen kids who get showered with mountains of gifts and they tear through them on Christmas morning like a hot knife through butter. And that can’t be healthy.

Not that I’m going to dress my kid in shoes made of rope and burlap, nor in barrels with suspenders, but I’m just of the opinion that less is more when it comes to Christmas, Birthdays, and holidays. Poor, Peanut.

Day 65: Catching up

I travel for work. Some times I’m home at good stretches. And at other times I’m on the road for good (bad?) stretches. Right now, I’m on a road stretch. Squeezing in time to write has been a challenge for sure.

Random thought #1: Is Seal possibly the ugliest famous person alive? He looks like E.T. after a knife fight. Gary Busey would have to be a close second.

Today is smack in the middle of my longest road stretch of the year so far. Since you last heard from me, the wife and I went to Portland for Thanksgiving (and told the rest of her family–more of that in a sec)… then we flew directly to Chicago for a week for my annual work conference. THEN, I was home for the weekend, and Monday flew out to Oakland. So, all in all, I’ve been home for 1 weekday since the Tuesday before Thanksgiving.

Random thought #2: Hindus invented zero. I mean, they “invented it.” What did people do before zero was around? “Hey, how many chickens do you have?” “Well, less than one. But, I don’t know how to describe it.” It blows my mind that at some point in our history, people didn’t need zero. That’s crazy. Even crazier: there is a whole wikipedia page dedicated to zero. Is this really necessary?

Traveling so much is a nuisance. But now that my wife is “with child,” I’m realizing how much more of a nuisance it’s becoming. Once Peanut is born, I (hopefully) won’t want to leave. And more accurately – I likely won’t be able to leave for so long. I think our schedule is going to be arranged so that I watch Peanut on Mon and Fri’s. The cruddy part of my job is that sometimes, I have no more than 2 days warning before I have to hop on a plane. But, I guess my customers are going to have to accept the fact that I won’t be able to drop everything and come burp them.

We still haven’t fully discussed the whole daycare/nanny thing. I suppose we’re avoiding it. (That must be healthy, right?)

Random thought #3: I was walking down a stairwell in a parking garage, and in the bottom floor, someone taped up a hand-written sign that says, “This is NOT your bathroom.” I wonder how effective of a deterrent that sign is? A.) Are homeless people who pee in stairwells going to take the time to read your hastily written sign? B.) If they did bother to read the sign, are they really going to respect it? (“Pardon me kind garage attendant, can you point me in the right direction as to which stairwell floor I may pee all over?”)  Someone needs to do a study on this sign. I’m pretty sure it is a bum-pee magnet.

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 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 27: 3 years for $12? Hell yeah, sign me up

Days pregnant: 62 U.S., 48 Europe

Today I bought my wife and I a subscription to Parent magazine. Yes, yes. Fine. Say it. I don’t care. I’m one of those parents. I’m all about homemade arts and crafts for my kids. I grew up in the suburbs with semi-hippy parents, and some of my fondest memories were sitting at home doing crafts with my mom. In fact, we had an arts and crafts drawer that I vividly remember below the kitchen counter, which was full of crayons, construction paper, pens, water colors, etc. At any time, we had free reign to go to the drawer and just pull out whatever we wanted and start drawing.

Maybe this is a tad premature to say… since I’m only 2 months into the whole fatherhood thing… but I can picture myself in 6 years, sitting around and coloring with Peanut, or in a dozen years, sitting at the kitchen table, like my dad sat with me, trying to explain how Algebra works.

I think part of the reason I want to keep this “blog” around (not a “diary” cuz I’m a guy and that would mean I want to have consensual sex with other males…) … part of the reason to keep it around is because I hope in 10 years I’ll look back, when I’m too exhausted to pay any more attention to my child, and this blog will remind me how excited I was to do those things, and hopefully will remind me to find the time to color, or do homework. Oh sure, right now it’s all roses and I’m excited to do so. But I also know my famously short attention span, and I don’t doubt there will be some day when I have reached my threshold for paying attention to my child. Or does that not happen? I don’t recall ever getting that feeling from my parents, and I doubt my wife ever got that from her parents. But I gotta think it’s human nature to feel that way at some point. Or, maybe my wife and I were just blessed with amazingly selfless parents. All I know is… right now very few things in life top playing Halo 3. That’s gonna have to change come June 2009.

Oh, one more Suburbanite Sin for which to repent: when I signed up for Parents magazine, I … uh… got snookered into a year subscription of… um… Family Circle for $6. OKAY JUDGE ME. That one was perhaps even a bit too suburbia for even me… Mr. Minivan. But, as my wife said, “They have good recipes.“  Hell, that’s all the justification I need. And who knows, for 50 cents a month, maybe I’ll learn something. it’s only $6. Quit looking at me like that. I’m sure it’s a very decent publication. And besides, I’ll probably just learn how to make all sorts of shit out of popcicle sticks. I think that’s all those magazines are good for. Articles on “which teething crackers are best for your baby”, and making houses out of popcicle sticks for various holidays. (“For Veteran’s Day, we show you how to re-construct the beachead at Normandy using candy corn, pipe cleaners and popcicle sticks.”)

Day 26: Nothing much to talk about

Days pregnant: 61 U.S., 47 Europe

Little to no news on the baby front to report. Today, we booked our Thanksgiving trip up to Portland, and that’s when we’ll officially spill the beans (spill the stuffing?) to the rest of the family. My wife will be finishing her 12th week at that point… and wrapping up her first trimester. Good timing. (Way to go sperm!)  And hopefully by that point she’ll be over this morning day sickness she’s been having for the past few weeks. And then my pregnant wife and her pregnant sister-in-law will preggo-wrestle. (Like at corporate retreats when people don Sumo suits.)

I’m on a conference call for work right now, as I type this. I picture myself a year from now trying to do the same conference call while staying home with Peanut. (By the way, that’s my new favorite nickname. I’m not ready to call it “the baby” which sounds weird anyway… but I like Peanut. My wife came up with that nickname after seeing the peanut-shape on the sonogram.)

Luckily, I think with my job I’ll be able to do both. The downside will be trying to schedule my sales visits on Tuesdays – Thursdays. I think it can be done… but I guess I’ll know in a year. Also, for a salesman, who’s always looking for a way to connect with his clients, there could be worse things than “accidentally” dropping the fact that I’m at home with my baby. Especially working in a women’s health field like I do… this baby is going to be the sales gift that keeps on giving. I’m going to milk this thing for all it’s worth!

Other random thought for the day: In my backyard, there was some little flower growing, and for the life of me I couldn’t figure out what it was. The leaves looked different than any of the other leaves in my backyard. I assumed there was some flower orgy going on, and I was getting some weird hybrid plant.

Well, when gardening this weekend, we dug it up to move it, and guess what was at the other end– an avacado pit! I completely forgot I planted that like over a year ago. There was the pit, whole and round, with a big 5″ stem coming out of it, with two big leaves at the end. How cool is that? Like a science experiment in my backyard. I vaguely remember planting it last year in that spot. (Closest to the kitchen door, which makes sense because I would have been too lazy to walk it to the OTHER  end of the backyard.)

Day 24: Gettin’ My Green Thumb On

Days pregnant: 59 U.S., 45 Europe

We co-own a duplex with friends. It’s their job to tend to the front yard, and it’s my wife and my job to keep up the backyard. Moving from the Northwest a few years back, the concept of having to water a backyard is foreign to me. And, I’ve never owned a yard for which I had to be responsible.

Well, over the past year and a half since buying our duplex, I watched my backyard slowly deteriorate. Having to water 3 times a week turns out to be harder than I anticipated. As I joked to my wife when we first found out we were pregnant, “I can’t imagine having to take car eof ANYTHING once a day.” This doesn’t bode well for the future of our child. Diapers can be changed every-other-day, right?

Hell. I can’t even get myself to floss once a day. How am I supposed to take care of another life? My wife won’t even let me get a dog, because she knows me. I’ll play with it for the first 3 days, and then will forget to feed it. And, she’s right.

Where was I? Oh, yes. So, yeah. My backyard has slowly slipped over time. And I still attempt to water it (up to) 3 times a week. But despite my efforts, I just can’t seem to get things to bloom and grow. Well, this weekend I took a stand.

From here on out: I will become the master of my backyard. We went to home depot, and with the help of my mother-in-law, who has had a green thumb before Berlin was split in two, we bought some azaleas, a white rose bush, and … something else. I forget. Look. I’m not here to memorize plants. I’m here to make them grow.

I also bought myself some loppers and went to town on my neighbor’s tree branches that have been hanging over our backyard. Now it’s nice and bright and airy.

Then I took up the major task of digging out all of the ferns from my backyard. I despise ferns like I despise Populist Republicans. (Maybe even worse.) There were roots everywhere. I had to dig up a row of ferns about 12 feet long. That’s a LOT of ferns. And I dug ‘em all up. Whew.

That was the first time I ever voluntarily gardened. (Oh, by the way, men don’t “garden.” We “do yardwork.”) And the funny thing is, now that I’ve worked harder on the backyard than I ever have… suddenly I’ve become more protective of it, and find myself checking on it daily. It’s a strange phenomenon that when I inherit something, I don’t take the same care of it as when I built it myself (my backyard), or spend my hard-earned money on it (my bathroom). So, I guess there’s hope that I will take good care of the baby that I make.

Day 23: Please Don’t Let This Be The One

Days pregnant: 58 U.S., 44 Europe

So I just had one of the most harrowing experiences of my life. And it wasn’t even that harrowing – that’s how boring my life is. (In fact, I’m not even sure if I have a strong grasp on what harrowing means, simply based on the lack of harrowing events I’ve experienced.)

I was in Juneau, Alaska for work. In October, that’s some of the lousiest weather on the planet. Dark, hard rain, and cold. I had been there for a few days, and was anxious / ready / excited to leave and get back home to see my wife. (Who has had a few days of terrible nausea. Poor thing.)

Well, first my flight was delayed because of the inclement weather. Sucky. Then, we got up in the air, flew for about 20 minutes… and I see a distressed look on the stewardess’ face, as she brisky walks to one of her compartments, grabs some manual and laminated instruction card I’ve never seen before, and huddles with the other stewardess. I turned to the passenger next to me who also witnessed this and said, “When the stewardess looks worried, that’s not a good sign.”

Sure enough, about 1 minute later, the pilot gets on the radio and briefly says, “We’re experiencing a major electrical failure. We’ve started our descent back to Juneau. Assume crash positions.” ASSUME CRASH POSITIONS?! Yikes. That’s the first time I’ve ever had to do that.

Now, I should preface this with, just a month ago, the same thing happened to a friend of mine when flying into Alaska. So I somewhat felt prepared, that this was nothing too emergent, just a safety precaution. And the passenger next to me explained he’s a volunteer fire fighter, and that he’s seen this before, and “nobody ever dies from this.” Uh, thanks guy, for putting that remote possibility into my hyperactive imagination. I was in the crash position for 15 minutes – and the longer I sat there, the more I started to let my imagination run wild.

Luckily, the landing was as smooth as silk. I guess it was a precaution. I don’t know how often that happens – I’m guessing not very, based on the panic look I saw on the stewardess’ face. But there were people who disembarked from the plane in tears. I guess if you’re imaging the worse, then that’s a pretty awful position to be in. (Metaphorically and literally.)

But in those 15 minutes of waiting … that’s when I had my first thought so far in this pregnancy of, “Oh, crap. My wife is pregnant. If I die, she’s going to have to raise a kid by herself.” Until now, I’ve never concerned myself too much with my wife’s life after my death, but I guess it’s time. She’s been bugging me to get life insurance. And in that moment while sitting in crash position, wondering what the landing would be like, a thought crossed my mind: “Crap, she’s been bugging me to get life insurance. If I die, she is going to be really mad.”

So I guess I’ll be shopping for life insurance in the coming… month week day. Er… well, before my next trip anyway. Probably. Maybe. Soon. Ish.

Day 21: Ch-ch-ch-Changes

Days pregnant: 56 U.S., 42 Europe

With apologies to David Bowie for today’s blog title.

Since I’ve been writing my daily thoughts for a few weeks now, one of the themes that has emerged is, “How will having a baby change me?” Not in the physical sense of, “Oh, you’re going to be more tired, get more gray hair, etc.” But I mean, how will it change my perspective on life. Yesterday’s blog about cleaning got me thinking. Will I suddenly feel maternally connected to my domicile? Will I become Mr. Fix-it? Right now, honestly, I procrastinate doing chores—I’m not a fan of watering the backyard and don’t do it as often as I should; I rarely pick up a broom and only do it when the feeling of walking on crumbs gets too much for even me. And I hate folding laundry and putting away my clothes.

In a previous post I noted that I have a highly developed sense of sarcasm (translation: I’m jaded). Nothing is sacred or off-limits when joking. So again I ask, “Will these attitudes change once I have a baby?” And believe you me, if they do—I wouldn’t mind. That’s one area in which I’m envious of my wife. She is super compassionate, highly emphatetic, and refuses to make mean jokes about anyone or anything. I wouldn’t mind if having a baby helped to shift me more towards her perspective on life.

I hope so. This reminds me of the first time I ever felt that instinct kick-in: Sometime in early 2000s, my wife and I were river rafting up north of Vancouver, B.C. The rivers were flowing hard that day, and long story short: the inflatable raft capsized and we were heading straight for some rocks. I’ve river rafted about a dozen times in my life, and this was one of the nastiest places to capsize I’ve ever encountered. And the thing is—as soon as I emerged from the water, my only thought was to find my wife. (At the time my girlfriend.) I remember being focused on that, and protecting her from the cliff wall we were heading towards.

Now, I’m not telling you this to elicit your sympathetic, “Aaaaawwww, that’s so sweet.” I’m telling you this because I hope that type of determination and focus kicks in more when I have a child. Trust me, I could use a healthy dosage of being less selfish.

One of my biggest concerns about myself is that my child will be a toddler, and I’ll want to check my email or do something on the internet, and I’ll put off playing with my child in favor of doing whatever task I wanted to do. Sort of like the song, “Cat’s in the Cradle.” I wonder what kind of parent will I be – will I be able to strike the balance between doting, attentive father, and still keeping time to do the things I want?

Whoa. This blog ended up being waaaay to introspective. I apologize. That won’t happen again.

Day 19: It’s a big, scary world out there

Days pregnant: 54 U.S., 40 Europe

There was an interesting article I recently stumbled across about a mom who let her 9 year old son take a subway by himself to find his way home. The article was written by the mom, after the media frenzy died down surrounding this news story.

When the story hit the airwaves, people reacted in wildly different ways. Some people vilified the mom, and accused her of negligence, and “oh how could you,” and the such. And other people applauded her for giving her child the opportunity to be responsible and independent.

If you don’t know, here’s the story: the woman’s 9 year old son was begging her to ride the subway by himself. They lived in New York City. So, when they were across town one afternoon, she agreed. She gave him subway fare, and change for a phone call in case of an emergency. He knew the route to take, and she dropped him off at the subway stop. And, wouldn’t you know it, 45 minutes later, he returned home safe and sound.

The woman goes on to make an interesting point that parents have become so paranoid, that if you drive around suburbia, you rarely see kids out playing anymore. As a society, we’ve gotten to the point where in order to be considered “a good parent,” you have to take the most extreme stance and assume every single car that drives by is trying to abduct your child. People don’t let kid’s travel beyond the block, much less the driveway.

But at what cost? This woman’s child learned a lot about self esteem, and being independent, and what it means to be trusted. I remember being a kid, and my sister and I would be 6 or 7 years old, and we’d go ride our bikes a couple miles from our house, through mud and forests, and would usually get lost in the woods about once a week. But that was half the fun. Are we raising a generation of kids in bicycle helmets when they ride a tricycle? Are these kids not going to realize how to be independent and rely on their own wits? I doubt if taking extreme caution is really being a good parent.

Granted, I say all of this without having a child of my own yet. And I see how people can become uber protective. Yes, child abductions do occur. And you would to do everything to prevent that from happening to your child. But I gotta think life is full of scare, and awe, and amazement, and every emotion in between. To a certain point, you have to equip your children with the skills to survive, and be independent. I hate to say, “play the odds”… because that sounds callous … but truth be told, I’m sure the odds are 1 child out of a million is abducted. Heck, probably even fewer by total strangers (I’d venture that most abductions occur by people the child knows). But, then again, the odds of getting smashed by a semi or an SUV while your child is in the car may not be that different. Point is: there are lots of things out there to be protective of, but you have to take a stance somewhere, and not at the detriment of your child’s maturing and growing up.

PS- I reserve the right to disagree with all of this once I hold my newborn baby in my arms.

Day 13: Knock, knock…

Days pregnant: 41 48 U.S., 27 34 Europe

Who’s there?

9-11.

9-11 who?

YOU SAID YOU’D NEVER FORGET!

Yesterday’s post about sympathy got me thinking. I (used to) consider myself a comedy writer, as it was one of my main hobbies before my current job. For the previous 10 years, friends and I have written and performed comedy mostly in Seattle, but occasionally in Chicago, New York, Montreal, San Francisco, Hollywood, etc. (Since you’re reading this and since this blog gets zero visitors a day, you can probably guess that the comedy writing thing didn’t pan out too well.)

Back on topic: when you spend the majority of your life viewing things with an ironic eye, trying to deconstruct every event and situation to find the kernel of humor in it… it makes you a tad jaded and cynical. And like too much weed killer on your lawn, it kills every living part of your sympathy. Even after 9-11 (please stop reading for 2 minutes of solemn, reflective silence… Go ahead, I’ll wait.)…

Even after 9-11, perhaps on that same day, I was prepared with some jokes. I can’t help it. “What, too soon?” (Quick tangent: For Halloween in 2001, I wanted to be the twin towers, with little mobile planes crashing into them.) Don’t get me wrong. It was a horrible tragedy, and all that blah blah blah that I’m saying just so you don’t send me hate mail. But I just have a personal belief that nothing is sacred, and humor can be found in every situation. As Woody Allen says, comedy = tragedy + time. Well, in my world, black comedy = tragedy + warped sense of humor.

So I’ve been thinking… will having a little boy or girl skew my perspective? When my friends make child molesting jokes (and I have every expectation they will)… will I get offended? Will I suddenly find compassion and realize that yes, there are certain things that are off-limits to comedy?

Side bar: My wife is the opposite of me, so even if I don’t change, there is hope for our unborn child. You know how people take photos or send cards out saying, “It’s a girl!” Well, my dream is to have a photo with me looking dejected, holding a sign that is opposite of whatever gender our baby is. So if it’s a boy, I want a photo of me holding the baby in one arm, with a sign lowered in the other arm that says, “It’s a girl!” and looking very dejected. HILARITY! My wife has vetoed thing idea, and says it would be mean if the child found it later in life. My postulate is that, “No, if it’s my child, I will have scarred it early on in life with too many jokes and my warped sense of humor… so there’s no way my child could be offended, because they will have had a lifetime of knowing my comedy.”