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...

You’re kidding right?

Oh this is just awful.  Just awful. I am having my first really bad day. I feel like Count Rugen has put me on the machine and sucked one year of my life away. I’ve been on the couch the majority of the day. When I am upright, I alternate between lightheaded and nauseous. Mr. Forty gave me kale. He thought it might be iron. He put tasty seasoning on the kale. It was tasty. It did not help. But it was tasty. A little note on cravings – I only seem to crave really healthy food. This makes me ever so happy. I have two tastebuds: Healthy and Complete Crap.  I was worried that Complete Crap was going to take over and I would have to confess to a day’s consumption consisting of Ding Dongs and Doritos (both of which fulfill the “D Food Group”).  Fortunately, it has been just the opposite and I have been happily munching on fruits, veggies, eggs, whole grains, etc. I tried eating lots of little healthy meals today – didn’t do a damn bit of good. Ugh. And the cramps. Oh lawd. The cramps. I get that my entire lower half is undergoing a major renovation, but for real, there’s some black light, lava lamp, bean bag bullshit getting moved in down there.  Critter seems to be making quite a happy home out of my girl parts. That’s cool, I get it. I am really happy I’m such a comfy spot to stretch out and grow in.  Again, I still feel good about the make and model of the cramps, but that doesn’t make them any less uncomfortable. I’m wondering if, now that I’m headed into Week 8 (the week of the Raspberry!) if all of a sudden I’m going to get all sorts of nasty symptoms that I had managed to avoid up to this point. I really hope not. I was giving Mr. Forty the greatest compliment I could (under the circumstances) which is this: There is no man I have ever loved the way that I love him. To wit, I am happily giddily carrying 1/2 of his DNA. As lousy as I feel, and it’s pretty lousy today, I can’t think of a better partner to have in this adventure, a better influence to have in Critter’s life, and a better DNA to mix with and make a person.  My whole adult life has been an active, borderline obsessive, prevention of any reproduction possibilities – and here I am, embracing the idea with the enthusiasm of a true believer. I wouldn’t advocate “babies for everyone!” In fact, most people I advocate “condoms for everyone!” But waiting all these years was exactly the path I was meant to be on. Because even though I have the common concerns and little worries that nag any First-Timer there are things I don’t fear. I don’t fear raising this child with my partner. I don’t fear whether or not I want this child in our life. I don’t fear if Mr. Forty is ready for this. I don’t fear if I’m ready for this. I mean, of course we’re not ready. We won’t ever be ready. But with Mr. Forty, I feel awfully prepared. And the surprises? Those tend to be our favorite parts of life. So I think we’re going to be okay. As soon as I find the energy to get my ass of the...

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...