Its a New Year

Happy New Year's to us all..

The first day of every calendar year is a strange time: it is a national holiday, so we take the day off, mostly because the entire country stayed up late squeezing in behaviors that they have sworn off in the new year. January 1st, a passle of babies will be ushered in today and each of them will have a birthday rought with post Christmas sale gifts and friends who are too tired to go out because of the all nighter they pulled on New Years.

Mine were all born in the Fall and each, like their dad, celebrates a birthday in perfect isolation from any major holiday. Poor mommy has a Christmas-ish birthday and always gets a bit overshadowed by the flying raindeer and our Lord in the manger.

New Year's is a birthday we all celebrate together. The passing of another year and high hopes for the year to come. Just like for our childern, we hope that this year brings good things for our communities and communal lives. We share this collective birthday and use it as a time of rebirth.

Happy New Years - may this year be filled with the wonders of childhood and the prosperity of youth.

3 Months?

So, I must be the worst blogger of all time. I mean, it is the "er" that makes one an active participant in the world of blog. I own a blog, my blog is on the internet, but the last time I was an "er" my beautiful bundle of baby joy was well tucked away in my wife's warm womb.

It is 7:41 AM, at four this morning my wife said, "You have got to take her..."

The baby is not much of a sleeper. She was born exactly 14 weeks ago, which is the mile-marker of exactly how long it takes to be classified as clinically insane from sleep deprivation (I just made that up). Mommy and I had a rough start with the no sleep situation, but as all parents must do, we learned to deal with it. We swap out portions of the night to take the baby on long cradling strolls through the short halls of our home, while the other adult sleeps. The strolls help the baby sleep, it turns out she likes the motion of walking, the problem is: walking is the one position I can't sleep in.

Sometimes the baby will nod off in my lap which always puts me to sleep, sometimes she will sleep in the cradle next to the bed, which also lulls me off into la la land, just peeking at her in the rearview mirror racked out in her rear-facing car seat makes me want to doze while I drive. Each of these is only an example of how good it could be if she would sleep regularly in any of these positions. Alas, she loves the walk.

Truth is, the walk keeps me moving, which keeps me awake at times I would normally rest, which is an excellent time to scrawl out some thoughts, but again, like sleeping, blogging is a challenge while walking. How then, might one ask, have I found time this morning to jot down these notes?

Many inventions have changed the face of the earth, the civilities of societies and the abilities of those who inhabit the earth. Some believe the wheel is man's #1, a friend of mine in the world of theater claims that the mirrored glass shaped the way we see our world through our own reflections, my dad marvels that we put a man on the moon:

I am thankful for the baby swing.

In 1971 my mom hand-cranked the rickety aluminum baby swing that rocked me to sleep but that was merely the model T to todays Humvee of baby rockers. Today's high-tech, space aged swingers of baby bottoms come with Jetson grade gizmos designed to accommodate each of our babies developing senses.

The modern mobile no longer waits for a gust of wind from a swinging door to take a spin and grab a babies gaze; these mobiles are mechanically enhanced to rotate one quarter turn per rocking motion. Some baby Einstein who studies the affect of inanimate faces on an infant's brain development has placed on each of the mobile's arms, a stuffed character with an affirming smile so our abandoned baby never feels unloved.

The built in surround sound pumps white noise, sounds of running water and chirping birds directly into the ergonomically designed surrogate swinging whom. On her 16th birthday the baby will swear on Oprah's couch that she can recall pre-birth while her mother hiked the waterfalls of an ornithology preserve.

To the touch the seat is as soft as the bottom that rests upon it...the only two senses the corporate creators have overlooked are taste and smell, but I am sure they are working on it.

She wants to watch Barbie Movies...

I have always loved the St. Louis Rams. The Blue and Gold. In 1979, I was 8 years old when I sat on my mom's couch and cried, as I watched Vince Feragamo throw three interceptions in the second half to give away the Superbowl to the Pittsburgh Steelers. I hate the Pittsburgh Steelers.

The thing is, even when the Rams are down by 38 points, or when they haven't won a game in 9 straight weeks, I am still confident they are going to win the game and go to the Superbowl. I can't help it. I am a believer. I am a fan.

My wife is a fan of the idea that we are having a little girl.

On Sunday morning, I wear my lucky shirt, I avoid stepping on cracks, if I find a rogue penny...I know it is on! The Rams will come away with a victory!

So why does it seem so crazy that my wife takes every factoid as a sign that in September our boys will have a little sister?

"My tummy is poking out early, I heard that's a sign that its a girl,"

"I looked on this website, the Chinese believe that if a baby is conceived on a certain day..."

"Does 159 beats per minute seem fast? I heard if the baby's heart rate is fast..."

"Does my hair look shinier?"

"I'm craving fruit...what do you think that means?"

I think it means you want a girl. I think it means your belly is poking out because you are tiny and there is a baby growing beneath your bellybutton; I think it means the Chinese think they know everything; maybe the baby's heart rate is high because it is doing crunches, your hair looks great and you've always loved fruit.

Damn the Internet.

What did women do 50 years ago? Sure there were a couple old wives' tales to keep an expecting mom entertained while she peeled away the days on the calendar waiting for the delivery date. Dad's stood by with buckets of pink and blue paint, but I don't think anyone really expected an answer until D-Day.

Now there is the Internet. An endless supply of front porch gossip. It's like an electronic needlepoint circle filled with a limitless supply of rocking chairs and advice from your grandmother. It's like my wife logs on to www.tell-me-its-going-to-be-a-girl.com for her nightly dose of superstition. If she is hot, or cold, hungry or tired, it all means boy or girl.

Honestly, a couple used to wait until the day the baby arrived, then we got the ultra sound. Now there is high powered 3D imaging technology that can tell you 100% for sure whether there is a stem on the apple in week 20, and, of course: The Internet - loosely translated from its Latin root as - Home to All Bologna. Seriously, the ultra sound is in week 20, that gives me 5 months to paint the room: We can wait.

But it is just eating her up.

When you want something bad enough, I guess you will look to any indicator to prove it is coming true. When the Rams won the Superbowl in '99, I just knew it had something to do with the cereal I ate that morning. When something goes the way you were hoping for, all the superstitions in the world make sense. When it rolls the other way - It's just a load of bologna.

Me? I'm hoping for a baby. Truth is, I'm afraid I'll jinx it if I say it out loud.

My roommate the narcoleptic...

There is nothing funny about narcolepsy. A disease that forces its sufferer to drop to a deep sleep at the turn of a page. Fine one minute and the next: Nothing but Z's.

Ok, Truth?

I know nothing about narcolepsy; I have spelled it wrong twice and had to right-click it just to lose the squiggly red line; but having a wife in the first trimester has got to be the closest thing to living with a patient whose contracted adult onset narcolepsy.

She comes through the door after work, the door squeaks open, the back light makes her hair more blond, she is a silhouette of beauty arriving home to spend a night of love with her husband - then the door slams shut. It's like she has stepped on an invisible rake laying like a booby trap in the middle of the entry way; the handle hits her square in the face and she is knocked out before her bag drops to the floor.

This woman, so usually full of life has hit some invisible wall. Watching her get out of bed in the morning is like watching the little engine half way up the hill. I sometimes wonder if someone has drugged my wife. She sleeps like a teenager. Mornings are torture, nights are cut short- by the time she walks through the door, she is on borrowed time.

We have a dog. A 63 pound black lab. She's 4 feet long with a 14 inch bright red tongue. She's seven years old, but if you attached her tail to a crank you could run the state of Delaware with the energy she turns out.

Every night I walk through the door and it is as if she has been storing up all the energy of her day to race to the door and greet me with a fresh dose of drool and a head-butt to the knee. She charges, then turns back into zone coverage to make sure I don't get by her, and then back to the charge, all before my second foot makes it through the door.

This dog is so excited that another living being has entered the house, she can't actually keep her feet on the ground. She jumps a little with her front feet, but just as she does, she remembers at the last minute some childhood disciplinary tragedy that keeps her from jumping up on my slacks; as her front feet hit the ground she instinctively balances herself with a realigning bull kick of the back feet. All the while, her tail is wagging so hard from jubilation that when her back feet lift from the floor, her butt wags side to side in the air because she has nothing anchoring her down.

Last week, my wife called, "The dog is sick."

This is not going to be good for me.

"She sounds like she is going to throw up," she said.

I was on my way home, it was pouring rain, my pregnant narcoleptic was home with two little boys and a sick dog. I knew this was not going to go well for me.

No sooner had I hung up the phone, and sped the car just a little faster to shorten the drive home, when she called back, "She just threw up in Johnny's room."

When I walked through the door the dog did not greet me. My wife was getting the two boys to bed in the oldest's room...Johnny's room was now under quarantine.

This is an interesting symptom of pregnancy: everything is gross. Dog puke, old dishes, dirty socks, kids kissing at the mall - there is something about pregnancy that makes my wife susceptible to all things contagious and nonresistant to anything gross.

The dog was in the garage, the boys were in bed, I scooped up 1 1/2 cups of undigested Purina Dog Chow from Johnny's floor and I watched my wife step on the rake. It was like curtain fall at the end of a three act tragedy. The audience saw the show coming to a close at the end of act two, but that is why there is no second intermission, nobody leaves until the curtain falls.

"Will you check on the dog?"

It was as if it took every ounce of energy to form the words. I told her to go to bed, I would take care of the dog.

I went to the garage to find our 63 pound pup; but she was nowhere to be found. With the garage empty, I stepped out into the rain and found her laying face down on the dark concrete of the side yard. This was no little drizzling rain, this was the real deal of March heading out like a lion.

"Emma!" She looked up at me like a marionette who's tangled strings were pulling her by the nape: her head dangled and wobbled inches off the ground, her eyes rolled to barely focus on me, and then she just splashed back down into the puddle.

Crap.

I dragged all 63 pounds into the garage where she just lay like a wet towel and I called the vet.

"You should probably bring her in."

Perfect.

And now it was decision time. I hate making decisions. Maybe I should just let her sleep it off. I think she looks a little better already. What if she is really sick. I get sick all the time: I don't rush to the hospital in the middle of the night. Yeah, there's the answer. The dog is no better than me. I'm going to let her sleep it off and I'll go to bed. Decison made. Done.

"What do you mean you aren't taking her to the vet?"

I could have sworn my wife looked more tired than this just 15 minutes ago.

"I won't be able to sleep if you don't take her to the vet."

Won't be  able to sleep? I watched this woman fall asleep at the dinner table two weeks ago with hot food in her mouth. Seriously? This is the cure? Failure to load up the dog and take her to the vet? This cures adult onset sleep disorder? I had made a decision. There was no need to take the dog in, she is a dog, she will sleep it off.

"What if she dies?"

The drive was relatively short, 25 minutes in the pouring rain, the lady at the front desk was pleasant. I looked around at two other pet owners and realized that we were all pathetic. It was 10PM and we were in the pet hospital. I read Lonesome Dove, I don't remember the pet hospital scene, in the country if a pet gets sick he eats alone. The sign in clipboard asked for my name, my dogs name and the reason for our visit. The customer before us was a cat named Daisy who had apparently swallowed a tampon.

Pathetic.

For $89 I got to sign in. For another $49 Dr. House did a cat scan on my dog. At $138 the good doctor told me that my dog was sick. She quoted me $1250 to $1850 to continue testing to find the problem. She wanted to admit the dog into the hospital, run an i.v. drip, do blood tests, ultra sounds, and chest x-rays, I thought, "It's a dog."

I asked the attendant, who gave me the breakdown of the eighteen hundred dollar quote, "What do most people do when you give them a quote like this?" She told me that people have different attachments to their pets.

I have two boys at home in bunk beds and a narcoleptic pregnant wife that can't sleep, I like this dog, but my attachment is to my family. I gave the lady$138 and I went home and told my wife she could sleep, the dog would be fine.

She passed out like a sailor back from a weekend pass.

And the dog? Turned out she was fine after a good night's sleep.

It's all in the books...

I've got a college degree. Heck, I've got a couple of 'em. They're ok. They look good in a frame and they're like an e ticket that gets you on the good rides at D-Land. Truth is - I recommend them to everyone - but to get one, you have got to buy the books.

The library is the big lie in college. They tell you that all the books you need are available for checkout, but the ones that you want are always gone and the ones they have are only for use inside the quiet four walls of the ivory tower. I can't read an entire book sitting in the library media center; I have to be near the TV, a glance out the window, a short walk to the kitchen stuffed with comfort food when I realize that I won't be sleeping tonight because I have procrastinated too long by staring out the window when I should be reading.

Truth is: I'm a slow reader.

I get distracted. I start reading about a topic and off my mind goes writing its own ending. Sometimes I catch myself mid daydream realizing that it was inspired by the book but has nothing to do with the subject between the covers. I could pick up a copy of Moby Dick and end up fantasizing that I'm on a toboggan trail in the Everglades being chased by a pack of wild boar  all because Melville mentioned bacon as Ahab broke through the ice.

Not my wife though.

That woman could read nose down in a book on the back of a Harley swerving in and out of rush hour traffic in the rain and never look up. It is unbelievable. She once came home on a Friday night with a new book that would have taken me literally weeks to force my way through: When I woke up on Saturday morning she had all but forgotten to sleep but that book was devoured. Like any sweet-hearted gal, my girl loves a sappy love story or a novel about women stickin' it to the man, but those books are nothing compared to her newly acquired library of "What's Goin Down in Your Belly with Your Baby," books.

It is like she is studying to be a babyologist. I have never seen a student take to a subject like this with her newly found thirst for knowledge about the life growing inside her.

This quest for understanding drives her to read every word of every page like she were consuming her last meal. Unlike an inmate's last request for a bucket of Kentucky Fried that will be eaten alone in the corner of his cell, this newly found body of knowledge apparently must be shared.

Every page is filled with descriptive accounts of the size of her placenta and accurately measured volumes of blood charging through her uterine walls. There are charts and pictures and arrows pointing to body parts no man was ever supposed to know about. Sure I took 8th grade sex ed, but I didn't pay attention to the inside parts. But here they are...and they are the fascination that holds my wife's attention day and night as she studies for her role as birth mother in September.

She is riveted. She reads for a while, finds something that she just has to share and then hangs it out there in the universe and looks longingly to me to respond that I too am just as engaged in this fascinating information.

Now, truth be known, I love the ocean. So, I get it. I can flip through a surfer magazine and find a picture that makes me think, "This has to be shared with the world," and on the rare occasion that I have ventured across the room to say, "Honey, you have got to see this," I have received the most courteous faux interest my wife could muster.

Apparently courtesy nods are appropriate for surf mags but not recommended for baby books.

"Did you know the baby is as big as a peach?"
"Did you know she is growing fingernails?"
"Did you know the baby can recognize my voice now?"

Cool. Really? Neat.

I am not good at this.

She tilts her head, the way she does when neither of us is sure what I am thinking, and she looks at me as if to ask if I am even listening. She is such an angel, rather than assume I am stupid enough to actually not be interested in the research regarding fetal sleep patterns and how music may interupt them, she goes ahead and offers me a second volley of information so that I might take another swing at it.

Honestly. I once met a horticulture major in college who was overflowing with information about the use of nitrates in fertilizer and the affect on the growing plant. This guy could talk endlessly. And although I never really cared about his plants - I was captivated by his excitement.

This is what its like living with my wife's books.

I can't read them. I'm just not that good of a reader. I know that I would start on chapter one, and by the end of the page, I'd be on stage jamming in a Reggae band with my unborn son in my mind. And although my college educated wife, a brilliant instructor by trade, could walk me through the book chart by chart, in a way that would prepare me for a standardized test on the subject, I just don't get the excitement. Not about the book anyway. The information is interesting, don't get me wrong, but what does keep my interest is her.

I went to college. I read the books. But they never interested me the way these books interest her. It is like watching a little girl with her first doll house. To me her excitement is far more exciting than the information that excites her. The light in her eyes, the perma-smirk on her smile that says...look what I am doing...I'm growing a baby. The college degrees may look good on your walls, but that's all you got from your books; when I finish my books - my journey will begin.

So, although I try my best to listen, and I think I have her fooled, the intrigue on my face has nothing to do with the facts and everything to do with the delivery. She is just fun to watch.

Out to eat...

Who doesn't love to go out to eat?

Right?

Hop in the car and whiz across town filled with anticipation. Leaving the house you can almost taste your favorite flavor, your nose grows just to get closer to the smells of garlic fries and melted cheese, you can imagine the door opening, the comfy booth - it's on.

Having a pregnant wife is a lot like hanging out with a drunk friend. From one moment to the next, a friend liquored up on 9 shots of Cuervo Gold can be less than predictable. Sometimes the pregnancy makes her all silly with love, tears in her eyes, she just can't tell you how much she loves you. At other times, its like the tequila goggles of pregnancy color me criminal for the slightest offense. Anyone who's coached a best bud on a bender back to sobriety knows that the emotional roller coaster eventually stops; the key is to stay calm and remember as much as you can so you can remind them later of the things they said to the waitress.

One thing is for certain: Drunks and Pregnant women love to eat.

Its Friday night. We decide to go to our favorite place to eat. She has the veggie burger every time. Its the same veggie burger she had on our first date there. The same one she had on our way to the movies and the same one she had the night we left town for the weekend...long and short: She's had this burger before.

Everything is a first to a woman carrying a child.

The poor college coed who greeted us at table side had no idea what she was getting into when she suited up in all black this evening. She sauntered up with a causal grin expecting a drink order and and a green salad order from the beautiful blond at the table across from me. My wife is 14 weeks pregnant today, but nobody could spot her baby bump hidden behind a sweater and under the table; she is 109 pounds soaking wet and the only baby weight she seems to gain is in the baby. This poor waitress couldn't have seen the questions coming.

Are there sprouts on the burger?
In the burger?
The Bun?

The woman in black must have seen this behavior before, from women swollen from head to toe with babiness, but she must have looked at my gal and thought, "Gees lady, you got it bad for those sprouts huh?"

I don't know who produced the list of foods that you can't eat when you are pregnant, but seriously? Are they trying to kill me? No coffee, sprouts, no Mexican cheese? I don't know that I have ever even eaten a sprout or had a Mexican cheese sandwich, but sure enough for the past 14 weeks, we have been on the look out!

Dinner is served.

There it is. The moment we have looked forward to. We enjoyed the foreplay of the drive across town and the flirtations of the fancy menu, it was time to get down to it.

Except for the spread.

"Has this always had spread?"
"What do you think this spread is made of?"
"Can I have 1000 Island?"
"I think I heard Mayonnaise is not pasteurized."
"Could that be true?"
"Is this mayonnaise based?"

And the scraping begins.

"Do you want me to ask her for another bun?"

Scrape..."No."

"Honestly, it would be no trouble, I'm sure this happens all the time."

Scrape..."No."

Foiled.

The best veggie burger in town. The stand by. The go to in a pinch night out on the town. Foiled by the potential for sprouts and the reality of the 1000 island spread. Once the scraping was complete and the side of the plate had a little lake of 1000 Islands to be avoided at all costs, the burger went down as smooth as ever, but it was tainted, I could see it, and there was no getting past it.

It's only funny because its true, and when my wife sobers up from these 9 months of baby induced intoxication, she will know I love her for coaching her through it, and I will be here to remind her of all the things she said in front of the waitress.