Come on… really?

I stayed home from work. Again. This is only the second time so I’m very careful to not complain too much. I know of women who spent most of the first trimester laying on the bathroom floor. I just feel like I have a low-grade flu. I’m tired, I’m achy, I only eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and I want to cry. All. The. Time. Everything makes me cry. I cried over cottage cheese in the dairy aisle today. I don’t know why. I felt that somehow cottage cheese had been given an unfair shake in this world. I got a mani/pedi – just to get out of the house – and the ladies seemed so nice the way they were cutting my cuticles that it made me cry. I mean they don’t have to paint my toenails, but they do… god that’s fucking nice. And sad.  And nice. I got Mr. Forty a cranberry limeade from Sonic (because he likes the ice) and his love of ice… made me cry. I’m opting not to pet any of the animals so that I don’t cry. As if on cue, one of the animals just walked by the couch and farted. I’m crying again, but it’s for a slightly different reason....

Hey! You in there!

Ms and I were lounging around tonight, she playing Candy Crush, me using her as an increasingly comfortable pillow, when she asked me if it was about time for me to start reading to the Critter. Naturally, I turned, tapped on her belly, and said “Hey, you in there!” I think my next move was to put my face on her belly and start reciting strange versions of nursery rhymes. I can only imagine what it would sound like, if only our Critter had ears. We’re still at the translucent-with-flippers stage. If only instead of dust to dust, the arc of our lives were flippers to flippers. How wonderful would it be to hit a ripe old age, leap into the sea, and paddle off into the night. I suppose you’d end up eaten by a dolphin, but at least you’d have some variety. It would, incidentally, also make explaining death to a child a somewhat less fraught process. I only mention this because this is exactly the kind of thing I am built to say to our offspring. Just bizarre, outlandish nonsense. “Where did Fluffy McFluffington go daddy?” “Well, when kitties get to a certain age, they grow flippers and return to the sea!” And this is the point where I really come to terms with the fact that I might fuck up another human being. Holy crap! I’ve written software for a living! I know how easy it is to stick an infinite loop in there with even the most careful effort! Exclamation point! Thank goodness human beings aren’t computer programs. But still. Don’t get me wrong: I’m not lacking confidence. I think I’m a well-adjusted, sane, responsible human being who will do my best to provide enriching activities for the Critter while simultaneously building an environment in which the Critter can explore its (still “it” for the moment) own little destinies. And, really, even if I weren’t, humans have a remarkable ability to outgrow indoctrination. Go back not terribly far in my family, and we had people who thought it was perfectly normal to own other human beings. And then the next generation didn’t. And then the next generation was a quiet revolutionary in the fight for racial integration. Try as you might to screw up a kid, the kid often ends up having the last laugh. So, back to mumbling into my wife’s belly. It’s hard not to do something like that and think along the lines of “oh god what do we really know about human fetal development? could the sound waves have jarred loose some critical connection in the Critter’s brain? are we going to end up with a conservative?!” My brain has gotten really weird since P Day. (Hee hee, “P Day.” Pee. Stick. I am slain.) Could this be why my dad was so … odd? Did finding out he was going to have to teach a mammal more than “sit” and “stay” – trigonometry for goodness sake! – push him into some anti-Zen state of mindlessness? Do all parents-to-be think they’re going to be edgy and show Critters the world-as-it-is only to find themselves worrying about all the profanity in the hip hop music in their music libraries? I have an odd paradox in my head. I want to be honest with this kid. Whisper truths that the child may not understand immediately but will grasp earlier because of the foundation. On the other hand, I’m as certain as I sit here...

Second Opinion

We were bound to have a little glitch. While Mr. Forty is quick to point out that humans have managed to give birth for a millennia (some, he claims, while being chased by cheetahs), we seem to be a bit stumped when it comes to finding the right fit for our obstetrics. I predicted this early on.  I chose a group that is associated with a hospital that I fundraise for and support and love dearly. It is the “hospital of last resort” in our area, taking on the “indigent cases” (which until Jan. 1 could also define any poor bastard that doesn’t have a couple million dollars cash on reserve to pay for their health care and found themselves in an unexpected health crisis with no insurance).  This hospital also ranks in the top 5 for transplants in the country and has some of the finest doctors anywhere in the world. I like this hospital very much. It’s full of good decent people and they’ve cut me open and sewn me up better than before on a few occasions. That said, the women’s group associated with it is… well… efficient.  Too efficient. Mr. Forty mentioned that we got to see Critter on Friday. We hadn’t planned on it, but my APRN thought it might be nice since I’m “older.” I guess being older comes with some perks. Waiting for the ultrasound was an interesting and unintended political moment. There we sat next to the ultrasound machine – the monitor and the corded device with three potential “attachments.” One attachment looked very much like the handheld roller that goes over the cold belly jelly and produces images (when it comes to looking for the space alien in your belly – that device comes out in the 12th week).  Another attachment didn’t really ring any bells and I really didn’t think about it because the third attachment was A HUGE GODDAMN DILDO. I pointed at it and said, “That is a transvaginal ultrasound.” Mr. Forty’s eyes got very large and his face took on that shape that men get when they realize that they are staring at something shaped similar to their “special purpose” but much, much larger. Suddenly we found ourselves in the quintessential Carol Hanisch moment where the personal is political. Mr. Forty and I are good liberals and we strongly support the right to choose. Interestingly I have a much more conservative view for myself and fortunately my obsessive behavior towards birth control ensured that I never had to make that choice – but that’s the beauty of choice… you can choose. I watched as he found himself face-to-face, or rather face-to-9” of thick rubbery cock.  I saw him doing the “math” in his head. “So, that’s… what…” “Yup darlin’ that’s why when we have to have the procedure without our consent, ‘rape’ isn’t an exaggeration.” It was almost exactly at that moment that our tech came in and while we made small talk, she began to tear the top off of a small packet of lube. “Oh no,” I groaned. Because they don’t lube up your belly. To be fair, this wasn’t my first transvaginal ultrasound, it wasn’t even my second.  It was my third. I had one back in the early 00’s. I believe to this day it was because my doctor had just gotten this fancy new toy and wanted to try it out for any reason possible.  Later, I described it as being “gang banged by...

Aw, what a cute … thing!

It’s the baby version of Carl Sagan’s famous, beautiful meditation on the Pale Blue Dot. In his piece, Sagan explores the the implications of this photo of our home, our planet, taken in 1990 from the edge of our solar system by the Voyager 1 spacecraft. Not even the edge — Voyager was still 20 years from the real edge separating our little oasis from true interstellar space. Despite being taken from not very far away at all on a cosmic scale, our entire world shows up as a dot. Just a dot. Sitting in a ray of light from the nearby, nearly overwhelming Sun. Sagan says it better than I ever could. That’s here. That’s home. That’s us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every “superstar,” every “supreme leader,” every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there — on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam. Listen to it. Then listen again. It’s humbling, to look at that dot and think that’s (almost) all we have ever known. No human has travelled farther than the immediate neighborhood of that dot. Except for a handful of astronauts and robot travelers, everything in the human experience that has been and will be, perhaps for a very long time, occupies that pale blue dot. We saw Critter on the sonogram today. Just a tiny lump, hardly identifiable as anything other than a lump except for the pulsing, eager heartbeat, surrounded by the vastness of the future....

Tell Me About It

It’s funny that Mr. Forty posted what he did.  I drifted off to sleep last night having similar thoughts, but in a markedly different way.  Which is the way things often are between the Mr. and me.  We have very similar feelings on things, but usually get there via profoundly different roads. I lay in bed last night, too goddamn tired to actually let this series of thoughts keep me awake, but significant enough that I told myself I would address my concerns in the morning. (That’s the kind of bargaining I have to do with myself in order to maintain sanity. I assure myself that my concerns are valid, but that I need to bring them up for consideration at a more appropriate time. Fortunately, I am very obedient to this voice, most of the time). I was thinking about it this morning as I dragged ass out of bed and forced myself  to wash (and blow dry) my hair.  I was thinking about it as I drove into work this morning. I was thinking about it as I made direct eye contact with my boss and tried to tease out what part of his brain thinks it is okay to stare at me blankly when I say, “It was in the one email I sent you – the one with the subject line, PLEASE READ THIS EMAIL.” (My boss, god bless him, does not read emails. It’s past being quirky and has now crossed into infuriating). What was I thinking? Oh, about how ultimately, I am much better suited to this new life than the Mr.  It’s not his fault or anything, it’s just, well, it’s different for me. Let me preface by saying there are a lot of people in this world who wander (and are not lost). These are the folks who go from job to job, or perhaps inversely, stay at the same job, in the same role, for decades. They aren’t particularly passionate about something and that either causes them a great deal of stress as they look for their “calling,” or they simply accept the fact that life is pretty good and Hey! It’s free scoop day at Baskin-Robbins! I am not one of those people. From the time I could have rational thought and have experiences that I would come to remember – I have wanted to be on a stage. I was the kid who truly shined in the school play, I was the child who wanted to act out stories, put together costumes out of mom’s old clothes, and attempt foreign dialects at a precocious age (my Irish dialect was perfected at age 7 after watching Darby O’Gill and the Little People over and over and over again). By 8 I convinced my parents this was all I would ever be good at. And looking at their checkbooks and seeing what it cost to watch me fail at ballet, piano, art, soccer, swimming, tennis and gymnastics, they sighed and agreed. By 9 I had my Screen Actors Guild card. By 14 I had several television credits to my name. By 20 I was, for all practical purposes, a commercial success. It was all I wanted to do. Granted I was fortunate that I was a really bright kid and I also really enjoyed learning, so my grades were good and there was no way I wasn’t going to college. Of course once I got there, I was cast in...

168 Hours in a Week

There are points in one’s life when one becomes the stereotype, despite one’s best efforts not to. Ok, it’s not that I’ve tried not to be a stereotype. It’s just that I’ve never cared much about what I should (or, if you prefer more clarity on the tone behind that word, “should”) be doing with my life, so I’ve bumbled into anything stereotypical about my life in a manner that surprises me every time. I mean, not some of the details. I’m a lawyer, for goodness sake. Much of my waking life involves lurching from one stereotype to another in that regard. But the broad brush strokes of my life, the existential moments, have not followed from the typical life path of a person my age. Perhaps some, even many, are shared with my generational compatriots, but I’ve seen people worried and anxious about things I can barely comprehend, from what fashion is “in” (what does that even mean? can someone please explain to me who gets to decide this and why anyone pays attention to them?) to whether young Rutabaga Rose is overscheduled enough. I don’t even really mean to discount the inevitable crises of adulthood (though, come on, just give up on the whole “what’s fashionable” thing, for your own sanity and ours). It’s just that I haven’t lived the same life. Maybe that’s obvious. Maybe some people who know me would find that comment laughable, because I am pretty darn conventional in many respects. So what does this have to do with impending parenthood? Good question. I feel like Ms and I could reasonably be seen to be, finally, running headlong into the delayed onset adulthood that so characterizes our generation. Before I go any further, I want to clarify one point Ms and I have both alluded to in connection with this blog. There are things about our experience that will be entirely unique because we are individuals whose interactions will produce unique outcomes. On the other hand, there are things about our experience that will be – to any of you who have gone through this – amusingly mundane. So when I write here, I am, generally, not seeing myself as experiencing anything outside the norm but am using this site as a vehicle to communicate our experiences to (a) people who haven’t been through a pregnancy, (b) people who find our writing amusing or insightful (gosh, that’s so sweet of you! thank you!!), and (c) serial killers who make skin suits from their victims. In other words, this blog is never a plea for sympathy. Also, I’m going to talk quite a lot about me. That’s not me being preoccupied with me. It’s me trying to provide an honest and complete snapshot of what this process is like for me. Having gone through all that, what’s bothering me tonight – and “bothering” is an inadequate word if I’m honest – is that … how are two professional, involved, ambitious, engaged, curious people supposed to do everything? I expect Ms will have quite a bit more to say on this point and, indeed, far more serious concerns about it than I will. But tonight we were talking about the things we have to do in the next few months, the things we’ve committed to doing in the next few months, and the things we want to do in the next few months. There simply isn’t time. Or energy. I am working one draining job and teetering between having a very...

The Hidden Truth

I ditched work today. I woke up, felt like Courtney Love, rolled over, prayed not to barf, and hit snooze. When I finally felt human enough to sit up, I did what any overachieving woman who, up until about 22 months ago (and more recently 8 weeks ago), only has her work: I checked my email on my phone. All of my meetings had been cancelled during the night. It was like the Preggers Fairy came and made all the bad things go away. I took it as a sign from the Universe to take a day off. I haven’t taken a day off yet. In the last 8 weeks (which is so weird because I’ve only been renting space for 6 weeks, but don’t get me started on that) I have gone to Vegas and worked non-stop for 6 days, worked my normal works weeks (which averages about 45-50 hours), taught a graduate class at the University of South Florida, and did laundry. I haven’t had a whole lot of down time. So today I slept. I ate some yogurt. I cleaned the house with non-toxic cleansers.  I spent quality time with the animals. I tried to figure out, once and for all what a “belly band” is and why the internets says I have to have one!  I also stared at myself in the mirror a lot.  A lot. It turns out my body is like CRAZY EXCITED to be pregnant. Just shouting it from the rooftops excited – because I’m showing. No two ways around it, I’m… round. It’s more than just my boobs (which are the fluffiest sweater bunnies you have ever seen), my tummy is totally gonna get in on this sweet pregnant action.  Not gonna miss a minute.  It’s like my abdomen is all, “Hell yes girl, let’s get it out there!” Which of course puts me in a terrible quandary and alludes to Mr. Forty’s last post. I have to hide this pregnancy for a few more weeks, at least. Why? Because society says you should keep this to yourself in the case of, Universe forbid, something bad happening, we need to keep that grief to ourselves.  Which really is just bullshit. Oh, and if you want another layer of stressful bullshit – do NOT check the internets for advice or thoughts on when it is a good time to break the news at your workplace. I don’t know where some of these women work, or if the situations I read about were/are the aftermath of downsizing in the economic downturn but sweet merciful Mary some of the stories left me wondering if I should just play it cool, wear lots of baggy sweatshirts (executive sweatshirts) and then just give birth during my allotted two weeks vacation.  Just horror stories of all make and manner. I’m not sure how my work will react. I have a pseudo-government job, so I know that I will be treated fairly and by-the-book. I know that I can (and will) take full advantage of the FMLA, and wonder why it’s still the shortest leave in all developed nations (thanks old white guys in DC!). I know my boss is confident in my work and certainly wants to keep me around. I know that my leadership style with my team is *almost* annoyingly “family first” – to the degree that I am the boss that walks around at 5 or 5:30 asking “Is that really important? Go home to your kids.”  So between...

Information density

Ms. “I only seem to crave really healthy food” Forty was all about the Hooters tonight. Ok, fine, we had crab legs. But we also had fried shrimp. And ranch dip. Being a supportive husband, I joined right in. So far life is mostly normal on my side of the unbridgeable biological divide. Or, perhaps, not yet the new normal. The most disruptive thing I’ve been involved with so far was a dog having a (first-time) seizure, and that’s really not related to Ms’ pregnancy. I mean, I guess not. What do I know? We didn’t cover all this in school. We had, briefly, the “will you still love me when I’m fat?” conversation the other day. Of course I will, I replied. You’re not fat, you’re just … occupied. Of course, me being both male and me, all sorts of things went through my brain that I KNEW I COULD NOT POSSIBLY SAY AND STILL LIVE. Like, “Just like an engorged tick!” Or, “Just like a well-fed python!” Ms and I have a good relationship built in part on taking each other seriously by never taking each other terribly seriously. That mentality was stitched throughout our wedding, for goodness sake. Like an engorged tick. But there are things that just aren’t said. I suppose you could make the argument that I shouldn’t be confessing them now, but I am doing a public service here. Of course I don’t think my wife looks like an engorged tick. I mean, she still looks like Ms right now, with the slightest of convex belly curves to indicate that biology is afoot. But even when she’s about ready to launch the new Critter into the world (“SQUEEEEZE!” *pop!* “WHEEEEEEEEE!”), she won’t be fat. I don’t get that attitude. “I’m so fat!” No, you’re not! You’re GROWING A PERSON IN THERE. I had a brief lapse of judgment tonight when I said, “You know, maybe you just have gas” as Ms admired herself in the mirror. To her credit, she first said “You just don’t say things like that to a pregnant woman!”, paused, and then said, “Because they might fart on you!” Apparently, this week the Critter loses its tail. That makes me sad. I mean, I probably shouldn’t wish for a tail for our child, but I want this kid to have a career it can fall back on, and, really, if you have a tail, you’ll never fall far. At least if it’s a prehensile tail. Swish swish. We seem to have settled on Critter being a girl. I’d say we have a 50/50 chance, but even biological sex isn’t binary, so we could end up with all sorts of mixes and matches. Statistically speaking we have a pretty good chance of having a standard boy or a standard girl, so, for simplicity, we’ll stick with those categories until we have contrary data. Cis-privilege in a nutshell, that. Anyway, we think the currently-tailed-and-webby-pawed creature will be a girl. I don’t know why we think that, but our conversations have just steered that direction. Fast forwarding 6 years and imagining our little dirt-covered, stubborn tomboy of a girl makes me happy. Of course, I won’t be sad or anything if we end up with a boy. We’ll just have to get Ms to teach him how to throw a football, since I don’t have the first clue about that sport. If this post seems a bit disjointed, that’s kind of where I am right...