Gearing up for my new budgetary bundle of joy

File this under: “It’s the little things…”  But today was a big day for me, because I created my first “baby monthly expense item” in Quicken.  Baby:Diapers. Yup. $20.10 / week into the ol’ Quicken budget. ($87/mo.)

Hey!!! That means I’ll save money in February!

See, and you thought this blog was going to be all “interesting” topics. You really have no idea how much of a geek I am.

Next I’m trying to anticipate what other costs I’ll want to categorize. Obviously healthcare (co-pays, medicine, etc)… And eventually daycare (nanny?). And I suppose I’ll need to make an allowance for how much per month we can spend on Peanut. (I’ve already entered a dangerous zone at Babies ‘R Us where I saw a toy.. and it was, oh $18 or $20, and I thought, “Screw it. That’s nothing! I’m buying it.” The thing is, I will gladly — and stupidly — buy four $20 items in as many shopping trips, but if the item cost $80, I would go, “Hmm. I don’t know. That’s a lot.” Stupid brain. And how come they have to price everything juuuust below my cheapskate threshold. Jerks.)

Day 119

Much baby related news to share with you… But first, thanks to our friends at BabyCenter.com, I know that today (22 weeks) my baby is the length of a spaghetti squash. Here’s a tip: don’t Google spaghetti squash. Every image that comes back is a picture of a my-baby-sized yellow gourd being gutted. Gee, thanks BabyCenter.com for that image. Next time, why don’t you remind me how my baby’s entrails can be served up with angel hair pasta.

On to today’s post…

#1. We settled on a stroller/car-seat combination. We found a Right Start baby store near us that carries a much higher quality of stroller than you find in crummy ol’ Babies ‘R Us. (If you got your stroller from Babies ‘R Us, I apologize. Strike that. I don’t apologize. This is my blog, and if I want to be an unabashed stroller snob, I can. You and your chintzy stroller can suck it.*)

* This request doesn’t apply to family/friends; only to strangers for whom I have little empathy.

Bob Revolution 12" AW stroller

Anyway, where was I … Oh yes, so we found a nice store that had our favorite strollers on display for us to try out. And the winner is: THE BOB REVOLUTION 12″ ALL WHEEL!

Now, I won’t bore you by extolling its virtues… of which you can be assured there are MANY. But here were the top reasons why we chose it after comparing it in-person to the waaay overpriced Orbit and Bugaboo strollers.

i. Look at those freakin big ass 12″ rubber tires with steel spokes. None of that hard plastic shit you find on other models.

ii. A suspension system. Awww yeah.

iii. In my wife’s first try, she was able to collapse this thing and prop it back up with one hand. By far the easiest to open and close that we tested.

iv. Another couple was in the store with an Orbit, and I asked them how they liked it, “Heavy.” I went around lifting strollers. Bob Revolution was certainly lighter.

v. You can keep the car seat adapter on the stroller when it is collapsed. With the Bugaboo and others, you had to detach the car seat adapter before collapsing the stroller. Saves a step.

vi. It works with our favorite car seat, which is from Graco.

vii. Best of all… The stroller’s name is “Bob.”  I am SO ready to start using this name. “Honey, where’s Bob?” “Is Bob in the trunk?” I love naming inanimate objects.

So, there you have it. After 3 weeks of Googling non-stop, and trying out in-stores, we settled on Bob.

Seahawk cake at my baby shower

#2. While I was visiting my work this past week, they threw me a surprise baby shower. Photos to come soon. I was blown away. And I was a complete dork, because I didn’t know what to do. I’ve never been to a shower before. They made me wear bows on my head, and we played games. Everytime someone else won… I won baby gifts too. That’s my kind of contest. It was amazing. It was a tailgating themed party, so all the food was hot dogs and chili and dip and chips and wings… oh. So good. And the person even made a Seahawk shaped cake. Oh, and I got the DAMN CUTEST onesie I’ve ever seen: it’s a Seahawks jersey. So cute.

Oh, and to underscore my complete dorkiness… I hate opening gifts while people watch me. I love attention; but not that kind. My style of attention is making jokes under my breath in the back of class. I absolutely cannot stand people watching me open gifts. It is unnerving. Anyway, I’d open the gift, and look and it, and coo over it. And then put it in a pile. Well, everyone said, “Hold it up so we can see!” Oh. Right. I hadn’t realized. Apparently, someone was taking notes for me on what I was getting. Like I said, I felt like a complete dork. But, one of the best parties that has ever been thrown for me. Thanks, Peanut.

#3. We had another OB appt this morning. Alas, no photos to share with you. But, everything is progressing well. My wife is disappointed that her baby bump is not more obvious. She can’t wait for it to be like a basketball in front of her so a.) she can wear tight shirts to show of her baby belly, and b.) so strangers know with complete certainty that she is pregnant. I think she is frustrated that she doesn’t look pregnant yet, and in her words, “People just think I’m fat.”  Awww. Poor thing. The cool thing is, I can tell. And that’s all that matters, right? I’ve tried various tactics to cheer her up from this notion, ranging from, “What do you care what strangers think?” to “You’re pregnant. It’s like being on vacation. Get fat. Who cares. Eat whatever you want! Enjoy it.”  Neither seems to be the proper strategem. Advice welcomed.

Also at our OB appointment, we found that Peanut is already head down. The doctor said, “There’s little indication that your baby will stay that way.” But still, that’s a good sign. Peanut just has to hold that position for the next 4 months.

#4. In the last week, she has started feeling Peanut. I think that’s the “quickening.” (Highlander, anyone?) Which you think would be an amazing thing, but now, Peanut gets fidgety at bed time. I guess when you go from walking and sitting and standing and moving (which is basically rocking Peanut), to laying still, your baby is like, “Hey, c’mon. Start the ride back up!”

#5. We settled on a hospital. Los Alamitos. It’s not the closest hospital to us, but still only about 12-15 minutes away. If Peanut is high-risk or we expect any complications, the better hospital is right down the road from us, with a NICU and all that. But, since things seem to be smooth sailing (thus far), and since the closest hospital is … umm… hmm… [searching for proper way to phrase this]… in a less than ideal part of town… well, we decided to head towards another hospital.

So that’s all the baby news for the past two weeks. Oh, and we’ve narrowed down our name lists to 5-girl, and 4-boy. And no, we won’t tell you what they are.

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 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 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 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 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?

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 25: Peanut 1, ObGyn 0

Yup, that's our Peanut!!!

Days pregnant: 60 U.S., 46 Europe

Today we had our first OB Gyn visit. Which was a bag of mixed results…

First, the Good: My wife’s ObGyn performed our first OB sonogram. And we got to see our little peanut on the monitor! (Fetus sounds so cold, and I don’t know if I can legally refer to it as a baby yet. So, we settled on “peanut.” Besides, it was sort of shaped like a peanut.)

I’m not an emotional person — the last time I cried was 2003. I’m not bragging. Far from it. On the contrary, I wish I could cry easier. But years of cynicism, jadedness, and being an emotionally-stunted male have left my tear ducts withered and dry, like a grape vine in January.

So I’m not going to try and win your affection by telling you some BS story about how I cried a single tear or blah blah blah when I saw Peanut on the monitor. No, I didn’t cry. Although, I will admit, it was damn cool. And there was a wave of tingling that washed over me when the ObGyn showed us the heartbeat on the monitor. Sort of like all-over-goosebumps. Suddenly it wasn’t just a little snowman blob in a tunnel on the monitor, it was alive! I made life!

And the rest of the good news… It was in the proper place in the uterus, with the yolk sack and all the other amenities Hotel Uterus is supposed to have. And it was the proper size for being 9 weeks along. And the heartbeat was at 160 (or 168, I forget) beats per minute, right where it was supposed to be. So… all signs point to this being a viable pregnancy. Yahoo. I can’t wait until Thanksgiving when my wife will feel safe that she’s far enough along to spread the word to the rest of our friends and family.

And now for the bad news… We didn’t care much for the ObGyn. I’ve worked in a few different private medical practices and hospital departments, and the one thing I’ve learned: a doctor is only as good as their supporting staff. And her front desk staff was not very good. I can tell when a staff is organized, and these girls were definitely not. Also, my wife and I had many questions, and we felt like the doctor sort of rushed through them or was in a rush to get us on our way. (Note to self: don’t make an appointment at the end of the day.) And there were a few other minor annoyances — it’s funny, but when you’re looking for a reason to not like a doctor, it’s very easy to find them, no matter how petty the reason, “Did you notice how her left cuff was slightly higher than her right cuff? We’re not going back to that quack!”  Stuff like that. Anyway, petty or not, the overall feeling/vibe my wife and I got was underwhelming, so we’re going to go look for another ObGyn next week.

My wife works in the medical field as well, and she got a good (I hope) recommendation from one of her hospital clients, so we’ll meet him next week.

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 20: Dirt, dust and grime

Days pregnant: 55 U.S., 41 Europe

My wife’s mother is coming to stay for a couple days, en route to stay with my wife’s sister’s family for a week. My wife’s mother is retired, and she has always played a large role in the rearing of grand children. I think when she comes down today, we’re going to tell her at dinner about the pregnancy. I can’t wait to tell her. She’s going to be very excited.

In preparation of her arrival, we had to clean the house. We have hard wood floors, which collect dirt and dust at alarming rates. I swear I just dusted two weeks ago, and now there is a healthy film on the floors again. It’s insane. Also, the fact that we live in Long Beach doesn’t help, because the tables and furniture near the windows get an additional layer of “soot.” Yes, black soot granules. It’s freaky to think we’re breathing all of that in. I definitely look forward to moving up to Portland, once we’re able to do so. (Housing market and all that, blah blah blah.)

Back on point: the hard wood floors get dirty… fast. And with my wife feeling nauseated all day, it’s hard for her to be around cleaning chemicals. Which leaves more cleaning to me. And, I don’t mind telling you: I hate cleaning. I’m the kind of cleaner that once I get focused and in to it, I clean better than anyone. My left-brain detailed side kicks in, and I move furniture, get underneath areas where no human would ever see. But, the problem is, I hate getting started. And it dawned on me today, “Oh my, with a baby crawling around, I’m going to be cleaning A LOT and FREQUENTLY.” That sucks. That totally sucks. Stupid baby, cutting in to my Halo playing time. Or, will my attitude change, and some maternal instinct kick in, and I’ll look forward to cleaning every day? Will my basic instinct to provide a suitable nest for my offspring kick in?

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.”

Day 12: Pictures of You

Days pregnant: 40 47 U.S., 26 33 Europe

My wife and I have lived in our house now for approximately 1 ½ years. And we finally got around to cleaning out some of those moving boxes with random crap that you can’t throw away, but have no use for. Like old photos. I’m the least sentimental person on the face of the planet.

(Tangent: I think I lack the sympathy gene. When I hear of people who have to spend money for a dog’s kidney surgery… my eyes instinctively roll. I don’t care if Fido is a “member of the family” – by the way, he’s not… he’s a dog… but even so, if an animal needs surgery that costs more than $100… put it to sleep. In fact, I’m going to do whatever costs less: fixing the mutt, or putting it to sleep. Yes, I’m a cruel and heartless bastard… but it’s a DOG people. They’re like shoes. Don’t pay to have your shoes resoled, just go buy a new one. They’re everywhere.)

Okay, now that you hate me and probably realize I’m a horribly unfit father… back to my point: I’m not sentimental. So photos to me aren’t that important. I’ve got friends who take their camera everywhere we go, and they love snapping pics. Which is great. That’s just not what I’m about. As I see it, photos are just junk that someone has to deal with when you die. Sure, every now and then a kid or a grand child will want to check it out. So, it’s fine to keep a few on hand. But really… volumes and volumes of photos are useless to me.

So anyway… back to the original original point… after 1.5 years in our house, we got around to cleaning out the downstairs closet that was full of boxes of memories. And we went through the photos, and decided which ones we should put on the wall. (I guess now that we’re pregnant, we’re supposed to actually make the house appear “lived in,” with photos on the walls.) So we trudged down to Target, blew $100 in photos (see my earlier comments about spending more than $100 on a dog, and you’ll understand why I say “blew”…) and it was up to me to hang them.

Well, honestly, I’m not the most nimble handyman there is. Our walls are plaster and lathe, and I’ve had pretty lousy luck hanging things. So I did some research, marched down to Home Depot, and bought the hardware to hang frames and other heavy things on our old plaster walls.

I even hung some heavy artwork and a mirror… and here I am 3 days later, and they’re still up. Which is good news… because building things and hanging things in walls is a prerequisite to being a dad. But, so is sympathy, so I suppose I’m one for two.

Day 9: To Know or Not to Know?

Kill this thing on my head, please

During one of our evening walks, I asked my wife if she wanted to find out the sex gender of our baby ahead of time. I assumed she would. To my surprise, she said “No, I want it to be a surprise.”

Apparently I don’t really know this “woman” who is my “wife.” That really came as a shock to me. I love surprises, and I’m 100% down with not knowing until the baby pops out. But here are my biggest worries:

1. Does that mean every baby gift we receive is going to be either yellow or green? I mean, I have no issue with light blue for a female girl. (Look– all babies look like ugly, unisex toadstools when they’re first born, so I won’t feel bad if you think my girl-dressed-in-blue is a baby boy, or vice versa.)  I think people just get the pink and blue thing for their own satisfaction, so others can tell what the hell it is.

(Tangential note: My wife are in complete accord that we will not put one of those ugly headband bow things on our newborn baby, just so people know what it is. That’s just plain cruel to your baby. They should call social services on that kind of thing.)

2. Speaking of “it”… if I don’t know the sex gender, how am I going to refer to the baby until it is born? “It”? “The baby” Or maybe I’ll come up with a temporary name like “Spot.” Or “Feti” (short for fetus). Just so I can refer to the baby without having to qualify everything I say such as, “Oh boy, I hope he and or she is a cute baby when he and or she comes out.”  (“Feti’s kicking!” See, I already like it. So let it be said so let it be done.*)

* There’s no way my wife will agree to “Feti.” Unlike me, she hates all fetus related humor.

3. Speaking of “boy and or girl”… My biggest fear about not knowing the sex gender until the baby is born is this: what if as the days pass along, I secretly start leaning or hoping one way or the next. Yes, I know– I’m going to love my baby equally no matter what, yatta yatta yatta, blah blah blah. But, really, deep down, everyone kind of has an inkling of how they project themselves in a year or two, playing with a toddler. When I close my eyes, do I see myself with a boy or girl toddler? And if so, what happens if the baby is a different sex gender than I have envisioned? I guess the trick there is to give equal opportunity in my imagination to both baby genders!

So that’s where we are as of Day 9. Who knows. 9 months is an awfully long time to have something growing inside of you and not be told the sex. So we’ll see if on day 240 if we’re still all gung-ho with this, “Let’s not know our baby’s sex gender” thing. Only time will tell.

(Final tangential note: Several times when writing today’s post, I changed the phrase, “baby’s sex” to “baby’s gender.” There was something about baby and sex right next to each other that my brain wouldn’t allow to be. Weird.)