I should know

I’ve been seeing something a lot recently. Ms will say something – for example, a sternly-worded rejection of an idiotic YouTube video that’s been going around involving white people rapping badly in pajamas (I won’t link to it, because … Jesus, no) – and someone will respond that she’s only saying that because she’s pregnant. It’s not always quite that direct, but the conclusion is inescapable. Let me see if I can pick through this. I’ve known my wife for 20+ years. I’ve heard her moods, seen her triggers, listened to what makes her angry, and the Ms I grew up with and married is the Ms who is nuzzled up to her pillows in the bedroom right now. Her essential character hasn’t changed, her reactions to things (largely) haven’t changed, her sense of humor is the same. Everything about her is the same as I’ve always known, with a very few exceptions. She has, on maybe two or three occasions in my presence, had an emotional reaction to a stimulus that I would not have otherwise expected (think tears when a feelgood news story comes on, or something along those lines). She has identified rapidly changing hormones as the cause, but I should really be clearer on the point: she hasn’t done anything out of character or weird, just not the response I was expecting. All well within Ms’ established range of responses to stimuli – enough so that it’s difficult for me to think of specific examples here, just remembering my own mild surprise. On another two or three occasions, Ms has spoken to me more sternly than I would have expected because I needed to be doing more. I’m perfectly ok with that. I mean, we’re doing this in sort of pro mode: we’re still learning our way around each other as cohabitators, and now Ms is going through substantial physical changes that leave her quick to tire, so I’m having to make my own adjustments. Sometimes I miss the mark. I feel bad about it, because I want to do everything I can to make this process as easy for Ms as possible without treating her like an invalid, but it’s nothing that’s caused me to feel wronged or unjustly accused or any nonsense like that. My pregnant wife needs me to do more sometimes, I’m trying, and sometimes I don’t do enough. Maybe Ms will chime in about this, but I don’t feel like it’s an epidemic of failure or anything, heh, but I do feel like it’s justified and gentle correction during a time when both of us are going through behavior adaptations. It’s also worth pointing out that, as with the first example, I can’t really think of a specific occurrence because nothing wedged in my memory out of either shock or anger. After considering it for maybe one one hundredth of a second, my reaction was “Oh, ok, right, of course.” My pregnant wife is essentially the same person my non-pregnant wife was. Full stop. There are differences, but they’re subtle. The best example is one I told her about this weekend. Ms goes to sleep earlier than I do (I mean, my current insomnia troubles notwithstanding, I’m a night owl by nature, and Ms is not). Before she became pregnant, she’d come home and gradually wind down, almost imperceptibly cleansing herself of the day’s stresses before falling asleep on the couch. Now she’s much more consistently awake until the light suddenly goes...

Buying clothes

Mr. Forty has covered much of the recent good news. He stays up later than me and posts things. Must be nice to be able to say up late. And post things. And have a penis. I digress. The ultrasound was all the cute you can hope for out of a baby shaped blob on a black and white monitor. It also gave me the confidence I needed to go shopping. I think I’ve been subconsciously a little resistant to buy clothes until I knew we were okay.  And the genetic tests came back (thanks Maternit 21) and we are having a healthy baby boy who (according the ultrasound) has really cute feet. Yay! Today Mr. Forty was a good sport and went to the pregnant lady store with me. Now let me explain how I shop… About once a year I call up my nice shopping lady at a department store that I like and I say, “Hi nice shopping lady, I need new clothes for work/play/clogging/etc.” Nice shopping lady sets up a time, I show up, she gives me a glass (or two) of wine, and I try on a room full of pre-selected clothes. I decide what I like, nice shopping lady gets them altered for me (as I am Hobbit sized), and I give her a lot of money. Over time I realize I actually spend less this way than I did with the more traditional buying method I had used previously. This usually involved going for margaritas with girlfriends and having them talk me into clothes that, upon more sober consideration, made me look like a cheap Russian whore. So now I usually get 6 or 8 “outfits” a year, and supplement with special occasion purchases. I have a weakness for silly shirts on the internet and I’m not above buying dresses on Mod Cloth. That’s shopping. That’s all I’ll do. Buying maternity clothes had me about as excited as the moment when I learned what meconium was. I hate shopping. Shopping for clothes that I’ll wear for 8 months (I’m figuring two months or so afterwards) tops – that just pisses me off. I have clothes from college that I still wear religiously. Maternity clothes are overpriced, they aren’t very well made, and they have very little “personality.” I dress kinda… quirky? Different? Not like everybody else. Maternity clothes have a terrible generic quality. And stripes? What the fuck is with all the stripes in maternity wear. Look, I have never worn stripes.  I wouldn’t have considered them before I looked like I slammed an entire keg of Natty Light and washed it down with a enchilada el grande. Why in sweet Virgin Mary’s good name would I throw stripes on my current shape? I don’t look awkward enough? Fuck you maternity designers. Fuck. You. I pondered going the consignment route, but again, I’m hobbit sized, and I don’t want to wait two weeks to get everything altered (to what size for that matter) and end up paying as much as I would for retail. I also have to stop wearing yoga pants to work, for real, I’m a professional woman, I run a very successful team, I need to not look like a slightly disheveled college student. My intern is out dressing me. I need clothes NOW. All this taken into consideration, the Mr. showed amazing support and went to the UNIVERSE OF MOTHERHOOD or whatever it’s called at the mall. He sat quietly...

Naming a Human

Though paraphrased and occasionally reordered and cut to remove the (believe it or not) extraneous bits, this is a more or less faithful representation of dinner conversation tonight: “Bartholomew?” “We can’t name him Bartholomew. Isaac?” “That’s the cat’s name.” “Oh.” “Augustus?” “I like Augustus.” “Octavian?” “Not really.” “Flavius?” “…” “I’m looking at a list of Roman emperors. Sirius?” “No, I already though through all the Harry Potter characters.” “Paul? No, St. Paul was an asshole. Um.” “Breadstick?” “Oooh, I like that. Six Pack?” “Is that hyphenated?” “I don’t know. Look, let’s just scrap the whole surname thing and —” “Madonna.” “No, it’–” “Bono.” “I–” “The baby formerly known as Critter.” “What about some good German names? Hans.” “Adolf.” “Stop that. *pause* Hirohito.” “Anakin.” “Obi Wa… Ben? Now there’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time … a long time.” “Benjamin?” “Wilson?” “I already did all the presidents.” “Carter?” “Ooh, I like Carter, actually.” “My Republican friends would shit their pants.” “Maybe we could try to inoculate the baby against being a conservative by naming him Reagan.” “No.” “Why are boy names so boring? What’s the most masculine flower you can think of?” “I dunno. Dogwood?” “A dogwood is a tree, not a flower.” “A dogwood is a tree and a flower.” “We can’t name the baby Dogwood.” “I think a Magnolia is a manly flower. Hearty leaves and petals. But you couldn’t name a boy Magnolia.” “I think we’re getting off track here.” “Getting?” “Spatula.” “Kumquat.” “Ruprecht.” “Kieran.” “No, everydamnbody is naming their kids with Irish names now.” “Who was the nicest Gospel writer?” “Luke.” “Anakin.” “We already said that.” “Kanye.” “Tupac.” “Biggie.” “YES.” Welcome to the world, Biggie Bird Shit. We love you very...

We’re having a boy

That’s wonderful. We thought we were having a girl. But we’re having a boy. It’s thrilling, joyful, happy, bouncy bouncy bouncy! OUR CHILD IS NO LONGER IT. (Insert extended aside about the variability of sex expression and the recognition that sex is not a binary being the next big fight after gay rights.) Now we have to name him. His last name and middle name will come from my side of the family. First name from Ms’ side. Problem is, everyone on her side of the family has ONE NAME. ONE FREAKING NAME. And it’s one we don’t want to use. Because it would be sort of like naming the kid Vanilla. So we’re playing this game in the car. Look at random street or business. Say the name. Laugh that we can’t name the child Chase or Howard or Panera. That’s when I looked out the window. “Oh, bird shit,” I said absently. There was bird shit on the window. “Honey,” said Ms, “we can’t call the baby Bird Shit.” What followed was a full 10 minutes of painful hilarity. “So, Bird Shit, I’ve been looking over your résumé, and it’s impressive. Can you describe any challenges you’ve overcome?” “Do you, Bird Shit, take … I’m sorry, I need a minute. Ok, phew. Do you, Bird Shit, take Gopher Poop to be your spouse?” Well, there’s someone for everyone. “Bird Shit? Are you here?” “Yes.” “Do you go by anything else, Bird Shit?” “No.” “Not Birdie?” “No. My parents are very formal.” “RED ROVER RED ROVER SEND BIRD SHIT ON OVER!” Oh lords we needed...

Knowing

Welp, twelve hours from now we’ll know. We’ll know if we’re having a boy or a girl. We’ll know, as far as possible anyway, if we’re having a bowl of toes. We’ll know that there’s an actual being in there, gestating. We’ll know that for the next 18 years or so – if all goes well – we are responsible for keeping something alive. We’ll know that it’s a bigger deal than the various cats and dogs we’ve been keeping alive for some time now (though that’s not to take anything away from the cats and dogs). As Ms said tonight, “Welp, we’re in it for good tomorrow.” Honeybunny, we were in it for good when we found out. Arguably we were in it for good back in April. I mean, we were in it for good back in April but … oh hell you know what I mean. Ms also said tonight that she’d been waking up at 4:30 absolutely starving. I’d heard that might happen, but Ms hadn’t said anything about it. I was going to leave something tasty by the bed for her. You know, just in case. But I reasoned through the scenario and decided that I should tell her, because I’m not 100% sure anyone – no matter how awake and hungry they think they are – would notice food 10 inches away at 4:30 in the morning. I’m a practical man, I am. Next time I post, I’ll know if I’m going to have a son or a daughter. We know what we think we’re getting. This is …...