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...

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...

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...