The Story So Far
A little more than two years ago, I met Ms again for the first time. For the second time. Shit. A little m… You know what? Screw it. Let’s just cut right to the main storyline: “And that’s when the dwarf wrangler said, ‘Oh no, Mr. Luck Dragon, Atreyu is MINE!’” Wrong storyline. *flips pages frantically* Ah, here we go. Over the last two years, I’ve had a number of Very Good Days. More, in fact, than in the previous 38-odd years combined, I’d say. I could be wrong. Very Good Days are pretty easy to come by when you’re 4. Just get some extra ice cream and suddenly you’re living in a goddamn toilet paper ad. So let’s start when I was, oh to pick a number out of thin air, 8. A lot of things changed for me when I was 8. Family splitting and scattering across multiple time zones (and we’re not talking any Mountain Time BS here). I started zipping around the planet, as often as not on my own, to see the family diaspora. What does this have to do with pregnancy and fatherhood? It’s simple, really. I’ve had an interesting life. More than my share of interesting. I’ve lived in multiple countries, flown planes in loops, yanked a baby sheep out of a mother sheep, nearly tackled a sitting US senator. I’m pleased with my life. But I haven’t always been happy with it. For a very long time, I was isolated in more ways than I can properly describe. Comes with the territory when shuttling between parents means shuttling between continents. I lived my life, made very good friends, but was always ready to rely on myself as my only constant companion. Didn’t always have to, but was always ready to. We’re coming to the bit about pregnancy, just hang on. So then Ms came into my life, for the second time. Sort of. It’s all very complicated. Anyway, blah blah, two years of endless joy and blah blah. What? I can’t blah blah that bit? Fine. Two years of which any given day could take the place of some entire years, as far as bliss goes. Blah blah. Today was one of those days. Up at a sensible hour to feed the animals. Ms went off to work (a rare Saturday commitment), I played with the dogs and cleaned the kitchen floor and did other miscellaneous odds and ends. Ms came home just as I’d finished sucking down last night’s Chinese food leftovers. And then we packed the dogs up for an enrichment day at the dog park. Down the Interstate, up the highway, mild cursing as I realized I’d gone the wrong way, a mad caper of trying to get turned around in a state that fully embraces the U-turn as a standard driving tactic EXCEPT RIGHT IN THIS SPOT BECAUSE OH NO THAT WOULD BE TOO GODDAMN EASY. *inhale* Across the causeway, up a bit of highway again, mild cursing again as we missed our right turn due to construction. And then we were at the dog park. Took the girls off their leashes and wandered for a bit. Lovely. And then we got in the car and, on a whim, after finding a place for my increasingly bladder-challenged other half to pee (and, y’all, she’s starting in the shallow end of the kiddie pool in bladder terms, if you catch my meaning), we crossed another causeway to a state park...
Clubbing
Okay, I lied. I said I would take you with me to my glucose test and I didn’t. The office didn’t have wi-fi, well at least not wi-fi they would give to a jacked up pregnant woman. So I live tweeted it. It was finally summed up with this: And then I went to work, and slept under my desk for about 30 minutes. I passed it. It’s bullshit. I’m convinced it’s bullshit. Glucose tests have the same intrinsic value as the PSAT. But, for what it is worth, I passed it. So suck it sugar. Suck it hard. Since then I’ve had a little side project that I’m enjoying quite a lot. Turns out there is something in the water here in Tampa because the whole damn world is getting themselves all Knocked Up. This realization brought out a characteristic in me that is worth explaining/exploring: I have a fascination with clubs. Not the sandwich with an extra slice of bread in the middle. Not the kind you kill baby seals with and not the kind you go with your girlfriends to so you can hook up with a guy that has the same name as a state and then find yourself at 5 a.m. sneaking out of his apartment and realizing, “Oh shit, I’m wearing his skinny jeans, not mine…” and you swear to stop hooking up with guys that have slimmer hips than you so that this can stop happening and how does this keep happening? I mean… Oh wait. I’m sorry, I went back to my “unhappy time” for a little bit. Let me take a moment to thank Mr. Forty again for saving me from myself and not having slim hips. I love you. Okay, so… clubs. I like the clubs that have a specific membership. I don’t mean “no girl’s allowed” exclusive, or “the elite aliens that protect the President” secretive. I just mean I like groups of people who have similar interests or lifestyles or hobbies. When I was young I was forever creating clubs that I would force my poor childhood friend, Dena, to join. I would make her a membership card, and explain to her the complex dues structure, and my ideas for building a 2-story clubhouse out of refrigerator boxes in the backyard. (“But what happens when it rains?” she would ask. That Dena, no vision. I hear she makes six figures as an auditor for one of the big accounting firms. That’s… impressive. Perhaps I should have listened to her more). I wrote manifestos for my clubs, I priced out die casting decoder rings (very pricey on a 7-year-old’s allowance), I joined other clubs I found in the back of comic books (I still have my membership card to Cracked, back when they were a Mad rip off and had a papery thingy called a magazine). I appreciated the ideas of secret handshakes and passwords and clubhouses. In high school I excelled at clubs. I joined ALL THE CLUBS. When I graduated, I was an officer in no less than five clubs (Thespians, Youth In Government, Omega Service Organization, Latin Club, and National Honor Society – and yes, that made me super popular and really cool just as you might imagine). Then I went to college and it kind of fell apart. I tried. But it turned out I was kind of a shit sorority girl (I still maintain that Birkenstocks can be “dressed up” if matched and...
That moment…
That moment when the magic of pregnancy causes you to be able to sing to your wife the Spinal Tap-esque “Big Veiny Boobies.” Lots of rock falsetto, natch.
Nearly halfway
Things we haven’t done: Cleared out the box room that will be Critter’s room Settled on a name for Critter Critter-proofed the house Purchased any Critter infrastructure Felt Critter move (that would be a surprise, though Ms spends a noteworthy amount of time prodding her baby factory trying to irritate Critter into moving … I’ll note this is behavior that Ms specifically requested I not perform on the dogs several months ago) Found a suitable date for any sort of getaway (or, hork, “babymoon”) I think we can clean out the box room in a weekend. And buying the majority of infrastructure can happen in a day once we get to that point. Ugh. Don’t get me wrong: it’s all very exciting. Truly. But there’s definitely stuff to do, and we’re approaching the time when we start accelerating towards the finish (start?) line faster and faster. No pressure! My brain isn’t working well tonight. I was sick for a pretty good chunk of the last week, and today is the first day I’ve felt really 100% for a while. Thing is, I’ve been saying that for several days now, only to realize the next day that I was not, in fact, 100%. Imma just sit here and drool a...
Ugh.
Mr. Forty and I have terrible colds. This is terribly unfair because it means I could give a shit about his needs (Although I did offer to make him tea this morning. He declined and I took that as a sign to roll over and go back to sleep). And frankly, I think he has a worse case than me, so I feel guilty asking him for things like Kleenex, orange juice, and the remote control. He was stuck having to go give a presentation today for work, but I’m at home. He’ll be back around 2 and I have set a goal to be showered by then. I also am washing the sheets. These two things make me a big winner. Mr. Forty posted about my high-larious glucose test last week. And it might have been the most insane thing I’ve experienced since I learned about the wonders of Demerol while passing a kidney stone (I was unaware that I was passing a kidney stone, in fact, I was unaware of most dimensional issues and had become one with the breeze…). The glucose test was what I can only imagine smoking crack is like. You know before I get all hyperbolic for the sake of comedy, let me check on that. Please hold. … … … Okay, yep. According to the first crack site I found, these are the short term effects of smoking crack (I put my experience during the glucose test in parentheses next to each symptom): SHORT-TERM EFFECTS Because it is smoked, the effects of crack cocaine are more immediate and more intense than that of powdered cocaine. (Try drinking 8 oz. of pure cane sugar after 4 and a half months of clean living – that is immediate too my friend). Loss of appetite (Food was the last thing I was thinking of) Increased heart rate, blood pressure, body temperature (I was sweating, my heart was pounding out of my chest and I’m sure my BP went up) Contracted blood vessels (well I don’t know – oh wait – they had to poke me TWICE to get the blood for the test, so let’s say, “Yes!”) Increased rate of breathing (Ha! I thought I was hyperventilating at one point and I couldn’t stop laughing and so that made it worse) Dilated pupils (I don’t remember, but Mr. Forty told me I was totally doing the “I swear I’m sober” walk through the doctor’s office) Disturbed sleep patterns (I guess, does sleeping for THREE HOURS after the test count?) Nausea (Sweet mother of Mary, yes!) Hyperstimulation (There was a four year old in the waiting room while I was allowing the crack glucose to course through my veins. She was dancing and making a very high pitched shrieking sound. I TOTALLY got her vibe. I really wanted to dance and shriek with her. I also wanted a kitten and a Big Wheel very badly). Bizarre, erratic, sometimes violent behavior (See above) Hallucinations, hyperexcitability, irritability (Yes, Yes, and Yes) Tactile hallucination that creates the illusion of bugs burrowing under the skin (I got really itchy, so I’m totally going to say yes) Intense euphoria (IT WAS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE) Anxiety and paranoia (UNTIL IT WAS OVER AND THEN I JUST WANTED TACO BELL AND A HUG AND DON’T HUG ME TOO HARD BECAUSE YOU’LL HURT THE BABY) Depression (*sob* The Baby is unhappy, because there’s no more sugar) Intense drug craving (I made...
The strange questions
I’m finding myself asking a lot of weird questions about the baby. For example, tonight, while holding one of the cats in a facsimile of a burp position, I asked, “So, how hard are you supposed to beat the baby?” I mean, I’m not advocating beating babies. Beating babies is bad. But at some point, you have to give the baby a bit of a whack to make it burp. How hard? A light pat? A solid whack? Something between? Intuitively, I know I shouldn’t be hitting the baby very hard, because beating babies is bad. So my primary concern is less about hitting the baby too hard than it is about not hitting hard enough. What if my baby sits there in great discomfort from a persistent gas bubble because Dad was being too gentle? What a weird thing it is to ponder babykeeping without an actual baby to run tests...