Intake

So you have to love the Mr. Forty amirite? He’s posting these beautiful spiritually insightful thoughts about the magnitude of becoming parents and the legacy that we leave and the responsibilities we must accept. Me? I’m telling you that my boobs are sore and that I just want to sleep all the time. We, uh, we balance each other out. I did go to the doctor today, I figure that’s noteworthy. It was called an “intake visit” which for some reason keeps bringing up a vision of a large pipe near an indoor pool… after hours.  Kind of like the place where Moriarty confronts Sherlock. I should preface this with the fact that I am a big Sherlock fan… no wait… that’s not the preface. The preface is that I am not a fan of modern medicine.  I’m not good at being helpless. I always like to find some way that I can contribute or be proactive in my own well-being. I find that modern medicine often expects (and sometimes requires) a passive patient. I’m a lot of things, but I am not passive. And frankly, there’s nothing more active in the entire world than the act of giving birth. That’s a full contact sport if ever there was one.  Yet, I hear stories from my girlfriends of very passive expectations of the birth process. Fortunately, all of their stories have happy endings with the arrival of beautiful, healthy, strong babies, but I still hear the story in between the stories. Stories that are peppered with “I told them something wasn’t right,” “I don’t really think they had to do that, but it was safer,” “Well, it was taking long so they went ahead with a Cesarean.” Those kinds of things make my blood boil.  I get it too, I really do. We’re a litigious society and obstetrics is an emotionally fraught specialty and the only one where you can lose two patients in one moment. I understand erring on the side of caution. But sometimes the erring is just that – an error. Harm can be done when one interferes too much with the process. The human body is an amazing thing. And maybe that’s the problem too. For instance, I know my body really well.  Maybe more than most women, I don’t know, I don’t live in their bodies. But I knew somethin’ in my girl parts was different a week after what I’ve realized was our conception date. To that, I would really like a birth plan that leaves nature to its own devices. I’m going natural and I’m pretty sure I’m going to be just fine. Oh you? You rolling your eyes, yeah you! And you? Laughing, yeah you! Hey ladies, let me ask you this, How many kidney stones have you passed? How many of them should have required surgery? How many stents have you had in your urethra? How many corneas have you ulcerated? Here’s the thing. I’ve passed (to date) about five or six kidney stones (I’ve honestly lost real count) and I’ve had surgery to remove two. (Hence, I’ve had two stents in my urethra for about two weeks after each surgery – it’s as pleasant as you might imagine).  I’ve also ulcerated both of my corneas. Once from a bad contact, once from bad contact solution. These conditions are known as “acute” pain. Childbirth is often placed in context of these two highly visceral pains. So I’ve had acute pain and I know how to manage it. I...

Giant Bags, Gods, and Grandparents

Ms and I talked about a lot of practical issues tonight. I’m sure they won’t seem terribly practical in a few months, but they’re big ticket items that we managed to check off the list–for now–over the course of a few hours. Gosh it was productive. Giant Bags We talked about tiny people in giant cars with tiny babies and giant baby bags. Ms mentioned she needed to find a good baby bag. I, naturally, started singing the baby-back ribs song. She didn’t stab me. A good sign for our marriage. I looked at her sincerely and said, “Honey, are we going to be those tiny people who hop out of giant SUVs with tiny babies and huge bags?” It was a leading question. Happily, she said no. I mean, there’s a certain amount of overhead when managing a helpless mammal. They crap at inopportune moments, feed at weird and unexpected hours, make a lot of noise if they don’t get a pa-pa. It’s not entirely unlike trying to wrangle a very, very drunk college student. We’ve all been there, right? “Come inside.” “No!” “Come on, man, just come inside.” “I’m hungry! I want … OH MAN I WANT GRITS!” “You can’t have grits. Just … *sigh* … come inside, ok?” Et cetera. I expect this will be among the first pre-baby pledges to fall victim to the unflinching reality of having a child in a consumerist society. Why can’t we just wipe the creature off with restaurant napkins? And then wrap it (still “it” at this point) in another restaurant napkin? Surely that makes sense right? No. There will be a bag with diapers and formula and who knows what sorts of satanic incantation paraphernalia. Gods That brings us, conveniently, to the issue of religion. The Ms and I are not strongly religious people. I studied theology, and I can have a good ontological debate with only minimal provocation, but my spirituality tends towards Buddhism. I was raised Episcopalian, and I still dig Jesus’ style, but faith is not something that comes naturally to me. I want data. And the data are pretty sparse on this issue. I’d be totally cool with Jesus coming down and offering a restatement and clarification of Matthew 25, since we seem to have gotten a bit off aim from that. But with all the suffering in the world, with the increasing likelihood that our offspring will, as previously noted, be forced to become acquainted with the best ways to cook and serve a neighbor after civilization breaks down, I’m left to wonder why the omnipotent God couldn’t have been just a titch more specific regarding the nature and extent of our obligations to do unto others as we would have done unto us. And, really, that statement of the Golden Rule is a bit selfish, isn’t it? Is that really what we want to teach our child? Why not simplify matters? “Kid,” I say, “don’t be a dick.” “Why daddy?” “Because, don’t be a dick.” Leaving the loophole in there of treating others as you want to be treated just creates a situation where our kid could be a masochist, and we should really identify that right away, because the kid can build whatever life it wants, but, really, don’t let that crap leak out into how you treat others. Be nice. Be loving. Say please and thank you. Always be aware that some people may try to take advantage of your...

Burning the candle at both ends (and the middle)...

I am an overachiever. I do too much.  I take on enormous projects. I say Yes to almost everything. I do this, because  I love my friends, I adore my community, I am an artist, and I have a very fulfilling career. And it’s not like I have kids… right? In the last few weeks, it has become increasingly apparent that something is going to have to give. I’m so tired I can barely keep my head up. In fact, I’m really forcing myself to write this post… the couch is looking pretty sexy and I’m thinking we are going to have to make out. I bailed on two meeting with my theater company today. I’m going to be directing a great show in February and I just can’t wrap my head around how that is even going to happen. I can’t even wrap my head around carving a pumpkin for Halloween right now. In fact, I would really like some baby carrots to munch on, but I really am not sure if I have what it takes to get to the fridge. I don’t have the “morning sickness” – some mild nausea but nothing I can’t manage. I haven’t broken out like a 14 year old working the fryer at Krystal Burger. I’m sure these symptoms could be lurking around the corner, so I’m not being smug or anything (Welllll, I haven’t puked ONCE! Ha!). I will say my other three symptoms are more than making up for the lack of barfing or zits. My boobs hurt so bad I may kill something – likely the goddamn puppy who keeps jumping up on my titties like it’s a new hobby. (Yes, we have a puppy. It goes along with the house we bought three months ago, and the other four animals we already had.  See “overachiever with no children” explanation at the top of this post). I also am so bloated that I don’t think anything I own will ever fit again. This is like PMS times 1,000 plus gorging on Chinese food bloat. I feel like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon. I am made of gas. So right now I’m a gassy, bloated, tired woman – who can’t sleep on her stomach. Yet, being an overachiever I have checked a few things off of my list.  I have done the following this weekend: Made an appointment with a traditional doctor’s group (not excited, not thrilled, and not looking forward to it) Made an appointment with a birthing center (very excited, very thrilled, totally looking forward to it) Contacted my preferred doula for beer this week (I won’t be drinking, shut up, stop worrying) Bought bigger bras, more yoga pants, and impulse purchased a pair of maternity jeans (damn you Target) (Quick word on the jeans – they were the perfect length and I’m only 5′ – so it seemed like a good idea. I put them on and OH MY GOD MY LIFE WAS CHANGED. I’m starting to think that women don’t get “frumpy” when they become moms, it’s just that they have had tasted of the fruit of comfortable and now they cannot go back. Man, those jeans are comfy). I should have more interesting things to write about, but football is on, my tiny dog wants to cuddle, the puppy is chewing on something that isn’t expensive, the husband isn’t trying to call members of the Tea Party  – and the couch is still...

Hi, I’m the Mr.

Hi, it’s me. The hippie liberal feminist husband. The gene donor. Mr. “OH MY GOD YOU DID THIS TO ME.” At least, from what I hear that’s what I’ll be called some time late in the third trimester. Holy crap we’re making a baby. Let me back up. Dear Penthouse Forums, I never thought it would ha… wait. No, that’s not right either. Let me back up, again. A few days ago, Ms walked into the kitchen at some ungodly hour like 7am. I was in there, on purpose, making coffee. For Ms. I don’t drink much coffee. I expect this will change. I turned around and saw Ms standing there. I didn’t really process much more than “hurr, wife.” I’m not really a morning person. God help me. I don’t really know what happened next. Ms held up a stick. I thought this was odd behavior for that hour. A few kind, trembling words were exchanged and I hugged my wife. A lot. Because I’m really excited. And happy. And excited. And now her boobs hurt. I’m 39 years old, and this is my first. Totally living the stereotype of my generation, I guess. I’ve picked up a lot of things from various friends and family over the years, but one thing I can say definitively now is that we men don’t really talk about this. We’re not prepared for it. We don’t really know anything. I mean, I think I know more than most. I’m a hippie liberal feminist after all. I’ve listened to my women friends. But we don’t really know. The extent of the conversation among the menfolk is, far too often, “Holy crap, dude, get used to not sleeping. That’s all I’m gonna say.” Why?! WHY IS THAT ALL YOU’RE GOING TO SAY?! WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME MY WIFE’S BOOBS WERE GOING TO HURT?!?!? I mean, I’m sure I heard it somewhere, but it’s a jarring change when you go to hug your wife when she comes home from a hard day at work and she says “Ow,” and you’re overwhelmed with a primal feeling that you’re lucky you didn’t get kneed in the junk. So my role here will be to document the man side of things, but totally not in a “You’re on a special journey” way. This is biology. We’re mammals. We’re also sentient. That means a lot of things change biologically and we get a lot of time to think about them. So I’m going to think about them here. I love my wife, and I love the barely differentiated mass of cells that is alarmingly far on the way to being another person, but that doesn’t mean the whole experience won’t be funny, or weird, or disturbing, or even mundane. It’s a special journey that we are literally built from the ground up to make. It’s what mammals do all the time, even while being chased by cheetahs. And we’re doing it. That’s pretty rad. Given our age, there’s a fair chance that this will be our one kid. And that will be special, because it’s (yes, it, at this point) ours. But it’s not a special snowflake. Someday, if we’re lucky, it will drive too fast, engage in underage drinking, have more than one awful breakup, and possibly survive on human flesh and grass, if the Republicans manage to torpedo the global economy next week sinking the world into a postapocalyptic nightmare beyond imagining. One begins to understand why...

A Little Bit Pregnant

Let’s just get some shit out of the way: I’m 38. I’ve been married for *almost* six months. I’m totally knocked up. How I got here will, no doubt, reveal itself throughout this little “project,” aptly named Week Forty.  I say “aptly named,” but the truth of the matter is, every other domain name that was remotely related to pregnancy was taken, and “Sore Titties” didn’t seem like it sent the right message.  I had voted for “Linea Nigra” because I think it sounds really exotic and interesting – like Mons Venus. (Full disclosure, I’m from Tampa, Florida – strip club capital of the South. We have a strip club called Mons Venus, it supposedly has the best/most beautiful dancers anywhere. Now I kind of want to open a club called Linea Nigra.  Work the “niche market.”  Put the “bump” in bump and grind. There is no sex in the Champagne Room, or Champagne. Mostly sensible shoes. This unique gentleman’s experience gives dancers a solid work venue rather than have to take those last two pesky trimesters off. You just have to figure in the cost of lost revenue from the dancers destroying the prime rib buffet.  You think I’m nuts? Check the internet – there are freaks out that who are in to all sorts of kink. I bet a preggers strip joint would be a crazy success). My husband nixed the idea. He thought that Nigra could be misconstrued as racist. He’s an Apologetic White Southern Democrat with privilege guilt. I think it’s sexy. (The guilt – not unintended racism). He’s allowed to post here too. You know Liberals, we’ll give anyonea seat at the table. Anyway, Week Forty will mark the end of how long I’m going to be rocking the whole “I’m eating for two,” “I’ve got to pee ALL the time,” “I have a craving for artichoke hearts,” “If you don’t start helping out around the house I’m going to feed you your own liver” thing, and I figured it was as good a name as any.  I will take more care in naming the Critter I’m sure. Or maybe not, hell that might be a crap shoot too… “Is Stephano taken? Shit, really? How about Stepheeno?”  (Now that I think of some of my friend’s decisions in naming their children, I think it may have gone down just like that). We found out just about a week ago.  Actually, exactly one week ago.  I had been out at favorite local beer barn (it’s nicer than that) and the beer just didn’t taste that good to me.  That seemed to be a sign from God to pee on a stick. (Oh peeonastick.com is taken – like I said – there are some freaks out there). And if you are totally gonna judge because I was drinking a beer – let’s get this out of the way: I was still a week from getting my period – so it wasn’t like I was all, “Gosh, I’m really late, guess I’ll go crush some microbrews and ponder what it could be…” If you’re still freaking out here’s another thing: I am a woman who was totally okay with getting pregnant, and totally not going to put myself into a tizzy over it. And if you don’t know what a “tizzy” is I’ll tell you – it’s all those women who don’t eat anything fun (like oysters and sushi and brie), don’t drink anything fun (like beer...