Name that Tune

I'm a game show fanatic.   I know the hosts, I whistle the theme songs, and named our cat Plinko. 

The Dude, it seems, has inherited a bit of the game show DNA from me. 

He must really love Name That Tune.  Specifically, he loves the Bid-a-Note section.  You know, the "I can name that tune in 3 notes" deal.  

Ma+Pa:  We think a full night's sleep means waking up at 6:20

Coops: I think a full night's sleep means waking up at 6:15. 

           Eventually, he gets us out of our comfort zone...

Ma+Pa:  We probably won't fall asleep at work if we can sleep til 6:00. 

Coops: Umm, yeah, okay.   How about 5:55? 

            Then we fall to desperation...

Ma+Pa:  5:55?  Are you crazy?    If you wake up earlier than 5:30, we might kill someone tomorrow. 

Coops:   5:15, bitches!

Ma+Pa:  Okay, fine!  Name that tune.


Somewhere, the Tommy Oliver Orchestra is smiling.   

Keeping up

Dang it.   It's been about a month since I've updated this blog.    I take no responsibility for this lack or updating -- I blame my son.   He's the one occupying my time.  

Over the last month, I've thoroughly enjoyed watching him gain some independence.   He's able to entertain himself, smile, laugh, and he's getting ready to roll over and sit up.    He still poops.  


There are times that I desperately want him to roll over, because it's another feather in his cap.   And, really, it allows me to brag to everyone that my kid is rolling over.    Really, I think that all of these milestones -- crawling, talking, eating, memorizing the quadratic formula -- mean way too much to us parent-types.   

It's not to say that milestones for the child aren't important during growth and development.   They are, I suppose.   I mean, once he can roll over, my son will be able to...umm, roll over again.   So, we got that going for us, which is nice.   


My son won't update his cutelittlebabyfacebook status when he rolls over.   He will, though, update his Twitter account, though.    Have you checked it out?    You might enjoy.  


For those of you that have young children, and you want to compare your child's accomplishments to my son's, here's a list of what he:   

• sits upright
• scoots
• sleeps through the night
• hates the Steelers
• holds his own bottle - kind of
• laughs
• ignores the WNBA
• updates Twitter

So, um, take that, other parents!

Back on track

Sorry about that last post. Plinko means well, but she needs to know she was out of line. I'm impressed with her typing abilities, though.

And if anyone else hijacks the blog, they'll receive the same reprimand as Plinko...and I don't think any of you will enjoy a shower of fine mist from a spray bottle.


Our son is officially a 21st Century child: He has his own Twitter account. He plans to tweet whatever he is thinking about. Check him out @thedudegarvin


One more quick thought today: My wife's body was able to house a child for nine months, allow said child to vacate the premises, clean up after the child, and now, she feeds the child. This is a new trick that her body kept hidden for the first 26 years of life.

The only new trick my body unveils is sprouting unwanted hair in weird places.

Totally not fair.

Demoted

Hey, y'all...Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Plinko. I'm the cat. I've taken over this blog for a little while to meow my displeasure about the events that have taken place at my house over the last three months.

I've been demoted.

I used to be the queen of the castle. Now, I'm not really a big deal. They call me a big sister...but, um, let's be honest....I'm a cat, and I'm not related to that kid at all.

I mean, he's cute, and stuff...but he's not me. Let's compare:

• I poop and pee in a box, and I have enough courtesy to bury it after I'm done. He does his business in his pants, and expects the humans to clean up.
  
• I don't cry. Ever. Sometimes I meow or purr. This kid? Cries all the freakin time!
  
• I sleep whenever I want to. He, on the other hand, does not sleep whenever I want him to.
  
• I eat my food out of a bowl. He eats his out of a, ummm...how do I say this politely?...umm, he eats his food out of a...well, let's move on.
  
• All of my toys fit nicely into one small box. All of his toys fit nicely into one Grand Canyon.
  
• I give myself baths. In fact, just before blogging, I licked my butt. This kid, though, requires water, soap, a tub, and supervision while bathing. And he can't lick his butt.
  
• My tail is in the back. His is in the front.
  

There are a number of additional reasons while, I, Plinko Wink Garvin, am far superior to my little brother. I don't expect you to care, but if you stop by house, throw a little love my way.

If you're lucky, I'll show you how to lick your butt.

Here's the thing....

Thanks to a busy schedule and an overall feeling of laziness, I haven't blogged in a long time. For this, I am not sorry. Well, maybe just a little sorry. I mean, sort of sorry, I guess. You know what? No...I'm not sorry.

We're two and a half months in. He lets us think we have him on a routine....diaper change and PJs on at 10pm, a big bottle....and he's down for the night. Down for most nights, I suppose. We've had some 8 hour nights and some 4 hour nights (and by we, I mean my wife).


What I've discovered over the last 2.5 months is that I have an overwhelming desire to tell everyone how awesome my son is, and why he is so perfect. And there are so many opportunities to call attention to a child (especially one as saint-like as The Dude). With this whole "Internet" thing taking off, informing the world that your offspring is certifiably cute is about as simple as can be.

Now, there are these "Beautiful Baby" Contests....a proud mom or dad (okay, but really, mom) posts a few pictures of Junior, and hopes that a ton of people vote for them.

Mom, Dad, and Junior get their hundred votes of fame....mostly from their friends and family....but they won't win the contest. Why? Because every baby is cute! It's impossible to produce a non-cute child. Being cute is the key to their survival. No one would put up with the mustard-diapers, spit up, and crying if it wasn't for the 45 minutes of precious each day.

Here's the thing....the only winner? The TV Station hosting the "contest." They get 10,000 people clicking onto their website each day, allowing them to make lots of money in ad revenue.

I'm not saying that people shouldn't enter these contests. I'm just saying that parents of infants need [people to acknowledge our child. We're knee deep in poop. We think our kid is perfect...but it's nice to hear it from others. Throw us a bone. These contests are just like posting pictures or updating a status on Facebook....validate us! Let us know that our kid is the best!

Thus -- I will continue to post pictures, update my Facebook status, and bore co-workers to death with stories. For this, I am not sorry. Well, maybe just a little sorry. I mean, sort of sorry, I guess. You know what? No...I'm not sorry.

Car trips

Each of the last two weekends, we've packed up the Wagon Queen Family Truckster and headed out on the road.

The clothes for my wife and I fit comfortably in one suitcase. The clothes for our 1/12th year old fit snugly in a suitcase of their own.

I mean, how do you pack for a week? Will he pee through no onesies on the trip, or fifty onesies? What if the hotel room is really cold? Should we bring a bathing suit and waterproof Pampers? What vital item did we forget to pack?

I suppose this is the easiest time to travel. He doesn't need to stop to go to the bathroom. He'll cry when he really needs something. If he's not crying, he's sleeping.

The first leg of the journey took us to Appleton, Wisconsin. Fun fact about Appleton...the TV character Edna "Mrs. G" Garrett (Facts of Life) grew up on a farm outside of Appleton. The Dude was great through Ohio; great through our lunch stop in Indiana; freaked out in northwest Indiana, causing us to stop; awesome through Chicago; pretty good during our Outlet Malling; awful through the last leg, turning a 2.5 hr drive into a 4 hour nightmare.

The return trip was great...The Dude was well behaved. At one point, we promised him that if he didn't cry, we would buy him a car when he was 16. We lied. But, he didn't cry.


Trip two was a "Meet The Dude" excursion to my hometown. The two hour trip seemed like a quick trip to the store compared to the eight (okay, twelve) hour pilgrimage to America's Dairyland.

I'm not sure anything unites a family more than a newborn.


The trip back home was fine, too. First of many trips to the homeland for The Dude.


Tips for future successful car trips: Aleve for me. Earplugs for me. That's about it.

Diapers, number two.

I love my wife. While I go to work each morning, she stays at home with The Dude. While at work, I rarely encounter anyone crying...and if they are, I'm not expected to feed that person or change his pants.

At home, though, my wife is the caregiver to a 1 month old. If he's hungry, she's on it. If he needs changed, she's there. If she's tired, he's awake. If she's hungry, he's hungry.

She's a beast.


When I get home, though, I become the diaper changer. I figure I can handle a few diapers here and there, compared to the amount she changes during the day. Usually a pretty easy go, unless she drops this bomb:

"Oh, and -- he hasn't pooped for me today."

Translation: Grab a Maid of the Mist poncho, noseplugs, and wipes. Lots of wipes. It's gonna get messy.

Luckily, The Dude hasn't had any constipation issues. He poops. And if he doesn't poop during the day, you can bet that there are a few heavily loaded diapers awaiting me that evening.


Generally, here's the rundown:

I change him. No poop.
Five minutes later, I hear a shart.
I wait a few minutes to see if there are other sharts to follow.
I change him. Lots of mustard-like poop.
Five minutes later, I hear a shart.
I wait ten minutes to see if there are other sharts.
I change him.


No one enjoys that shartty feeling....maybe your stomach hurts, and you try to pass a little gas, thinking it'll help....but sadly, there's something brewing inside you. Yeah....never fun. I think The Dude loves it, though. He'll get a peaceful look on his face...and I can't say that I blame him.

When I hear that rumble, though, I think, "Diaper, don't fail me now!" I really hope I was successful in putting the diaper on correctly. Too loose - it's everywhere. Too tight - it squirts out.

We've had instances of leakage. When this happens, I try to channel my inner-Adrian Monk, piecing together the events that led to a onesie soaked with pee. Sometimes the diaper was loose or tight. Sometimes, The Dude's dude was pointing up or to the side. Sometimes, he was just full of pee and the diaper was at max capacity.

At the end of the day, though, I realize that I don't need a poncho from the Maid of the Mist. Noseplugs aren't necessary. All I need is patience...and wipes.

Lots of wipes.

Bedtime

Lately, I've been the parent responsible for feeding our son just before bedtime. While my wife ties up a few loose odds and ends before bed, I'll take command.

In an ideal world, he'd take a bottle, burp, and fall asleep for 5 hours.

Sadly, you and I both know there is no such thing as an ideal world.


Here's the usual routine: Diaper, feed 2+oz.; burp; he closes eyes for 5 minutes; I stand up, thinking he's asleep; he opens eyes, remembers that he's still hungry; feed 2+oz.; burp; falls asleep.

At this point, I take him upstairs and put him in the cradle next to our bed. You might ask, "Why is he sleeping in your room? Put him in the nursery." I might answer, "Good point. But shut up....I'm tired and I don't need to argue this with you."

My son, though, might be the next Amazing Kreskin. Within 10 seconds of my head hitting the pillow, he starts to fuss. Kreskin knows that it'll only take approximately 15 seconds for me to fall asleep. Thus, as a courtesy compromise, he fusses after I've laid down, but before I fall asleep.

So, after fussing for a few minutes, he breaks into a cry. Not a Cry-cry....but a cry. Usually it'll take a few more ounces of milk to get things back to normal. Sometimes he can pacify himself by latching on to my pinkie.

In the near future, Young Kreskin will be moved to the nursery. This will provide me with more chances to trip over things before getting to him when he cries. (Note: by "me", I mean "my wife")

Guilt

With a two-week old, I find myself thinking about what my son will grow up to be.

I'd like to think I'm fairly open-minded, and that I'll support all of the important life decisions he makes....what college to attend, what occupation to pursue, who to choose as a mate.....all of that will be up to him. I'll gladly offer advice when requested (and sometimes when it's not requested).

There is one non-negotiable item.

My son will be a fan of Cleveland sports. His adorable diapered ass will be firmly planted on the seat of the Cleveland sports train.

My job, as his father and Cleveland sports mentor, will be to teach him about the history -- the highs, the lows, the lower lows and the lowest lows -- of the world of sports. Here are the cliffnotes:

highs: 1948 Indians, Browns up until Jim Brown retired, Miracle of Richfield, Wilkens-era Cavs, Steroid-era Tribe, Cleveland Crunch, LeBron-era Cavs, Joe Tait, Tom Hamilton, Nev Chandler, Casey Coleman, Jim Donovan
lows: Red Right 88, Don Rogers, The Drive, The Fumble, The Shot, Braves pitchers, Marlins, Spurs, Red Sox, Magic...
lower lows: Expansion era Browns
lowest lows: Baltimore Ravens

I feel a bit guilty forcing my son to support Cleveland teams. I don't want to cause a Kinsella-esque schism. But I feel that by being a Cleveland supporter, there are many important life lessons to be learned. Among these lessons:

• how to lose honorably (See: 1964-2010)
  
• how to deal with disappointment (See: Cavs - 2009)
  
• how to see the glass half-full...especially while throwing said glass onto the field to express anger
• how to deal with "loss" of a hero (See: Thome, J - 2002)
• how to irrationally hate (See: Mesa, J)
• how to rationally hate (See: Yankees; Steelers)
• how to rationally hope (See: James, L)
• how to irrationally hope (See: 1964-2010)
  
• how to ridicule (See: Roethlisberger, B)
• how to celebrate (See: tumbleweed rolling)

I feel a little guilty....not letting him choose. I suppose that somewhere, down the road, he could give up Cleveland sports. I mean, with all the losing and disappointment, who could blame him? But, I'd like to think he'll understand commitment, heart, and unconditional love.

They say it's always darkest before dawn....hopefully, for my son's sake, the rooster crows very soon.

Diapers...

At the beginning of our pregnancy, my wife and I specifically requested a child who was potty-trained. If not potty-trained, at least litter-trained, like our cat, Plinko. If not litter-trained, at least house-broken, so we could let him do business in the yard.

As it turns out, our child poops and pees in a diaper. I'm told this is normal, and shouldn't be a problem. At about $100 a pop, I'd say that diapers is money down the drain. Sadly, it's like money down the diaper-pail.

Two weeks in, I feel pretty comfortable changing his diapers. I've been peed on three times....twice by him, once by me. His poop does not yet resemble poop. Instead of turds, it looks like fancy mustard gone bad.

The two worst times involved poop on the peeper before the circumcision site had fully healed. Thus, we had to take him to the sink and let water trickle on his area...baptizing his wiener, in essence.

The circumcision has fully healed. No longer does it look like he's trying to guide Santa's sleigh through a blizzard, and we don't have to put vaseline on him so it doesn't stick to the diaper. I can't imagine a pain worse than "circumsized penis sticking to diaper." I would not luvs that, and if it happened, someone would have to pampers me, or I would vow to blowout every diaper.


Yes, there have been some gross diapers, but I keep thinking, "This is nothing. The worst is yet to come."

Is two weeks too early to start litter and/or potty training him?

Tired...

Let's jump back in time about two weeks....we're approaching our due date. The message that we receive from every parent: Get your sleep!

I think I underestimated this advice. I kind of treated it like the "drink plenty of water" advice when working out in the sun during a humid July afternoon....it's a good idea, but, whatever...I'll be fine.


One week of being a father has kicked my ass.

I hesitate to even write this, because as much as I complain, my wife can justifiably complain 150% more than me. I can sleep while our son eats. She cannot. Also, her insides are still healing.

If I had to describe the tiredness I feel, I would liken it to college...particularly near the end of the spring semester...when everything is due in the matter of 3 days, and there is a ton of stuff going on around campus. Much like those days, I can fall asleep anywhere, anytime. On the toilet? Check. On the floor? check. Anywhere.

Also, just like those days, after a 20 minute nap, I'm ready to take on the world (and crappy diapers).


If I was smart, I would've saved a bunch of blog entries in advance. I would've left them like MadLibs, and filled them in quickly later.

I felt (adjective) when my wife gave birth.
My son's diapers often look (color) and smell like (rotten food).



Among the topics that I'll discuss:
Breastfeeding
Circumcision
Helplessness
Baby Clothes
Food
Leaving the house
Letting him cry
Diapering
Lessons to teach, Lessons to learn

A Baby Story

Our little guy has arrived. There is a ton to write about, but while Mom and son enjoy a post feeding nap, let me run down our Monday.

• Friday - Appointment. 3.5cm dilated, 80% effaced (the same way she's been since the beginning of April. Midwife says, "I'd be surprised if you don't deliver this weekend, but don't quote me on it." Thus, I'm quoting her on it.
  
• Saturday - Due date. No baby.
• Sunday - Due date + 1. No baby.
  
• Monday - Due date + 2.
  
• 2:45: Wife has Non-stress test. Hooked up to machine that measures contractions and heart rate of child. She had 8 very mild contractions in 34 minutes.
  
• 3:20. Test complete. Everything looks good. We make another appt for Thursday.
• 3:40. Grocery shop. We spend some time in Aldi's. I mean, I think we spent $60. At Aldi. That takes time.
  
• 4:45. Arrive home (30 min from hospital), I put away groceries, wife uses bathroom.
• 5:00. Wife wonders if her water broke. Calls office.
  
• 5:45. Midwife on duty calls back and tells us to come in to hospital. En route, wife has first somewhat painful contractions.
  
• 6:20. Arrive at hospital, ask for room with bathtub in which to labor.
  Hooked up to monitors, contractions become more regular (4 min apart) and stronger. Her water has not broken.
  
• 8:30 Still considered outpatients, nurse checks wife, says she's 5-6cm dilated. At this point, we're in it to win it.
  
• 8:45. The nurse brings in a labor ball, and allows Nicole to get up and move around. Also, she's given a dose of pain relief via her IV.
  
• 9:00. Drugs make her loopy.
  
• 9:30. Midwife comes in, after helping deliver another baby. Asks if wife wants to get into labor tub, she says yes.
  

At this point, I should note that this tub is not intended for delivery. We did not deliver in this tub. She seemed to enjoy the tub, though. I think it helped take a little of the edge off of the contractions.

• 11:00. After two stints in tub, midwife suggests heading back to bed to check things out. At this point, contractions are virtually on top of one another.
  
• 11:10. Upon checking, midwife tells us that the dilation has increased to 9cm. With that, she's too far to receive an epidural. The midwife breaks the water and discovers meconium present. My son has already had a BM...while I'm proud, it's the first hurdle we've encountered.
  
• As we prepare to deliver, a pediatrician arrives to take care of potential problems presented by meconium.
  
• 11:46. After pushing through about 8 contractions, my wife gives birth to our son.
  
• After not hearing him cry while they suctioned out any meconium, we heard our son cry for the first time.
  

He was 8lbs 7.7ozs. A pretty good sized baby. Chubby cheeks and a fair amount of hair. Ten fingers, ten toes.

There's a lot to dissect here....so, over the next few entries, I'll focus on different parts of the labor and delivery.

Uh-oh...

Much like the teenage protagonist of a sitcom, I'm getting a zit at the worst possible time.

Kelly Kapowski gets the zit right before the big dance, and I get a zit right before my first child is born.


Such is life.

Birthing room idea

I need your opinion: playing this song and holding my son up like this when he's born.

a) Good idea
b) Awesome idea
c) Your wife will kill you...but that's one hell of an idea.



PS: I'm holding auditions for the part of Rafiki.

The countdown continues....

Still waiting on the lad to make the trip down the tunnel of love. I think my wife is singing Billy Ocean's "Get out of my dreams and into my car..." but she replaces "dreams" with womb and "car" with "arms." Maybe not. She hates Billy Ocean. Let's be honest, though, that song has a pretty bitchin' video...definitely worth a youtube trip.

Every noise my wife makes, a cough, a sneeze, a fart....I automatically panic and assume her water just broke.

As we near the end of the pre-natal portion, I've realized just how lucky we've been through all of this. We haven't hit too many bumps in the road. Aside from the naming rights, we haven't disagreed on much. Even on days she thinks she looks terrible, my wife is still looks gorgeous.

Rarely does she complain about being pregnant. It bugs us when people complain about being pregnant. Now, I've never been pregnant. I'm sure that it's a constant battle...being pleasant and pregnant. But, for every person that complains about wanting to get the pregnancy over with, there are probably ten women that would absolutely love to be pregnant, but can't. This makes me very sad.

As for what lies ahead, this song sums it up. I'm not sure where the video is from, but the song is sung by Melissa Manchester and Collin Raye.

Movie Recommendation

For our anniversary, my wife and I went to the movies. We're not really movie lovers....I think her favorite movie is Elf and mine is Major League. Not exactly Citizen Kane and The Godfather.

We saw Away We Go, with John Krasinski and Maya Rudolph. In short, it was the perfect movie for us to watch at that time in our life together.

Brief synopsis: Burt and Verona are pregnant. They travel the country, searching for a place to raise their child. Along the way, they interact with acquaintances, friends, and family, each with their own parenting styles.

For my wife and I, this really opened our minds to parenthood. At the time we watched the film, we were not pregnant....merely toying with the notion of trying to have a baby.

Here's a rundown of the parents Burt (which, by the way, is a name that I love) and Verona encounter on their trip:

1: Burt's parents, Jerry & Gloria (Jeff Daniels & Catherine O'Hara). Jerry and Gloria are planning to move to Antwerp (Belgium, not Ohio) for a few years, and wouldn't be around for the birth of their grandson. The elder Farlanders are decently selfish and self-absorbed.

2: Verona's old co-worker and her husband, Lily and Lowell (Allison Janney & Jim Gaffigan) in Phoenix. Lily and Lowell have two children. They seem to be miserable in their role as both parents and spouses. Lily might be sauced the entire time, and refers to her kids as fat and dumb. Lowell is a pathetic ball of lame hate, quietly voicing his distaste for, well, pretty much everyone.

3. Burt's cousin LN and her partner Rod (Maggie Gyllenhaal & Josh Hamilton) in Madison, Wisconsin. LN (Ellen, to you and me) and Rod are, for lack of a better term, new-age douches, worried about their energy and their spirit more than anything else. LN doesn't own a stroller, because, "I love my babies. Why would I want to push them away from me?" LN and Rod are very condescending toward people who do not share their own wacky beliefs.

4. Burt and Verona's friends Tom and Munch (Chris Messina & Melanie Lynskey) in Montreal, Quebec. Tom and Munch have several adopted children, and are incredible parents. WE find out later that Munch has had several miscarriages. Very heartbreaking, actually.

5. Burt's brother Courtney (Paul Schneider). Courtney, a single father, is terrified that his daughter will be permanently scarred because his wife walked out on him.



While it might seem as though Burt and Verona are perfect, and everyone around them is crazy, I see it differently. I see them as two people who want to do the absolute best for their child, but aren't sure what best is.

Eventually, Burt and Verona begin to make promises to one another, based on their interactions with the people they met on their trip:

Burt: Do you promise to let our daughter be fat or skinny or any weight at all? Because we want her to be happy, no matter what. Being obsessed with weight is just too cliché for our daughter.
Verona: Yes, I do. Do you promise, when she talks, you'll listen? Like, really listen, especially when she's scared? And that her fights will be your fights?
Burt: I do. And do you promise that if I die some embarrassing and boring death that you're gonna tell our daughter that her father was killed by Russian soldiers in this intense hand-to-hand combat in an attempt to save the lives of 850 Chechnyan orphans?
Verona: I do. Chechnyan orphans. I do. I do.

My wife and I see a lot of ourselves in Burt and Verona....a bit nervous, a bit scared, and a bit apprehensive. Luckily, though, as we look around us at other parents, we have fantastic role models. No LNs or Lilys in sight.

I think the quote that sums everything up about being a good parent, though, is from Tom, the father of the adopted kids...

It's all those good things you have in you. The love, the wisdom, the generosity, the selflessness, the patience. The patience! At 3 am when everyone's awake because Ibrahim is sick and he can't find the bathroom and he's just puked all over Katki's bed. When you blink, when you blink! And it's 5:30 and it's time to get up again and you know you're going to be tired all day, all week, all your fucking life. And you're thinking what happened to Greece? What happened to swimming naked off the coast of Greece? And you have to be willing to make the family out of whatever you have.

You might hate Away We Go if you watch it, but I hope that, if you do, you smile a little bit, laugh a little bit, but, most importantly, think about our role as a parent, or a future parent....or whatever your situation is.

Nursery

Despite what you hear, the dad really doesn't have to do much during the pregnancy. If you are thoughtful, attentive, and patient, you'll do fine. The mom does the work.

Just about the only tangible thing I could do was to redecorate our office into the nursery. While I'm no Bob Vila, I consider myself to be of sufficient handiness to complete this task.

It's hard to pick out a color that a baby will like. Do babies know colors? Can they tell the difference between lettuce and pistachio? Do they care? Do I care? (The answer to that last question: Only if my wife cares)

We had a friend of ours design some wall decals for us featuring the letters of the alphabet and children's book and TV characters. I stole this idea from Ken Jennings of Jeopardy! fame. Now, he had the talent to physically paint each character. For as much as I'm not Bob Vila, I'm even less of a Bob Ross.

All in all, I think it turned out rather nice. Charming, perhaps.

I enjoy receiving compliments about the nursery...it's a nice pat on the back.

More enjoyable? Seeing my smiling wife, 9 months pregnant, sitting in the rocking chair.

Most enjoyable? Well, that hasn't happened yet. But, eventually, I'll see my smiling (or exhausted) wife, sitting in the rocking chair, holding our son...in the nursery I redecorated.

Anticipation

Most monumental life moments come equipped with dates and times.

Graduation? Seniors count down the days left til they graduate...and the countdown seems to start during their sophomore year.
Your wedding? That date is set in stone about six seconds after you get engaged.

The arrival of the baby, though, simply happens. This is killing me.

Physically, we're all set. The nursery is done. The clothes are washed. The name has been selected (finally!).

Mentally, I'm not sure that we'll ever be totally prepared for that.


So, we wait.

The baby isn't due for another couple of weeks, yet, we're still on high alert.


We're ready....I think.

Tricks of the trade

Here's one trick that I've been working on. All parents are incredible with it.

I call it the Carlos Mencia.


Child is playing with an object that is not a toy...perhaps a remote, or a Sharpie, or the cat. Parent, in an attempt to stop child from playing with dangerous object, offers a second (incredibly lame) toy while taking the fun toy.

It's a lot like Comedy Central offering Mind of Mencia to fill the void left by Chappelle Show.

Car Seats

In order to be a certified car-seat installation checker, you have to sit through a four day training seminar.

Four days! That's half of Hanukkah, folks. And, for the gentiles, it's a day longer than it took Jesus to resurrect from the dead!

It's as long as the average NASCAR race.


Anything that takes four days to learn has to be important.

And, after trying to put that thing in the car alone, I gladly called up the health department for a little tutoring.

Thankfully, our unborn child now has a well-secured ride in the same back seat where he was conceived.

Okay...just crossed a line.

Also, I'm fibbing.

Go bag, Go!

We're getting really close to kickoff. Or, is it tip-off? Faceoff? First pitch?

The problem with the baby is that, unless you have a scheduled c-section, you don't have a countdown clock. We could be T-minus 4 weeks, or T-minus 4 minutes.

We're making our last-minute preparations, which includes packing our "go bags." I've been told that go bags are very than many other types of bags, including golf, grocery, douche, saddle, bean, rosin, and bowling.

In the go bag, (and by "go bag", I mean "go bags") you have to cram everything you own. This includes, but is not limited to:

toiletries, pillows, Mountain Dew, underwear, clothes, wiffle-ball bat, clothes for the baby, a hat for the baby, mittens for the baby, a pacifier for the baby, a pacifier for the mother, contact lists, That Thing You Do! on VHS, camera, video camera, batteries, memory cards, Flintstone vitamins, car seat, hard candy, several JeffJams/Jeffapalooza/Joestock mixed cassettes, streamers, cigarettes*, cigars**, urine samples, my wife...

Yeah.

So, I've resigned myself to being okay with forgetting something, so long as it's not the wife. She's the important part during all of this.

Right now, we have a suitcase packed for her, a duffel bag packed for me, nothing packed for the little guy, some snacks, cameras (not for the circumcision), and a carseat which is not properly installed.

Hopefully, T-minus 4 minutes is not the case.


*Cigarettes will be chain-smoked*** in the waiting room while I wear a hole in the floor from my nervous pacing back and forth, just like in the cartoons.

** Cigars will be passed out to everyone I meet, letting them know that I've had a baby, and that I'll soon be begging for reasons to get out of the house.

*** I don't smoke. Hospitals don't permit smoking on their property. Waiting room floors are pace-proof. My jolly ass will be coaching in the delivery room, not watching SpongeRobert SquareTrousers in the lobby.

Quick thought...

...we have a cat.

Would it be possible to litter-train our child?


I can picture it....in a few years, I'll be on the toilet reading an article in Sports Illustrated about how the Cleveland Cavaliers won their 4th consecutive NBA Championship, my son crouching in the litter box reading the hilarious adventures of the Timbertoes and Goofus & Gallant in Highlights.

Naming Rights

How the hell does this work?

Finding a name that we both love has proved to be the biggest challenge of the pregnancy. It's not that we can't find a name we both love...we can't find many names we both don't hate.

Now, hate is a strong word. I don't hate names. I merely have strong aversions to names based on three main reasons:

• I know and dislike a person (real or fictional) with that name.
• It sounds goofy
• My wife really loves it.
  

Wow....that's a bit harsh. But, I think it might be true. After having several of my absolute favorites mercilessly shot down, I figured I should go on the offensive.

We have a book which offers up 50,001 potential names for our child. Since we know we're having a boy, that leaves us roughly 25,000.5 names from which to choose.

We agree on one thing. We'll need to figure out a name soon.

My main test is this: When you say a name, what instrument in the school band to I picture a kid with that name playing? If the answer is "flute" or "clarinet," it is thrown out.

No offense to male flautists or clarinetists.

Everyone has their suggestions.

Parents offer up advice...."We just knew." "You'll know it when you see it." Really? We'll know it when we see it? I just read 25,000 and a half names. And of those, there are about 800 real names, and about 17,000 lame attempts to fill up a book. Page 288: Trampus (American) meaning Talkative.

Really.

__

It's not like a name is a big deal. It only lasts for eternity.

I think unborn children should have to read What to Expect When You're Expected. They'd probably be more prepared for birth.

Chapter One: Head first!

Chapter Two: Face down.

Chapter Three: Bundle up...it's cold out there. Also, don't forget the eye stuff in case your mom has gonhorrea!

Chapter Four: Circumcisions and you...what your buddies won't tell you.

Chapter Five: Boobs....it's what's for dinner.



I mean, this would be a good read, yes?

Here's a spoiler:

I skipped to the end of "What to Expect When You're Expecting."

The answer? A houseful of stuff.

Birth class

I'm still waiting on the final grade, but I think my wife and I passed our birthing class.

I took copious notes. Here are the most important things I learned:

• Videos featuring the "miracle of life" miraculously suck the life out of me.
• Women featured in these videos have not discovered the "miracle of hair maintenance"
• It is impossible not to want to know the stories behind all of the other couples in the class.
• The class will calm your fears one minute, then induce a panic attack the next.
  
• Most women poop during labor and delivery.
  
• There's a doctor in Findlay, Ohio, that reminds me of Will Forte.
  
• Parents, with their doctor's permission, have videotaped the events that unfold in the Maternity Ward.
  
• Sadly, this videotaping is not limited to the birth. Some folks have recorded the circumcision. What the what?
  
• Seriously, though...people have recorded their child's circumcision. On purpose.
  

I guess the good thing to know is that, one way or another, sooner (ideally) or later, the baby is coming out.

Formulaic Dadness

"You're going to be a great dad!"

I'm not sure why people say that to me...maybe it'll be the agility at which I can change a diaper, or how well I'll be able to kill spiders.

So, I got to thinking....what makes up a great dad?

Here's my formula:

12% Henry Spencer from Psych (for his ability to always be one step ahead of his son)
13% John Kinsella from Field of Dreams (for the having a catch with son)
10% Jim Halpert from The Office (mostly because he's awesome)
16% Clark W. Griswold from National Lampoon's Vacation (mainly for ability to burst out into song during long car trip)
14% Glenn Holland from Mr. Holland's Opus (for his ability to appreciate the abilities of his son)
20% Cliff Huxtable from The Cosby Show (for the way he loves his wife, setting a great relationship role-model for their children)
5% Hank Hill from King of the Hill (for his knowledge on propane, and propane accessories)
10% Howard Cunningham from Happy Days (he wears cardigans)

There's the perfect dad.

Or, more succinctly, I should've given this formula:

100% My Dad (for his knowledge of propane...the way he loves my mom...for his bursting-into-song ability...for all of the things that the fictional dads listed above are...)


I hope that I'm as good of a fatherly role model for my son as my dad was for me.

Preview

"PREGNANT"

One word appeared on a stick. A stick with pee on it.

From that point, life changed. A lot.


This blog, inspired by FKS, Babyhood, and Away We Go, will be my attempt to make sense out of the pregnanthood and parenthood that has become my life.

I encourage you to join me on this journey.