While we're on the subject

Clearly I am not qualified to speak on the topic of clothing, but I really would like for someone to explain to me how a particular item made with stretchy stuff is vastly different from another item made with stretchy stuff. This morning the belly emerged from the bedroom and declared "this dress makes me look HUGE! To myself, I said "uh, okay, I I cannot tell one iota of difference" out loud I said...nothing (see! I'm getting smarter!). I merely gave a puzzled look like what she said made no sense at all and prayed she would get distracted before I was forced to come up with some sort of English language response. The belly stared at me with a look that can best be described as: You. Are. A. Moron....

Now, she is definitely beginning to show, noticeable, but not what I would call "huge" by any stretch. So how am I supposed to manage this new minefield? I would like to survive until the actual birth, and I am becoming increasingly worried I ain't gonna make it. I think I got the food part down, although the belly picked up the lunch bag the other day and even without looking in it, stopped it it's tracks and said "it's kinda light, isn't it?" whoops, my bad, let me cut up some carrots and celery my love. See, I got this, but with the clothes, I am in uncharted waters. I have known my wife long enough to know which parts to compliment, her hair, her skin, her legs, all of which she is in general agreement that they are very good features. I stay away from problem areas(if you're reading this my love, I'm just kidding, you're PERFECT, you don't have a single thing that's not beautiful) and this has stood me in good stead. No melt downs, no angry recriminations. I have also learned to evacuate the bedroom while the ritual of getting dressed happens, avoiding even the remote chance that I might give astray glance that would be interpreted as anything negative. I don't ask why 3 or 4 or more outfits are on the floor, because I know when an outfit doesn't pass muster it should not be given the respect of being hung back up.

The belly however, has changed the rules. Evidently if I am not in the immediate vicinity of the bedroom when the clothes are tried on, I must be sought out and cornered like the dog that I am so I can bear witness to the offending article. Maybe I need to start hiding in the bathroom, faking gastro-intestinal distress is better than having to verbalize my opinion. My advice, the belly don't want no stinking opinion, so do whatever you got to do to not give one.

And lastly, I fear we are about to cross the line into that no-man's land, gigantic underwear. I was informed today that the current undergarments are no longer up to snuff. No Be-band is gonna help me now, I fear the arrival of the large cotton preggo-panties is at our doorstep. So like a good soldier, I will shrug and say "they're not so bad, as long as you're comfy". But inside, I weep. I love the belly, and I am going to miss some things, but hey, we're in this together aren't we?

Justin Timberlake has left the building

Why, oh why, do I do the things that I do?  There is a precise moment (quite frequently of late) I realize something has come out of my mouth and all I want more than anything in the world is to stop time and hit the reset button.  I don’t need to go back a few days, or hours for that matter, all I’m asking for is about 5 seconds.  Why would I want such an ability you ask?  To play the lottery perhaps?  Not on your life bub, I would take those precious few seconds to stop my pea-sized brain from sending instructions to my vocal cords to formulate anything even closely resembling words.  Forget about higher level stuff like sentences, I would stop using actual words, maybe move to only grunts.  And moans.  That way I would never feel the withering look and stinging rebuke from the belly. 

Saturday started fine enough, got up, headed immediately to breakfast.  Prioritization is key with the belly, food first, always.  As a matter of fact I’m a little worried I need to make sure we have a route to the hospital that has multiple food service options available 24 -7 just in case labor strikes right before the next scheduled feeding.   Then it was off to the baby stuff sale.  I have discovered there is an active sub-culture of commerce that exists amongst bellys whereby they rent massive ballrooms and send out secret e-mails alerting one another to these extravaganzas of all things babyish.  We were on the hunt for maternity clothes, which is another way of saying I am supposed to stand there quietly and hold the stuff the belly picks out.  Do I behave in the proper way?  Of course not!  I, in my zeal to be a supportive, interested hubbin’, jump right in, and start perusing the racks in order to aid my darling wife in the search for something that will go around the belly and most of all “look cute”.  Now “cuteness” has clearly replaced anything even close to what I once knew as “sexy” .  We don’t use the word “sexy” any more, after all, the “sexy”  must have worked, or otherwise we wouldn’t be in this pickle.  “Sexy” has been replaced with “cute”, “comfortable” and “not constraining”. 

Looking for “cute” I held something up and mentioned to the belly it “looks cute”.  Big mistake, I mean, really big.  Colossal, gigantic, almost epic in scale.  You see, I take the small clues that the belly gives to gauge displeasure, and in this case the belly took one look and said, “Why are you trying to dress me in a potato sack?”  See, I just need 5 seconds.  This led to many reassurances that she was indeed still a beautiful woman, and that if anything she was just a bit “more round” and may I please be forgiven for ever even thinking I might have any idea about what would constitute a “cute” article of clothing.   I escaped with my life by changing the topic immediately to where the belly wanted to go for lunch and a near crisis was diverted.

 I have heard that women are blessed with something that allows them to forget the pain of childbirth almost immediately after the deed is done.  This way, so say the experts, a woman is not dissuaded from procreating again.  No memories of the south of the border agony to dim the enthusiasm of subsequent critters.  This is definitely a good thing.  We have both been to this rodeo before, albeit some time ago, and we should avoid these fears, doubts, and mistakes, shouldn’t we?  I wouldn’t be surprised when the belly says in all seriousness, “don’t kiss me, I’m so hungry I might try to eat your lips off your face” would I?  Clearly us pre-poppas have a selective memory as well, we forget the pain of pregnancy right after the birth, all 9 months of it.    

Why I hate Google

Before you accuse me of being an old crotchety bastard that despises all things high-tech, I have to tell you that I consider myself a pretty modern guy. I have an iPhone, iPad, and a blackberry. I love digital content and have up until this point enjoyed the easy access to information and the lightning speed of communication. Some who know me will probably say I have a foot in both worlds, as I have often advised that personal communication is always better than electronic, but by and large I'm down with the digital. All of this being said, I have come to loath Google, or Yahoo, or whatever. As a matter of fact I would take a global shut down of the whole freaking internet for the next 5 months in order to spare myself any more agony.

What brings this on you say? It is simply the unfettered ability of the belly to seek out new and fascinating ways that everything about the critter's development is going to hell in a hand basket, like, right this second. Having been a veteran of this 9 months of altered reality, I do remember the "what to expect when you're expecting" books, also known as "how I learned to stop worrying and become completely hysterical". I remember the happy parts of each chapter followed with the last couple of pages of all the horrible complications that could occur. But that was it, not, click the link to see pictures of said calamity, no subsequent searches for specifics on the possible indicators of these gruesome problems. Especially the ridiculously benign ones like "excessive fatigue". Come on, you can't put any kind of "fatigue" as a symptom for anything without causing undo alarm, I mean as far as I can tell "fatigue" is the one thing that every belly has in every case on every continent. That's like saying "breathing" is a symptom. It's just dumb. Since the medical profession has already abandoned me, I guess I should expect no less.

Now what Google has done is taken these flights of panic into new and profoundly frightening ways, all in record time. My example: the belly calls and says "the doctor's office called with the blood test results, everything is good, but they want me to add a folic acid supplement cause it's a little low". Fine, no sweat, we'll pick some up I say. 20 minutes later a text: "we need to pick up some folic acid on the way home from work today". Okay, sheesh, didn't I already agree to that? 20 minutes later, a call.

The belly: "what are you doing?"

Me: "Just about to go into a meeting"

The belly: "I think we should go get some folic acid at lunch"

Me: "I thought we were getting some this evening?". (now don't judge, I don't know why I didn't just say "yes dear")

The belly: "No! I want to get some right now, I've been reading about what can happen if you have a folic acid deficiency (damn you to hell Google)and IT CAN LEAD THE THE BABY BEING BORN WITHOUT A SPINE AND YOU DON'T WANT OUR BABY TO HAVE THE POSTURE OF A SOCK PUPPET NOW DO YOU, MR-IM-SO-BUSY-AND-IMPORTANT THAT I WOULD RATHER GO TO A STUPID MEETING THAN GO GET SOME FOLIC ACID SO MY BABY WILL HAVE VERTEBRA!"

Me: I'll be right there

So, I hate Google, 'nuf said.

Et tu brute'?

So the two significant thing that I love (in a very non-homoerotic way) about Obi-wan-va-ja-ja is that first, he keeps the belly very comfortable. Now as I have said comfort is of supreme importance to the belly, and all who recognize and support this delivery of comfort are held in very, very high regard by me. I cannot explain the importance of a good doctor when marching through the journey of pregnancy. He, or she, with only a simple word can send you home with a relaxed, satisfied wife or with an emotional basket case that repeats phrases over and over; obsessing over the exact meaning of "wait and see". Up to now, doctor cool-daddy has been stellar, except for the "see you in 4 weeks" issue we have previously covered. But yesterday, I must admit he did me no favor. Now I get the whole hippocratic oath crap they are supposed to adhere to, but really? Can't you help a brother out?

First, let me just say it is all good news, everything right on schedule for 16 weeks, and the "bastard stick" had no trouble at all finding the whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of the citter right away. The clench we feel at the sight of that damn Doppler was quickly laid to rest, but then my former best friend began to talk about more general issues such as the belly's 2 pound weight gain. Blah, blah, blah, he starts talking about "portion control". What? Are you kidding me? Have you met a pregnant woman before? He then asks her to make a fist as a representation of the size of portion she shoul be eating of carbs, you know, rice, pasta, potatoes, essentially all the things the belly craves on a non-stop basis. Then he starts talking about a deck of cards for the lean protein. Seriously, if I serve the belly a fist and a deck of cards somebody is going to get hurt. Bad.

Up 'till now he has been my ace-in-the-hole(no pun intended). Back when he was just the GYN part of his title, my LBN and him had a grand old time at the office visits, lots of laughter and bonhomie. I could even hear the merriment as I waited in the very comfortable area that is his waiting room when I took her to the check-ups. But now he transitioned to the OB part of the job and has seemed less concerned with her leaving the office with a smile and a giggle. Everything checked out okay with the blood work and the folic acid(more on that drama later) but still, why are are you getting in the way of the belly and the chow line?

The second issue is more of what he didn't say. A pause here if you are offended by what two consenting adults might do in the dark under the covers, don't read further....what my bestest friend has said at every appointment heretofore, is almost a throw-away statement at the end of his instructions. Amongst all the important items she must do, is the statement "normal sexual activity". Now from my perspective all the baby stuff is important, but that little nugget makes sure there is no impediment to what makes the pre-poppa feel like he has not just lit a firecracker that, despite the dire warning of the voices of authority, will blow his fingers off. Every visit up to now that I have been privileged to attend, he has added those three words. Yesterday he didn't. I'm trying to not get worked up about it, but, would it have been so hard? I thought we were in this together, but now I realize I am on my own. Pray for me.

By the way I figured something out tonight. When tHe belly says "I'm tired". What it really means is "you need to take over whatever it is I started doing and finish it, oh, and clean the crap up after you finish what I was doing cause that's what I would have done too.".

Belly-2
Me-still 0

I'll go medieval on yo' .....

Now before you get the wrong idea, I want to make sure you understand my lovely bride is one of the, if not the most, wonderful women on the planet.  But since the arrival of the belly, I am continually surprised by the fact that my wife has been possessed by a 70 year-old man.  Seriously, I’ve never seen her even come close to sitting like that before!  The belching alone makes me do a double take, because frankly she is not nearly big enough to produce sounds of such depth and vibration.  Ironically, the first thing she does accuse me of the aural assault(albeit with a giggle) as if even she can't believe the belly is capable of such a thing.  So I hang my head and say "excuse me".  The funny thing is I am know beginning to think I’m responsible (although Technically I am…) the belly has altered my reality to such an extent, I now think I really need to see my doctor about my gaseous nature.

What really changes your world is what comes out of the two lips that once held me captive with the sweet nothings whispered and gentle kisses.   Now granted, I was somewhat prepared for the short temper, and have even experienced a wee bit-o-that.  The other day I made spaghetti- turkey with a tomato, olives, and garlic sauce, and I did what I thought you were supposed to do with spaghetti sauce- put it on the spaghetti.  Oh, you simple fool, sauce on top of the spaghetti?  Ha Ha Ha!  Surely you fell on your head as a child.  Repeatedly.  The Belly took one look at the bowl, and thrust her hands to her side, face screwed into a mask of utter disgust, and said “YOU KNOW I DON’T LIKE MY SAUCE ON TOP OF MY NOODLES!”  What did I do?  By God I puffed out my chest and in the most macho, swaggering way replied “ I’m sorry, you want me to scrap the sauce off your pasta for you?”  I admit it, I am no match for the belly, I’m not even going to lie. 

Just as shocking is the language that could best be described as somewhere between a sailor and a Quentin Tarantino movie.  A simple response can often be peppered with language that is inconceivably coming out of the sweet little thing you married.  For example, the other day we were preparing to leave for work; I walked into the kitchen where I observed the belly drinking some orange juice.  We were running a little late so I asked the (what I thought was innocent) question "are we ready to leave? Cause, you know, we got to go.”  The belly, without missing a beat, turned to me, and uttered six words to let me know who was in charge around here: "I'm getting my vitamin C, bitch!"  

Belly-1, me-0.   

So I went hunting this week, now before anybody calls TPWD about nuthin' being in season we were huntin' wild hogs. Admittedly hunting is really an excuse for us boys to go out to the country, sit by a campfire, drink and eat a lot of meat. But still it is a good thing for my buddies and I to take our boys out of the suburbs without electronics, cable TV, or even running water for that matter. Normally we get out a few times a year, but with the belly on the scene, it could have been touch and go. Normally my wife is understanding about these forays into the gritty west, but as I have said, the game has a whole new set of rules and it ain't Monopoly and there ain't no get out of jail free card. The key here was to stock up some quality time with my beloved and make sure the belly was happy and contented, good food and plenty of time doing domestic activities. Then the phrase "I was thinking about taking the boy hunting over spring break" slips into the conversation. Very important to use the word "was" in that sentence, it demonstrates an idea of leaving, but also gives the impression that the foolhardy idea was quickly abandoned. Now the next step is to reintroduce the idea along with all the positives, more meat for the freezer, quality time with the boy, and some manly time shooting and drinking whiskey. The best thing about my LBN is her understanding of the masculine needs and appealing to that was by far my best bet. However one can never underestimate the new paradigm of the belly universe, and I knew I had to cover every contingency before I would be in the clear. So as our departure approached I spent a long weekend making sure the belly was attended to, and even called in reinforcements(the sister-in-law) in my absence. We did leave for a few days, but what I have realized is others will never be able to attend to the belly the way you the expectant daddy, can, and while you think you someone else can step in for you, that is a big, big mistake. I thought the sister-in-law, having been visited by the belly three times herself, would be an acceptable substitute, I didn't realize other bellys do not have the temperament for the job and in fact make matters worse. So if you are going to leave the belly, think twice, and then don't do it. The belly needs attention, and it doesn't want it from anybody but me. But you know, that's kinda cool.....

Stupid questions

You would think that by now I would know better. I mean, I'm a reasonably intelligent guy and I have a full awareness of what my lovely bride is going through. I've been to the doctor, I see the baby magazines and expectant mother books strewn about the house, and yet sometimes even I believe I may be the single most idiotic human being on this planet. Why do I question myself thusly? Because of the thermostat. I foolishly think that empirical evidence should be sufficient to alter the belly's take on a given situation, rather than acknowledge it defines the world as it sees it, all other facts be damned. Take for example last evening, as we prepared to retire to our chambers for the evening the belly said "it's hot in here",now granted it has been unseasonably warm for the past couple of days, and reached a balmy 80 degrees yesterday. Not hot, mind you, but warm and very pleasant. And so, as sleepy time arrived, it was 75 degrees in the house, how do I know it was 75 degrees in the house you ask? Because I looked at the thermostat of course, and that, dear reader was a big mistake. Because I was rendered momentarily stupid, my response to the belly's statement, I went to look at the thermostat. I did this because I was not hot, and sought to confirm my observation by gathering the facts necessary to disprove the hypothesis that it was "hot in here". As I reported the actual temperature to my wifey, hoping she would accept the fact that it was a comfortable 75 degrees, I was met with a look that can best be described as "who is this idiot that has replaced my otherwise dutiful husband, and why is this moron telling me what the effing thermostat says when I have clearly explained THAT IT IS HOT IN HERE AND IT NEEDS TO BE NOT HOT!". Realizing my mistake, recovery being my strong suit, I quickly switched the thermostat from "heat" to "cool" and ran the AC until the belly was comfortable and I was huddled under the blanket. Crisis averted. Now before you judge me with a dismissive chuckle, bear in mind I am doing my level best to not bring rational arguments to bear in these situations, but even I slip up once in a while. With a due date in September, and a hot summer bearing down on the belly, I have begun to fear the future. Take heed, any of you expectant fathers, do not question, argue, persuade, or even plead. The belly wants what it wants, and by God you had better get with the program.

The backstory

Well, let me catch you all up to how we got here. As all dads to be know it goes something like this...."honey come look at the pregnancy test!" you go look, and yup, there is a blue cross. You re-read the instructions about oh, 14 times and yes, you holster your pistol, 'cause cowboy, you done did the deed. Then you wait to go to the doctor and then he says, "congratulations, you're preggers....see you in a month". Wait, what? A freakin month? But Doc, we need reassurance, a calm voice telling us it is going to all work out...but seriously, you do not expect me to go home and deal with a month's worth of anxiety by myself! Have you met my wife? Your patient? Hippocratic oath evidently don't mean shit to you brother, I mean really, a month by myself? What do i know about pregnant women? You're sending back without any back up? I. Am. Not. Worthy. Give me a minute, I'm still getting over it....sooooo, were now at 15 weeks(funny how all my time is now accounted for in weeks, if you don't know it, preggo time is only measured in weeks, each one having more significance than the last). We went back at 10 weeks and the "bastard stick" didn't pick anything up. Thank the lord the sonogram guy was waiting in the wings with the blue jelly and he ended the longest 5 minutes in the history of yours truly and showed us a grainy, image of our little critter. By the way I'm pretty sure it was shadow boxing, not an entirely good omen for the belly, and we breathed a huge sigh of relief. And now we are here, the belly has asserted itself as a very real presence, and as I have alluded to earlier, it is not be ignored, it means business. I hope only to survive.....

The beginning.....

Some time ago I met a beautiful woman and got married. Now this in and of itself is not remarkable except for the fact that we have 3 older children between us(both of us having prior marriages) and by older I mean the in-high-school-where-are-we-going-to-travel-first kind of older. But in a moment of delusion, we thought "wouldn't it be nice to have a baby"? Now from my perspective who am I to turn down the chance for a little extra "hanky panky". Little did I know, but was soon educated by the good Dr. Obi-wan-vagina that my darling wife's name in Latin means "fertile Myrtle" and thus 2 months later she was indeed preggers. I have to tell the whole story, in order for later items to make sense, and so with some sadness I must share that we went back for a check up and the Doc searched in vain with the Doppler device(henceforth to be known as the "bastard stick") and we were shuttled over to the hospital where we got the terrible news that she had miscarried. Not to dwell on the sadness, we processed it and moved on, letting go of the idea for the time being. We did continue without any preventive measures(as a sidebar I know it is not exactly in line with our catholicism, but hey, I have already admitted to being a divorcee, and I'm trying to be better, I swear). Now as I have mentioned earlier my lovely bride, or as I refer to her as my LBN(you figure it out) has a certain condition know as "fertilious maximus" and bam! 2 months later she was again with critter. So in 24 hrs we went from anxious, eyes-wide-open-when-you-lay-down-sleep worry, to excited, eyes-wide-open-when-you-lay-down-sleep worry. If you think it's going to get easier, you are dead wrong my friend. Now we are on are way, and I have recognized very quickly that my part in the whole conception screenplay only gives me a speaking part in the prologue(I don't even see a line until the third act) and I was quickly relegated to stage hand, key grip(that's the lighting guy right? Or the electrician? doesn't matter-I do both) and craft services. These are not in order of importance and I can tell you right here and now that keeping meals, drinks, and snacks ever-present for the star of the show is clearly job one. Because it has crystallized in my age addled brain that I must have focus, determination, resourcefulness, but above all I must.......Obey The Belly.