Baby Memoirs: Poop is Poop

To be completely honest, I am getting concerned.   Very, very concerned actually.  I am insecure, I am anxious and I am worried.   Don’t get me wrong; the thought of loving and being able to hold my dear new baby girl is going to be pure joy.  I have actually grown quite comfortable with the fact I’ll be a father soon and am starting by the day to embrace this major life change.  It is a few other issues looming over me that I’d be lying if I said do not have me worried though.    

The granddaddy of these fears is one that I cannot get out of my mind no matter what I seem to do.  I’m talking about poop.  Tell me this; how am I supposed to change a poop diaper when I nearly pass out cleaning up my dogs’ poop on the patio?  How am I supposed to change a diaper when I gag like a 70’s starlet in a Jon Holmes flick when I run across the occasional dog poop accident in the house?   I won’t even broach the impact a clogged up toilet can have on me. 

For better or worse, I have an extremely keen sense of smell, which is perhaps an offset to my terrible eyesight.  This strong sniffer is great with blooming flowers in spring, smelling McDonald’s French fries from several city blocks away, or behaving like one of Pavlov’s Dogs while waiting in line at my favorite pizza parlor.  But trust me when I say this same keen sense of smell is a curse when it comes to less pleasant aromas.  Let’s also just say poop qualifies on many levels as one of the aromas I cannot stomach without a strong possibility of the gag reflex kicking in. 

My wife and I have had dogs for a very long time, so my poop radar is time tested and accurate as it gets.  It is not a stretch to say I can smell poop three bedrooms away, at a minimum.  In fact, my wife and I have become a pretty adept “search and rescue” team.   My schnozzle can search out and locate the vomit or poop accident in no time flat and then I holler for my wife to come in and rescue me from having to clean it. 

In my opinion, this “search and rescue” system has for many years been a proud showcase of the teamwork we possess in our marriage.  Specifically, it seems a bit silly to change how we handle such situations just because a baby is involved now.  If it is not broke, then don’t fix it is my motto.  Right?  “Wrong!” she says.  It is becoming clearer than ever this sort of strategy is not going to fly when it comes to diapers. 

My wife’s stubbornness on the matter has put me in quite the pickle.  Indeed, I’ve been keeping myself up at night surfing the internet and seeking answers to this oncoming issue.  I tried to find some sort of online support group for “new dad’s that are afraid of poopy diapers”, but was unable to locate one in my area.  My guess is most men are still in the closet about this issue and do not want to “out” themselves for fear of mockery, spousal retribution and endless family harassment.     

So if the conclusion to all of this is I cannot get out of poopy diaper changing, then I need to give very serious thought about how to handle a poopy diaper when that fateful day arrives.  One of my better ideas is to gear up in one of those suits that Bill Murray and Dan Aykroyd wore in Ghostbusters which shielded them from being slimed while chasing ghosts.  One of those would be absolutely perfect for my situation.  The problem is I cannot for the life of me find a store that sells these potentially lifesaving suits anymore.  

Another option along these same lines that has potential is to buy one of those Hazardous Materiel suits you see people wear when cleaning up nuclear contamination, toxic waste and the like.   The primary issue there though is those things are quite a bit more expensive than they might seem, especially when you get them fully loaded with the gas mask and a few other necessary upgrades.  To ensure total protection and functionality, I’d probably also need to buy a utility belt for carrying an extra pair of gloves, plenty of baby wipes and a set of jumbo length BBQ tongs.  Throw in the fact the suits only come in two colors, one of which being yellow which I can’t stand, and the other being white, which is ripe for stains, and I’m at a bit of a pause on whether this is the right solution.  The upside is that these puppies come in a one-size-fits-all and I would gladly share the suit with anyone in the family who needs it. 

Beyond price and beyond the limited selection of colors to choose from,  there is an even larger concern with this concept which stated quite simply is; the potential for long term emotional trauma this suit could invoke on my new baby girl.  That is, what happens when she looks up and instead of seeing her daddy offering a helping hand, she sees an ominous “Darth Vaderish” looking man saying; “Hi baby girl, I am your father”.   As far as I can tell though, there is no legitimate scientific proof or any studies whatsoever that indicate wearing a “HazMat” suit while changing an infant’s diaper leads to emotional trauma for a child down the road.  So despite my apprehensions, I’m definitely keeping this option open as a “maybe” in case a better solution does not present itself.

Another potential plan for battling out of this oncoming poopy diaper dilemma is to take it in a medicinal direction.  There is a medical condition called “Coprophobia”, which is a fear of feces.  There is also a medical condition known as “Osmophobia”, which is the fear, aversion, or psychological hypersensitivity to smells or odors.   If you think I am falsifying this just to get out of diaper duty, then by all means feel free to look this stuff up.  I would of course not stoop to such levels and these are well documented and fairly serious medical conditions.

So the thinking goes that a diagnosis and note from my doctor stating that I am afflicted with one, or even both, of these illnesses will help me explain to my wife that these are real life medical conditions I am struggling with.  I genuinely do want to change poop diapers, but my medical condition prevents me from doing so.         

Many people out there keep saying “it will be different when it is your own baby”, but that line of thinking is shaky at best.   The facts are that poop is smelly, poop is unsightly and poop makes me gag, irrespective of where that poop originates from.  No matter how you frame it; poop is poop. 

Since I have already spilled my guts about my deepest darkest fear for when my baby girl is born, I guess there is no reason to withhold a few of my other concerns as well.  Let me first qualify that in the past I’ve been called a bit of a curmudgeon, as I am annoyed easily when it comes to certain topics.  The following opinions will probably not help lift the “curmudgeon” title from myself anytime soon, but do know there is a softer and more sensitive side lurking beneath.  I think I just forgot to put that side on display when writing all this.       

Another very strong irritation that borders on making me crazy is the sound of loud crying.  It is noisy and it is distracting in its own right, but it is almost intolerable for a baby to be wailing away when in public where everyone else in the vicinity is trying to enjoy their own peaceful noise-free environs.   I do not even need a doctor’s note on this one, as my wife diagnosed me a long time ago with a severe case of “Noise Aversion Disorder” stemming from my borderline eccentric need for a quiet environment.  I’ve been told “Exposure Therapy” to my new daughter’s bouts of crying will be the best way for me to hit this problem head on and I am prepared to do what it takes.  I think the bigger issue at hand here is not so much the actual sound of crying (which I am indeed still concerned about), but rather the thought of taking a fussy and screaming infant into public that I fear the most.   

Yes, I am the jerk who whenever loud crying is taking place in a public setting starts complaining about how irritating it is and moreover how pissed off at the parents I am for not doing something.  I might add that it is not just me throwing a tantrum on this matter, as my wife actually agrees with the second part of this assessment in regards to the parents as well.   

OK … so adept and proficient parenting can limit the screaming baby issue in most scenarios, and that gives me some sense of comfort.   What gives me a whole lot of discomfort is the fact we have travel plans coming up shortly after delivery and those plans include air travel.  Even the most patient and soft hearted among us would have to admit there is little else worse than a baby crying in your area on a flight. 

The main problem is a logistical one, as there is nowhere for the parents to get up and go should the crying become out of control.   Equally problematic is that there is nowhere for people who can’t stand crying to escape to when this sort of dynamic gets going.  The parent has to just sit there mortified as all heck that their baby is causing such a scene and the nearby passengers have to just grin and bear it.  All the while you know the surrounding travelers are bitching under their breath to the person next to them and rolling their eyeballs to the passengers just out of speaking distance about just how annoying the crying has become.   

My wife seems to be much less concerned about this than I am, so I am thinking about some sort of last minute strategic preflight seating plan.  I’ll let my wife and our baby take the good seats up near the front and I’ll just sit in one of those seats way far in the back of the bus.  Those back seats certainly come with their own drawbacks, as the combination of airplane food and lavatory air seeping about is not a mixture of smell I am particularly fond of.  I think what’s worse about sitting in the back aisles of the plane is the moment that seat belt light rings off, you can be sure that for the remainder of the flight several people will be hovering over you with distressed looks on their faces waiting to take a leak or worse.  For me personally, it is extremely difficult to read with that sort of aura looming above.  But all things considered, riding in the back is still a decent trade off in my mind.  After all, if my fear comes to pass and our baby starts crying or fussing uncontrollably, nobody will know I am the dad if I am sitting 30 aisles away.  To deepen my cover, I can even start bitching and moaning to the people sitting around me about how annoying it is that the baby up front won’t shut up. 

Another very large concern of mine is the “oh, how cute is my baby” syndrome.  First of all, I do not find newborns cute in any way, shape or form.  I start to see some cuteness emerging around 12 to 18 months at a very minimum, but no sooner.  Prior to that age, I find them looking something like a cone headed alien at birth and then slowly morphing into a little ball of noisy oddness from then on out. 

Here is the rub; I know for a fact I will think my baby girl is the most beautiful creature on earth, as my evolutionary bias will be in high gear and I will not be able to take my eyes off her.  I will be happily soaking up all the euphoric neurotransmitters and endorphins flooding my brain with little to no doubt that I have the cutest and most precious little girl that has ever been created.   The thought that I played a role in making this pint-sized treasure will be almost too much to take in.   

The problem with all this is that every new parent thinks their baby is the cutest creature ever created and every new parent wants to share this fact with everyone else.   Parents will want to send picture after picture and they will want assurance from anyone who will listen to make certain everyone agrees with the “cuteness” assessment.   I can’t count the number of ugly babies I’ve seen that I had no choice but to call cute.  When new parents and close relatives (grandparents are perhaps more guilty than any) get all sauced up on the Kool-Aid of thinking everyone in the world views their child in the same way they do, it is quite hard to burst their bubble by telling them I think their baby is ugly. 

Admit it, every single one of you has at some point replied to the “oh, how cute is my baby” question with a bold faced lie.  It’s just one of those white lies that needs to be told so as to not come off as the major butthead in the room.   The truth of the matter though is that it really perturbs me people are not aware enough to understand what they’re seeing and feeling is most likely not shared on an equal level with all the people they are spouting this “isn’t my baby cute” to.      

Closely related to the “cuteness” issue is the “my baby is developing faster than everyone else’s baby”  syndrome.  All parents want to believe their toddlers are smarter or braver or more athletic than average.  I hear parents gushing about things like “my toddler is reading at a second grade level already” or “my little one is walking around the house well ahead of almost all other kids of the same age”, or “my talented baby may likely be a music savant because she lights up during American Idol", blah, blah, blah.  Parents need to realize that nobody really cares.  Moreover, parents need be aware that people know full well the truth of such amazing feats is being stretched further than a bungee cord and that really and truly these same people are tired of talking about your kid altogether.      

So what does this have to do with me, my family, my wife, my daughter and my fears?   Well, I am quite concerned that we will all fall into this same web of bias that infects almost every new parent and grandparent you come across.  I do not, and will not, be one of those idiot parents and/or families that goes around pressuring everyone into looking at pictures of and making everyone around us agree with our own  assessment of our baby’s incredible preciousness.    

Of course we are going to think our daughter is the most treasurable item on earth.  That is a given.  But let us also stay mindful enough to know that not everyone will be viewing our little gift from god in the same light as we are.   I think that is the whole point actually, which is perfectly fine by me.  That is, I will need no added confirmation from others to know how special and remarkable my little girl will be.      

Baby Memoirs: My Ever So Sweet Brielle

Brielle.  My sweet, ever so sweet, baby Brielle.   Much like a melodic song or enduring poem, the sound resonates a bit deeper every time I hear it.  Maybe it is the tone, and maybe it’s what it now means to me.   More likely however, it is what most parents feel after naming their firstborn child.  Whatever the case might be, I cannot get enough of thinking about and hearing of my sweet, ever so sweet baby Brielle. 

It’s pretty telling by now that my wife and I have selected the name for our soon to be baby daughter.  Just like knowing the gender of your pending little one, choosing a name moves you another giant step closer.  In my estimation, choosing a name is much different than many of the other milestones that occur throughout the stages of a pregnancy though.  This most certainly holds true for a father. 

Through the eyes of the father to be, creating a bond with your unborn child is an elusive task to be sure.   A mother is bound for nine months to “little her” or “little him”.  A mother’s body is transformed and feels the movements and the growth from deep within.   An unborn baby needs in every respect a mother in order to survive.  And ultimately it is the mother who delivers the child to this world. 

It’s pretty fair to say a “father to be” is quite a bit less important in comparison to a “mom to be” throughout the pregnancy.  Thus, the pending father needs to cling tight to whatever is offered at this stage of the process and participating in the naming is one of those lone chances.

Why should this be such an important occasion for the father?  It is because no matter how odd it seems to be, there is very little else that a “father to be” can do that carries any sort of tangible necessity on his unborn baby’s life.  Perhaps we are designed to be out collecting firewood, hunting down food and building huts to live in.  I do not really know.  The reality though is that even the best intentioned father is essentially a sideline cheerleader from the moment after conception all the way to the moment of birth.  We are nice to have around and can happily do whatever possible to offer up support and assistance, but our participation is not required in any sort of literal sense.  Naming your “soon to be” is about as close as it gets. 

Thinking of it all this way may sound cynical or strange to even consider, but the facts are the facts, and it is an absolute biological truth that a father is not needed during a pregnancy.   So it is probably not a  surprise that I took the naming process to heart and involved myself fully in all senses of the word.  On a totally different but strangely similar note, once there is a name, there is a daughter.  Your daughter.  In this case, it is my sweet, ever so sweet baby daughter Brielle. 

Let me back this all up about a month to give you some perspective.   For various reasons, my wife and I held off on thinking about or trying to find a name quickly.   I can speak only for myself here, but as mentioned above, the selection of a name makes it all quite real.  Without a name, there remains a barbed wire fence within that is able to guard your deepest anxieties and emotions from getting out.   My piece entitled “Though Shall Not Presume” may lend some further insight as to what exactly I mean by that.    

Whether the above is true or not, or for whatever other reasons there may be, both my wife and also myself took quite a while before even considering to address the naming process.   Of course, this was not a very popular position to take with our friends and family members.  All with a tremendous amount of love and interest of course, there is still only so many times you can say “no, we haven’t even thought about it yet”. 

It then dawned on me like a flash of light from far, far above how we should handle the situation.  I did my best not to crack a smile at this revelation, but my wife knew instantly I had stumbled upon some sort of sinister childlike idea and she wanted in.  I revealed to her that “our best defense is a good offense”.

This philosophy was first opined by military strategist and philosopher Sun Tzu in 5^th century BC and has been widely quoted as an effective divergence strategy ever since.  Machiavelli, to Vince Lombardy, to Colin Powell and just about any sort of meaningful strategist in between has embraced the concept.  So if it was good enough to win Super Bowls and good enough to launch air strikes in the Gulf War, then it would no doubt be good enough for our purposes here. 

Let’s first talk about grandparents.   I am not a geneticist, although I do like to play one and I can pretty much guarantee there is genetic marker yet to be discovered that draws grandparent to grandchild in a way only a grandparent would know.  In evolutionary terms, it’s almost like a Darwinian insurance policy that a bond of this nature is created.  What I did not know is how dominant this “purported” genetic marker is.  It is powerful and it is beautiful .  I could practically write a book with my thoughts on this, but that is for another day.    

With all this in mind, it is little wonder that it was the Grandparents most guilty of the “have you thought of a name” grenades.   We knew full well at this point it was time to change our strategy and strike back on the offensive quickly, as we were at the time getting pummeled. 

Let me first qualify all of this.  One set of parents is anxiously awaiting their first grandchild.  The other set is a bit older and quite naturally they want us to get a move along in order for them to have all the good years available to be a part of this newest family gift.  So it is pretty fair to say, this pregnancy process is just about as momentous to them as it is to us, which we both appreciate beyond belief. 

Choosing a name is hard.  It is really hard.  Choosing a list of names is easy.  Judging the names that others have suggested is a breeze.  But choosing a single first and single middle name out of the countless thousands available is hard.  Indeed, it is really hard.  After all, this lone choice impacts a human being (your human being!) for the rest of his or her natural born life. 

So the strategy was simple.  We would turn the tables and ask each grandparent to come up with a single name that we would consider as a choice.  No, not a list of names.  A single first name and a single middle name.  And we needed it in seven days or their suggestion would be disqualified.   It would be our chance to go on offense and let them play a little defense fielding our daily barrage of “have you thought of a name” missiles.      

As to our counter strategy, we were in all honesty not just being revenge minded mischief-makers.  We were in fact quite curious as to what each grandparent would come up with.  Mind you, at this point we had very truthfully given almost zero thought to names and had extremely open minds.   We felt that one of the suggestions could perhaps send us in a direction we would not have arrived at previously.  At the very worst it would provide a very humorous way for the six of us to get together, drink a few Mimosas and all participate somehow in the announcement process.   We engaged in a similar, but slightly more toned down version of this when announcing the gender.   To create a little suspense, we had each of them write down their guesses and read them aloud prior to the “official announcement” and the spillover was a beautiful mini celebration we would all be together for. 

This “Name Game” was a bit more involved than choosing heads or tails though.  On one end of the spectrum, this exercise was fairly easy, as a name for a girl was already in mind for one set of grandparents. If my wife’s brother turned out to be my wife’s sister, a name had pretty much already been picked out.  As it turns out, my wife’s brother is in fact my wife’s brother, so the name of my wife’s non-existent sister would need to be put on ice for the following three decades. 

On the other end of the spectrum , the exercise proved a bit more challenging.  Let’s just say handing a book with 100,000 baby names to a known and self-admitted perfectionist is not a real good idea.  You can do the math from there. 

There was only one issue with the game that we had not previously considered and it was a major one for sure.  The problem we faced is that my wife and I were now actually needing to address the name and the clock was tick-tocking away on our own decision making as well. 

I’ve long tried to adhere to a philosophy that whenever a topic is being discussed and there is someone else in the room that knows more about that topic than myself, I will mostly subordinate my own speaking and listen as much as possible.  For example, as far as the childrearing and pregnancy aspects of this interesting journey, I have offered somewhere in the range of zero input.  Give or take. 

A name is far different though.  I love the written word in every possible way and it was time for me to step up from sperm donor to actually having some sort of lasting input on our new daughter to be.  For better or worse, there is just about nothing I do without thinking it through from every angle and then flipping it over and thinking it through again.  Among the short list of attributes I carry, I find this to be one of the better ones.   My wife agrees up to a certain point … after which she simply calls it crazy.  I am still not sure where that “certain point” resides and perhaps should think through asking her about it one day.    

Given our different modes of thinking, the plan was for my wife and I to set out individually to research and choose our top fifteen choices.   We were to then compare lists and see where we were at.   To say I was surprised by the similarities of our list is an understatement.   We had several of the same names, albeit many of them were spelled differently.  As an aside, it should also be noted that each of our lists contained more than one of the grandparental suggestions on it.  There was one name in particular though, that had never before been uttered by anyone.  In fact, it is almost unexplainable for us to both have this name on our top fifteen list given its’ uniqueness.   It took little more than an instant to know that our sweet, ever so sweet baby daughter was to be named Brielle.    

To know in an “instant” should not be confused with to know without careful thought or to have been made in haste.   As mentioned previously, the written word carries extreme significance to me and not far behind in this department is my wife’s own love of words as well.  Not to belabor the point, but it would be hard to understate the importance of words to the both of us.   The written word is literally what brought us together from day one and it has continued to play a role throughout the years of our relationship.  Again, all stories for another day perhaps.  

There is a verse from my favorite poem that has come to be the symbol of sorts for our love and devotion to one another.  The verse is actually inscribed on a keychain that I carry with me on a daily basis.  The poem is about a man’s undying love and eternal commitment to his beautiful “Annabelle”.    

So is it the similarity in sound of Annabelle and Brielle that first caught our ear?  Or maybe it is the connection and symbolism of Aubrye and Bill fusing together to create a single Brielle?   Or still maybe it is the meaning of Brielle; “heroine from above” that ultimately shaped our choice.  I cannot fully explain what ultimately drew the two of us to that name in such force.  Whatever the reason may be, there is no lack of certainty that it is now my privilege, my duty and my honor, to protect and always keep well, the girl we now know as our sweet, ever so sweet baby Brielle.

Baby Memoirs: What Are The Odds?

It was time for our 18 week checkup. My wife who is normally a rock was a total train wreck. Let me clarify, she was a wreck relative to her normal self, as she usually handles stress extremely well. But not this morning. I could see the worry in her eyes and feel the anxiety permeating off her and billowing into the rest of the car.

This checkup was a big one to be sure. First of all we were to find out the gender of our new baby. We also would learn how healthy the baby is and what sort of odds we were looking at for various congenital birth defects. It was getting close to Christmas and it had been pouring rain for like seven days straight. I started wondering if she was going through some sort of Seasonable Affective Disorder (a.k.a. SAD), like all those depressed people in Seattle do when there is no sunshine for extended periods. That thought quickly passed once I realized in the six years we’ve been together I’ve only seen this type of stress a few times.

I am usually the more pessimistic half of our relationship, but for whatever reason, I was as cool as the other side of the pillow for this one. So we sat unusually silent in the car for a while on our way to the doctor when out of the blue she asked what I was thinking about. This caught me a bit off guard, so I actually fessed up to her about what was on my mind. I was thinking what a bummer for Fashion Island, which is an outdoor mall near us, that it had been raining for the very biggest shopping week of the year leading up to Christmas. I just couldn’t fathom what the rain would be doing for their sales. There is no way I’ll be shopping at Fashion Island with it raining like hell, nor can I imagine others doing the same.   I can only imagine the blood bath of red ink being piled on to these already unstable retailers. Let’s just say that was not the answer she was wanting out of me.

I decided to turn up the music to provide some sort of distraction when I quickly noted that one of my favorite bands (Pearl Jam) was playing and not only that, but I just so happened to remember from a book I had read that it was the lead singer’s (Eddie Vedder) birthday. Given the significance of what we were heading into, this sort of chitter chatter seemed to annoy her even further. I figured my best strategy was to not talk the rest of the ride, so as to not deepen the hole I had been digging for myself.

We walked into the waiting room of the doctor’s office and there were already about four other couples in there. I quickly noted each of them had this same look of confused trepidation on their faces. It was eerie. It was also dead silent. I think it was then I realized “holy poop”, this appointment is a really big deal. As some sort of self-protection mechanism, I realized my head had been buried deep in the sand pretty much the entire morning.

The only sound in the waiting room was coming from this wall mounted flat screen television. The video they were playing was about how to handle special needs children. I did my best to ignore it, but am almost positive I heard something about cancer in there as well. At this point, I knew I needed to get a hold of myself. The fight or flight dynamic kicked in and flight was clearly the best option. I told my wife that I am not totally sure I had locked the car, which was actually true, and I needed to go back and double check it. After all, it was nearing Christmas and there were all sorts of valuable gifts in there. 

So off I went to gather myself and lock up the already locked car and then made the short walk back to the office.   My wife and I have a weird dynamic that when one is stressed or depressed, the other pulls up their boot straps and offers caring reassurance and strength. It may sound like make believe or at best an exaggeration, but this is true to the letter. I had been being a self-deluded moron at a time when my wife needed me most.

So, I reentered the office with my game face on, sat down, held her hand and asked how she was feeling. She shared with me that one of her friends, who is also an “older” first time mother, had told her this appointment would scare the pants off us because they go through just about every ailment imaginable. The older a woman gets, the percentage of something going wrong increases exponentially relative to “younger” women. I already knew this fact, as we had spoken of it before, but somehow managed to fence in the implications of this appointment deep down into the reptilian part of my brain that doesn’t experience emotion.  I can think of no other explanation for my earlier indifference.  

Finally, our name was called and we were summoned into a room that looked more like an office with three chairs and a desk rather than a doctor’s room. We spent the next hour or so going through the various defects and potential risks for a woman giving birth after the age of 35. She actually had little charts and went through just about every potential risk on the board, each of which were dramatically and most notably slanted negatively towards the older end of the spectrum.  Despite the fact, I found this all fascinating and hate to say was thoroughly enjoying learning about these incredible statistics. In fact, I think it was the percentages that put my mind most at ease.

I like odds and am happy to place them on almost anything that has yet to occur. I know full well that something going wrong 1 out of 10 times is a 90 percent bet. These are odds I would take every day of the week and twice on Sunday. Admittedly, 1 out 10 is still a bit worrisome as it pertains to my new child. But here is the kicker. The odds were like 1 out of 360,000 for congenital disease A and 1 out 26,000 for congenital disease B., and on and on we went.  I walked out of that office feeling quite confident knowing as a betting man the odds were on our side in a big way.

Whenever anyone quizzed us on do you want a boy or girl, we would always say healthy is just fine with us. Well, now we were directed into an actual doctor’s room and were about to learn the sex, and as a bonus would get to see Polaroid -esq images of our yet to be born baby. The nurse asked us if we wanted to know and we both anxiously nodded yes. She told us we were going to have a girl and more importantly all looked really good from a health perspective.  We both were ecstatic. If she had said it was a boy, we would have been equally ecstatic. Whatever the case, this was a really big moment and I think it all sunk in at this point.  We no longer had an “it”.  It went from being some sort of inanimate object to being “my precious little girl” residing inside the ever expanding tummy of my beautiful wife.

Even though the rain was still pouring, we walked out of the office to the car hand-in-hand. Pearl Jam was again playing on the radio and my wife said I cannot believe you knew that it was Eddie Vedder's Birthday. She remarked only you would remember something so unimportantly random like that. We both were feeling pretty good at the moment and quickly made the decision to skip out on work for the day.  Instead, we were going to zoom over to South Coast Plaza, which is the indoor mall in our area, to have a little fun and finish up our Christmas shopping as well.



Baby Memoirs - Things are Starting to Get Weird

I guess we are at what you would call, halfway through the second trimester now.  Up to this point, I’ve realized that most of the oddness and apprehension about all things baby have been self inflicted by my own male brain and generally unusual emotional topography.  But “times they are a changing”, as things are starting to get weird and this time much of the weirdness has nothing at all to do with me. 

For instance, my normally health conscious wife has always told me she was not going to be one of those people who uses getting pregnant as an excuse to chow down on anything and everything.   She had seen some of her friends do that and she was simply not going to allow it to happen to her.   Given her history, strong mind and overall discipline, I pretty much never gave the issue another thought. 

Uhmmm, this has not exactly panned out as planned though.   There is little question that she is eating more, and not just a little more, but a lot more.   Many will argue that pregnant women are now eating for two and that is the main reason for the increased cravings and need for calories.  I’m guessing it was a pregnant woman who first came up with this genius excuse on behalf of all the other hungry pregnant women out there.   

I am not a doctor or pregnancy expert by any means, but this line of thought makes not even a little sense to me.   By my math, and using my wife as an example, she is eating for one person (herself), and then is eating give or take for 5 percent of another.   So this would be eating for 1.05 people, rather than eating for 2.   I’m sure this ratio will increase a bit as we move further and the fetus grows larger, but the eating for two bit seems more like a well devised con job than any sort of medical fact. 

It’s almost as though eating for two has become pregnancy lore designed for women, by women, so they can for nine months treat any meal like an All You Can Eat Buffet in Las Vegas, without having to deal with any consequences or feelings of guilt.  I think the message is “if I have to walk around and appear to be getting fatter every day no matter what, you are damn right I am going to eat whatever the hell I want.  And until one of you judgmental on looking men have to walk around looking like a beach ball, you best keep your mouths shut about it.”  I think keeping my mouth shut is probably a decent idea.         

To be fair, it’s not really the quantity of food my wife is eating that I find odd, but rather what it is she wants to eat.  Again, I’ve heard story after story of husbands making late night ice cream parlor or supermarket runs under extreme duress to help settle their craving crazed wives.  Whenever I would hear this, I’d instantly dismiss it as ridiculous or at the very best see it as an extreme exaggeration.  I’m loathe to admit it,  but there are signs we are headed straight down this same path and it is a slippery one to be sure.    

My wife literally craves Mexican Food 24 hours a day.  If we are out and about and trying to decide where to grab a quick bite to eat, I do not even ask anymore, as she is like a heat seeking missile if there is a Taco Bell, Del Taco or El Pollo Loco within a 10 mile radius of where we are at.  Again, for my own safety and respect for what sort of backlash can be inflicted by a crazed pregnant wife, I’m thinking we will put all food topics on the backburner for now.  But still, you have to admit it is all a bit odd.   

Something else I find myself inquiring about, now that my wife is officially “showing”, is if she can feel the baby moving at all.  This is a pretty fascinating concept to me and I am wavering on whether I believe it is occurring  quite yet.  She tells me absolutely yes that she feels it, but it is hard for her to describe.   When I press further, she tells me there is a strange feeling in her stomach that could sort of be likened to having gas.  My personal opinion is the feelings of gas are probably not the baby moving, but rather a byproduct of all the Mexican Food she’s been eating.  She’s pretty emphatic though; there is definitely something brewing down there and I presume she would know much better than I.  Nevertheless, I’m not totally convinced Mexican Food is not still somehow involved, but I’ll also leave this topic alone for now.         

On the subject of weird, something else that I cannot seem to wrap my head around is the whole being intimate with your wife is perfectly OK during this time.   Is there some sort of manual or guide out there (???), because if there is, I need it.  I am not a doctor and am certainly not an expert in anatomy, but common sense tells me a considerable amount of thought needs to go into this process, not only to help protect, but at the very least not startle our new little creation.  

Here is just one example of my many apprehensions on the matter.  I’ve done some reading and have learned that your unborn has an extremely keen sense of hearing during this phase.  They can actually listen to much of what is going on around them outside the womb, including voices, music and whatever else that is making noise. 

Let’s just say the whole noise thing is a bit concerning.  No matter what a child’s age may be, accidentally seeing or hearing your parents “doing it” is going to invoke some level of emotional trauma.  In more severe cases we could be talking about years of undiagnosed Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, or PTSD for short.  I keep thinking, is this really the way I want to first introduce myself to my precious new child? 

I’m telling you, things are starting to get really weird around here.     



Baby Memoirs – The Name Game

It is not long until my wife and I find out whether we are having a boy or a girl.  My guess is pretty much everyone in the family has a slight preference one way or another, but not a one would ever admit to it.  Perhaps that’s a topic for another day, or better yet, never.   I do know everyone will be pleased whatever the sex turns out to be and most of all they are mainly rooting for healthy.   

It’s not that I have any experience at this, but I presume learning whether it is a boy or girl is one of those “Watershed” moments in the pregnancy process.  Once the sex is known, my guess is everything gets kicked into high gear and everyone is going to have opinions on just about everything.   Of course, one of the biggest of those decisions is a name and I am quite sure all with be offering their two cents, and probably a bit more. 

Luckily, we can escape all this and make the issue a non-issue if we learn it is a boy, as my formal name is William D. Foote, IV and naturally I will want to carry it on for a fifth generation.   One might think there is a little pressure for me to produce a boy because of this, but that’s not really true.  I am too strong of person to allow something like that to cause me any stress.  The knowledge it will be me alone that is responsible for putting an end to this family legacy by not having a boy isn’t going to weigh me down.  I mean, it is only four generations equaling better than 125 years of heritage that essentially I will be killing.  Nope, no pressure whatsoever.        

One scenario worth considering is the chance of having twin boys.  That would throw quite a monkey wrench in things and there is no clear answer on how that is supposed to be handled.  That is, which of the two boys will be named William D. Foote V and which one will be a Joe, Frank or Fred Foote?  If one is and the other is not, we are talking about major therapy down the road on self esteem and feelings of inadequacy for the future Joey, Franky or Freddy Foote, which is not a good situation at all.  Besides, do you know how expensive therapy is these days? 

I guess an alternate solution could be to name each of them William D. Foote IV ½.  I’m not sure there are Roman numerals for fractions, so I’ll first need to check in to that.  Think about it though, it would not only keep my boys out of therapy, but it would also double the chance for the family name to be carried on another generation if one them has a boy down the road and names him William D. Foote V ½.  I guess if  one, or even both, of my twin boys also had twin boys, that could present a serious problem.  But for now I’m going to file it away as something to address later, especially in light of our most recent visit to the doctor.      

I’m not a trained M.D. by any measure, but the very latest sonogram pictures I saw appear to have only a single critter brewing in there.  If I’m right, that would surely put an end to the twin boys dilemma.  So more or less we are back to whether it is a boy or a girl.  Again, the case is closed on name if we have a boy and we can move right on to the next family deliberation about something important such as what color the crib is supposed to be.  However, if we find out it is going to be a girl, then things get a bit more complex. 

One option would be to name the girl after an extremely admired woman that is either within, or was within one of our two families.  I’m only guessing, but it seems fairly reasonable that other name seeking parents choose that option quite often.  It narrows the field to a few names and paves the way for a quick decision, which is what we need with the crib color and all else looming over us. 

Of course the difficulty with this scenario is when there are several admired women in your present day and also past day families, on both sides of the family no less.  So if there is only one name to hand out, or maybe two for a middle name, we would more or less be forced to grade everyone and select the very best of the bunch.  We have both been lucky enough to have some very terrific women in our lives and upsetting the apple cart by hurting anyone’s feelings is just a bad idea altogether.  So let’s scratch the “naming after” option off the list. 

You would think this naming game would be easier for me than it is.   After all, I’ve taken great pleasure in coming up with names for all three of our dogs.  Essentially, each name is a modified version of some sort of important figure from the past.  One of the names came from mythology.  The next name was selected not only because she was an ancient Greek Princess, but was also a central figure in many of Shakespeare’s writings.  The third name was taken from a famous actress from the 1930’s who was known to be outspoken and a little on the wild side, which “fit to a t” the personality of our new family member.  There is little chance however my wife will allow me to use this same sort of naming premise should we have a baby girl.  No way.  No how.  Even if hell were to indeed freeze over, she would probably still say no.  Nevertheless, I still think it is a creative way to go about things no matter what she thinks, but for now I’ll scratch this method off the list as well.

My mother-in-law used an interesting method in naming my wife and brother-in-law.   That is, she took two somewhat ordinary names, but changed up their spelling to add some uniqueness to them.  On the surface this seems like a pretty good idea, but there are definitely some hidden drawbacks.  One of the main issues is that it causes a tremendous amount of confusion when people need to spell your name, which is quite often over the course of a life.  Correcting these people is not only impolite, but more importantly it sucks up our most precious resource, which is time.

I’ve been with my wife about six years now and I can tell you the mistaken spelling issue occurs all too often.  In isolation, this may not seem like a big deal, but it definitely adds up.  Just imagine for a moment how much time in aggregate will be spent over the course of a life clearing up the spelling confusions.  We are not just talking hours, but more likely days and even weeks.   So while I agree it is quite creative and unique, we need to remember this a competitive world we live in.  The loss in productivity this could create for our child could have serious implications down the road and I just don’t think we should risk that.    

In my opinion, by far the best solution to the name dilemma is to download a “Baby Names” app for my IPhone.  The “iPeriod” application we downloaded and that I have mentioned previously on these pages worked like a charm.  If you recall, that nifty little app helped determine exactly when my wife was ovulating and then let us know exactly when it was time to get busy.  So I figure why not go back to the well and see what it could do about coming up with names.   The “iPeriod” application cost us only 99 cents and the baby names application is also just 99 cents.  I forgot to mention that you don’t even have to pay sales tax when buying these applications, so basically you can figure out how to conceive a child and also what to name it for $1.98.   Case closed, as this nifty little software could help resolve a lot of problems in my opinion.      

With my trusty new “Baby Names” app installed and ready to roll, I was able to search through hundreds of different name recommendations.   For lack of better words, the thing is remarkable.  I cannot begin to tell you how many names are in there that previously I would not have thought of.  After several hours of searching, I came across two names in particular that I really fell in love with and I couldn’t wait to share them with my wife.  

As soon as I saw her, I gave her the good news about my recent research and offered my top two choices.  She told me that she really likes those two names as well, but that they are already taken.  Uhhmmm … what?  What the hell does taken mean?  She proceeded to let me know that two of her friends have children with those same names, so we are not allowed to use them.  Maybe it is just me, but I cannot find a whole lot of logic in allowing the name of someone else’s kids play any role whatsoever in the matter.  I mean, we are only talking about a decision that will impact our first child each and every day for what could be the next 80+ years of their precious life, but instead we will settle for something less because a kid I’ve never even met has already taken our name.  This is a fairly hard concept for me to grasp.   

As I have mentioned in the past, my wife has about a bazillion friends and it’s probably safe to assume that the number of their offspring is well in excess of two bazillion.   This leaves us very few options to choose from and I’m not about to start throwing letters together to come up with some never been heard before name.  This may fly in some ethnicities or cultures, but to me it is altogether a bad idea in our own.    

I guess we could just not name our child, which is an approach my mom uses with many of her dogs.  For example, she has a seven year old Tea Cup Poodle that to this day has no name.  My mom is waiting to become more familiar with its personality prior to settling on something permanent.  Strangely enough, there is a bit of logic to this and better yet, it would put having to deal with the “Name Game” on the backburner for a few years.  That would be one less thing to do in preparation and seems like a pretty solid idea given just how much has to be done.

 I’ll run this option by my wife this evening to see what she says.                          



Baby Memoirs – What About Me?

I may be a bit biased on the matter, but I think I have the best wife in the world.   Among the many (and there are many) reasons I believe this, perhaps the most amazing is how well she understands me.  She knows full well my various eccentricities and handles them all with grace and a certain “monk like” level of patience.  My pet name for her is actually “my sweet, sweet baby” and it couldn’t be more true.  Her pet name for me is that I am her “very complicated creature”.  I’m still wrapping my head around that one, but that’s not the point here.  The point is there is no mistaking she is a natural born caretaker, which of course is significant and great, as we have a baby on the way and it’s been rumored that I am somewhat obstinate and difficult to live with as well.  I am not sure I totally agree with that, but left to my own devices, it has been alleged that my bad habits do indeed run amuck.

It has been said I stay up all night working and/or reading and then am exhausted and grumpy the next day.  I guess that I forget to eat all the time, usually when when I am engrossed in some sort of project, and then all of a sudden get sick and nearly pass out.  I do not take my vitamins when I’m supposed to and purportedly I go weeks without taking out my contact lenses.  Then there are my ever changing moods, which I see no real point to elaborate on.    

I choose to think it is a simple matter of priorities.  I get more work done at night when all is quiet.  Forgetting to eat is not a big deal if the project is important and I have not passed out yet.  A few missed vitamins will not kill me and so long as I can still view the computer screen and see those around me, then taking a “timeout” to clean my contact lenses seems pointless.  The list goes on of course, but I think the point has been made well enough that some of my habits are not perfect, which again, I see no real reason to elaborate on.  After all, this is more about my wife Aubrye and her being pregnant than it is me.   

Among her many wonderful (but also annoying!) traits, Aubrye combats my brigade of so called bad habits with military like precision.   She has made it in all out war to limit aspects of my absurdity and to keep me healthy and happy at all costs.  It’s like a never ending game of Chess between us, and admittedly, she has incurred serious damage on a few of my more errant behaviors and has also kept at bay a few of my others. 

This is not to say I do not win a few of the battles as well.  I have all sorts of carefully planned counter schemes and tactics to defend this absurdity, but by far the biggest hole in her entire strategy is that she goes out of town for business quite frequently and also flies all over the country for her many social retreats.  This leaves me at home and alone for extended periods of time without any sort of authority figure, and I can pretty much undo in 48 hours most of the progress she’s made with me.  She is actually in New York on business right now and for protection purposes, I’m not going to say what time it is that I am writing this.  But again, this is not about me, so let’s go ahead and move on to the rest of the narrative.      

To keep me from passing out, she not only demands that I eat on a schedule, but she also prepares what I eat.  She harasses me about not sleeping and reminds me endlessly to come to bed at a reasonable hour.  She divides up and then leaves out on my bedside the precise amount of vitamins I am supposed to take each day.  She more or less makes me take my contacts out to rest my eyes and then will often clean them for me.  This is all in spite of my protests, which normally are “Not to worry honey; I am good, things are fine as is.  I’m a bit busy with work right now and I’ll make sure and handle tomorrow”.  Of course, she has figured out pretty quickly that this line of “handle tomorrow” means I am buying time to get her off my back until the subject comes up again.     

What is most irritating about all this is that she is fairly crafty in her approach and does not at all come off as the usual nagging wife.  If she did, I could easily get away with more, as I would simply start an argument to get things off topic and go my merry way without her even realizing it.  But I tell you, she is the proverbial Gandhi of wifehood with her passive resistance and endless persistence.  This makes me crazy, as you can’t argue with someone that won’t argue back, and this is especially true when you know that person is right.  Truthfully, I have no clue what I would do without her. 

In addition to her keeping me mostly in line, I absolutely cherish our various daily rituals.  Drinking coffee in bed and making wise cracks about the idiots on the morning news, watching our nightly crime dramas and kibitzing about who killed who and how the murderer could have covered his tracks better (until she falls asleep and I am able to sneak out to work on the computer again).  I also absolutely treasure our mini date nights.  It is the simple things like going to get frozen yogurt with loads of toppings and then spending ten minutes debating which yogurt concoction has the best flavor profile.  Mine are always better by the way.  There is perhaps not anything I enjoy more than going to the mall with her, as we both share a penchant for clothes and can pretty much always con ourselves into buying just one last outfit.  We’ll justify by saying things like “we won’t go out to dinner for the rest of the month” so as to combat the budget deficit incurred by our recent splurges at the mall.  There is an endless list of simple and ever so joyful routines with my wife that I have grown to love.         

In the big picture, it makes my heart sing that a woman this fantastic will be the mother of my future child.  I’ve heard that newborns require a lot of patience and responsibility.  Many of my close friends have recently become fathers.  Each and every one I speak with can attest to the amount of exertion involved with caring for a late stage pregnant wife and then a newborn, and all have this look of “god please help me” on their faces. 

Does that make me nervous?  Yes, a bit.  But I feel comforted knowing Aubrye’s patience, responsibility and caretaking traits are as fail-safe as they come.  After all, I’ve experienced firsthand the level of patience and amount of responsibility that having me as her husband must require.  

It was then that something really weird happened.  Like a voltage bolt in the nuts from a Tazor gun, it was this very realization that sent my head swirling and put me into full panic mode.  That is, how is she going to be able to handle our newborn and still  have time left over for me?   I mean, I am now at the risk of being second fiddle and not only that, but all of our wonderful daily little rituals will be compromised as well.   Despite my feeling blessed beyond comprehension that we have a child on the way, I kept having these despicable and shameful thoughts zooming around in my brain like runaway rail cars.   I kept thinking, what about me? 

I have to ask myself at this point, what sort of horrible and self involved person would actually be thinking thoughts of this nature with a beautiful gift of a baby on the way?  It is simply wrong.  It is not only wrong, but rather really wrong.  I couldn’t be this horrible of a person, could I? 

I mean, even before I came about this recent and very startling second fiddle realization, I had in earnest been trying to step up my game over the past two months.  Aubrye even said so.  I know full well that more and more is going to fall on me as the pregnancy progresses and I am really OK with that.  Never mind  the fact I have no clue how to run the dishwasher and wouldn’t know a clothes iron if it bit me in me in the ass.  In fact, just a few nights ago I actually needed her assistance to find the Pop Tarts in the pantry.  I tend to be a quick learner though, so hopefully locating the Pop Tarts will only be a temporary problem.     

The more I think about it, the more I realize it is not being second fiddle that worries me.  It’s really not that at all; and unfortunately I know it.  Way down deep, beyond my XY chromosome fueled excuses, what really worries me is that I will not be able to take care of my “sweet, sweet, baby” of a wife when she most needs it in the same remarkable and graceful way she has always taken care of me when I’ve most needed it.                       

Baby Memoirs – Thou Shall Not Presume

If I recall, it was a Tuesday morning that my wife came in to wake me with the usual aroma and sight of a coffee cup in hand, but an extremely unusual look on her face.  Despite the morning grogginess, I knew before she opened her mouth, which was confirmed once she did open it, the grocery store pregnancy test had come up positive.  

I have been accused of being a skeptic in the past and admittedly I am not one to “take another’s word” for things very often.   I tend to prefer using my own judgment to draw my own conclusions based on whatever facts are presented.  This is especially true prior to getting myself all worked up about things that carry any sort of significance or importance.  

So it took me all of one minute to jump out of bed to grab the testing device and then rip through the trash to find the box the test came in.  I needed to read for myself what my wife was telling me, which is these tests are 99 percent accurate.  After a bit of deliberation, the obvious next step was to throw on a hat and just enough clothes to disguise the fact I had only woken up four minutes ago, and off I went to the grocery store.   I needed more confirmation than just one $19.99  grocery store device made of plastic would or could provide, so I proceeded to buy four tests, making sure each was from a different manufacturer, just to make certain we were going to get an accurate reading. 

Well, after returning home and four pee’s later, we were now four out of four positive.  So if each test is 99 percent accurate and all four are coming up positive, do you know what the odds are of it being a false positive?  I don’t know either, but I do know they are really damn low. 

Nevertheless, I was still not fully convinced and vowed to keep my emotions in check until we saw the doctor to get  further corroboration.  A doctor would surely know and provide a little certainty for me.   Well, after the blood tests and the vaginal sonogram incident, the doctor pretty well guaranteed we were in fact going to have a baby.   

You’d think I would be totally convinced at this point, but I wasn’t.   It’s not that I do not want to have a baby, it is that I simply cannot believe we are having a baby.  Having a baby is what other people do.  I keep thinking this has to be some sort of perfectly planned joke that everyone but me is in on. 

The whole sonogram bit could easily be explained by a well executed set up.  There could be fake images on the monitor and a few under the table c-notes could easily get a doctor and nurses to play right along.  The pooch in my wife’s belly?  That could also be easily explained by all the leftover Halloween candy she’s been munching on.  Thinking it through a bit further, if the “alleged” due date was in May, this could easily be some sort of prolonged April Fool’s Day prank as well. 

Make no mistake, we already have a fussy baby in the household; it is me.  This is why it just doesn’t seem real that I am going to be fathering something that only has two legs.  I’m already a father of three wonderful but often times difficult four-legged babies, so to speak.  I would walk to the end of the earth for my French Bulldogs and I love them beyond explanation, but they are indeed a decent sized responsibility.  Having a real baby is of course a different ballgame altogether and obviously a far more serious commitment. 

I mean, what sort of hypocrite will I be to tell my kid to eat all five food groups, or brush their teeth before bed, or pay attention in school, or not to drink milk straight from the carton, when I am and/or was a perfect zero out of four on doing those items?   

There is one major hitch with my views and excuses on all this though.  Mainly, it is that I know full well not a single one of my arguments holds any water.  Alone with my thoughts late at night and void of the usual distractions of the day, it’s a bit harder to B.S. when it is only me around to hear it.  Clearly I have been trying to delude myself into believing that my wife being pregnant is somehow still a maybe.   On a much deeper level, I think this deluding comes down to the concept of presumptiveness, which in all seriousness is a subject I have very strong feelings about. 

I’ve learned some extremely tough lessons in both life and business from presuming anything is 100 percent, because I’ve learned that absolutely nothing is.  It’s real simple.  You never count your money until it is in the bank and you never count your chickens before they hatch.  Period.

I am far from being Mr. Shrewd with all of life’s answers, but if there is any single bit of wisdom I’ve taken in from life thus far, it is to never presume anything is guaranteed and to always remain humble when expecting something.   No matter what the circumstance, I know full well there will always be powers above and beyond my immediate control.   

This philosophy is one that I’ve learned to live by and it makes a good deal of sense to me, which is not to mention it has a major secondary benefit.  That is, it serves as a very worthy self protection mechanism to cushion the blows of the inevitable disappointments life seems to deal out so freely.  Very few people in this world, if any at all, are exempt from this universal truth.   I think what I am trying to say is; if anything were to go wrong with the pregnancy or birth of my child, it would rip my heart to shreds in a manner that is beyond fathom.       

Many will say that to even consider something could go wrong is nothing short of a crime and displays a total lack of faith.  I am by no means a pessimist and am also a huge believer of the power of positive thinking, just so long as it does not come at the rose-colored expense of realistic thinking.  The language I understand best is one of percentages and I am quite aware that the probability of all going well is quite high.    

I know others may not process or see things in this same kind of way, and I also know others may disagree with my perspective; neither of which would be a first time occurrence.  But in my way of thinking, being able to take part in having a baby is a gift rather than a right.  I do not want, and will not ever, take for granted or presume this gift has already been received.  So for now, I can say only that I know the odds are in my favor and they are getting better each and every day.   I do my best to take some measure of comfort in knowing this.         



Baby Memoirs – Our 10 Week Doctor Visit

Well, off I went to the doctor’s office with my wife Aubrye for our 10 week pregnancy check up.  Upon arriving the junior nurse led us into the exam room and said the Head Nurse will be right in.  Mind you, this was my very first gynecology appointment, so of course I am feeling a bit uneasy and out of place.  I mean, am I supposed to sit down?  If so, which chair am I supposed to sit in?  The one with wheels or the one with upholstery?  Perhaps I am not supposed to sit down at all, but rather stand in the corner?  Am I supposed to go back out to the waiting room once the stir ups are broken out?  It’s all a bit confusing to tell you the truth.  

The fact the appointment was first thing in the morning did not help matters at all, as I knew I had several urgent emails that I needed to tend to.  Being the ever prescient businessman, I brought along my iPad so I could process emails while we were waiting.  Unfortunately, this decision seemed to set the tone for the rest of our visit, as the moment Miss Baby Authority walks in to the room she says with a condescending tone; “oh, that looks like fun”.  I was a bit puzzled at the comment for a second until I realized she thought I had a “Game Boy” in my hand and I was playing some sort of a video game. 

My guess is Father’s To Be do not garner much attention or respect at this stage of the game, but any credibility I may have had just flew right out the door and back into the waiting room.  The next time Nurse T. (as we’ll call her) bothered to address me, she told me to stand in the corner and I could be in charge of the light switch.   Well, at least I knew where to stand now. 

I was told going in that we were there for a sonogram.  I’ve seen sonograms on TV and it all looked straightforward and harmless enough for me to agree to attend, without the need for any major sedatives no less.  After all, it is a sonogram.  There is this little device that gets rubbed over the belly, the fetus shows up on the monitor and the husband and wife start cooing with amazement.  I’m definitely down with that.   No problem. 

What nobody bothered to tell me is this was a “vaginal probe sonogram”.   Let’s just say the shape and sheer size of the lubed up device were more than a bit startling.  So if I was feeling a bit anxious before, I was now feeling anxious and totally inadequate as well.  I quickly gathered myself and realized I was not there for a competition, but rather something much more important.   It was me and only me that was in charge of the light switch and I was not about to screw that up.  Besides, it was the perfect opportunity to show Nurse T. that I am not just a video game playing mascot here passing time with some girl I knocked up.  I am the future father damn it. 

I got the OK from Nurse T. on flipping the lights off and I’m proud to say they went off without a hitch.  The monitor goes on and Aubrye and Nurse T. immediately start cooing and jabbering about all the stuff I guess they are supposed to be discussing at 10 weeks.  My being relegated to the corner did not offer quite as clear of look as they had, but it was definitely enough to reaffirm we do in fact have a baby on the way.  It was surreal and it was exciting.  My wife Aubrye asked “what do you think?”.  With the crooked grin she has seen a million times before, I said “oh my god, I think I am going to pass out.”  Well, by the glare Nurse T. stared me down with, you’d think I had just passed gas or something.  Is there some sort of handbook I should have read prior to coming in here I wondered?   Despite executing the light switch perfectly, I was clearly becoming an annoyance to her. 

I was finally allowed to get closer to the screen to take a better look and there is no mistaking a little baby complete with ever so tiny arms and legs, somewhat of plump tummy (which was a bit disconcerting) and a large alien like head was in there clear as day.  Astonishing and amazing for sure.  I was almost speechless to tell you the truth.   But not totally speechless, as I said “look honey, it looks just like you.”  Oops, Nurse T. was for sure going to toss me out this time I thought.  

But get a load of this; every wise crack I made that produced a snicker out of my beautiful, and ever so patient Aubrye, served to get the little bugger on the TV screen to move and switch positions trying to find a comfy resting spot.  I could actually see the baby moving!  Oh my god … I could hardly believe what I was witnessing.   I thought to myself; I am legendary for moving around and switching positions all night when searching for a comfy spot to sleep as well.   What a proud realization came over me.  Yep, it looks like I am going to be a father.             

Baby Memoirs - Danger: Baby Making and Your Life Changing Forever is Highly Probable

For a long while now, my wife and I have been extremely excited about the prospects of starting a family.  Our time frame has been “in the not too distant future” for about two years or so.   The key term of course being “future”, which is a ballpark generalization comforting enough to keep me excited about the concept without any sort of corresponding anxiety on the matter. 

Well, just very recently, we have decided that the “future” is now.  It is now for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is father-time bearing down on our mid-thirties age range.  Our ultimate desire to have more than just one child would seem to validate further this “future is now” timeframe.  

I’d like to put it out on the table that I am very committed to going about the “having a baby” process the right way,  but let me also say, it’s all a bit weird in my opinion.   In addition to the $70 per bottle vitamins my wife has been ordered to take by the baby making authorities, my wife has also just downloaded an iPhone App named “iPeriod”.  This nifty little thing more or less is supposed to let us know the exact days my wife will be ovulating.  Setting aside the fact I do not really know what ovulating means, I went ahead and filled out my own calendar according to the instructions provided by this magical $0.99 cell phone application. 

At this point I was actually feeling pretty good about my emotional progress and overall commitment to the team.  In fact, I was very much looking forward to my wife seeing how on top of things I was when filling her in on my handy calendar work.   Her response has not been quite as I had hoped though, mainly because she happened to catch a peek when my calendar alert popped up and saw it was labeled in bold red letters as; “Danger: baby making and your life changing forever highly likely!”.  

Yes, I have a few issues still needing to be worked through regarding all this.   I’ll get there though.              

My Dog Argo Just Set Up A Twitter Page

There is simply no getting around the rising popularity of Twitter these days.  It is a pop-culture Tour-de- Force, as everyone from Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton to Joe the plumber are now Tweeting.  To be sure, Twitter has gone well past just “Generation Y” and has made it all the way to mass media appeal.  ESPN, the local news, celebrities, athletes, your neighbors; they are all tweeting like canaries on a meth binge. 

For the uninitiated, Twitter allows you to set up your own page and then send out short messages throughout the day that announce what you are thinking or doing.  Similar to Facebook, the best way to get people on your Twitter “followers” list is by going and “following” them on their list.  This reciprocal altruism to further one’s own cause is Darwinism at its finest and who wants to be left out of that?  No sir, not me I tell you.         

As I recently shared on these pages, I am now a bonafide “Facebooker” and can talk the social media game with the best of them .   But truth be told, this confident exterior I put on may be nothing more than a front masking some of my much deeper social media insecurities, as I’ve been extremely apprehensive about launching my own page. 

Aside from not being particularly social, my philosophy has always been: “it is none of my business what you are thinking or doing, which in turn makes it none of your business to know what I am doing or thinking.”   This simple rule has served me well for 35 years and abandoning it now would be like waking up tomorrow and brushing my hair with my left hand, and I am not left handed.   It is not natural and I am extremely unsure of what the final result will be.   But then again, maybe this is just the self doubt talking.  A few positive affirmations in the mirror later, I realized  this is a new Social Media World we live in and I’d better get into it, or just get out altogether.   So if Sarah Palin is going to Tweet, well I am going to as well. 

I’ve had a very difficult time understanding the appeal of Twitter for quite some time now, but after setting up my page and surfing around reading other people’s pages, I can find a certain amount of logic for celebrities or anyone else in the public eye to be using Twitter.  In a nutshell, it allows them to interact directly with their fans, and/or the public at large, without the tainted smell of the media skunking things up.  I can also see how hot mega brands like Apple or Starbucks could use Twitter, as it is a perfect platform to engage customers with things like new product launches and company news.  And again, no media to hassle with.        

But Twitter of course is not just for the famous and super cool; it is for everyone else too.  Whether it be Sally the receptionist or Frank from down the street, everyone has a voice on Twitter.  It’s not just Jet Blue and Whole Foods Tweeting about business either, as companies of all sizes and in all industries are Tweeting now.   From the front cover to the back cover of the Yellow Pages, everyone is able to Tweet.   Just a few hours ago I saw  Rick Dickert, who is the morning news guy in the helicopter that reports traffic jams and car chases, is sending out Tweets.  I know Tweeting while driving in California is illegal because of the new no-texting rule, but I bet helicopters skirt that law altogether.  What a comforting thought.   But I digress.    

To be real honest, what’s made me nervous from the beginning about Twitter is figuring out what I am going to tweet about?  It’s nearly impossible to get someone to listen undivided when sitting face to face at cocktail hour, so how in the heck am I supposed to keep all my future Twitter friends interested in reading my Tweets?  I could not escape this sinking feeling that my Twitter page was going to be a flop. 

After thinking about it for a while, I decided that maybe I am not the one to be Tweeting.  Argo, my 12 year old French Bulldog, seems to garner all sorts of interest just about anywhere I take him.  People absolutely adore Argo.  He is quite social, extremely funny and despite a gray hair or two is still pretty handsome for his age.  So I thought who better to have a Twitter page than Argo. 

What you need to understand about Argo is that he keeps it pretty real.   He is not the type that will prostitute his Twitter page by embellishing or trying to be something more than he is.  He would never think of Tweeting to fit in or because everyone is saying it is the cool thing to do.  No, that is just not his style.  Argo tweets sleep and Argo tweets poop.  Argo tweets sleep again and Argo tweets belly rubbing, followed by eating and/or begging for food that he can eat, another poop and sleep, along with a few farts mixed in between. 

I am absolutely convinced that people must love his candor though, as he is getting more and more followers by the day.  Here I sat all cynical at first thinking people are only interested in themselves and that nobody would ever take the time to read someone else’s tweets.   This is a new Social Media world we are in where everyone is interested in everyone, and they are all reading each other’s tweets rather than just their own.  Aren’t they???