I'm not sharing my Legos

When I was 10 or so, I was furious that my dad had thrown out his entire collection of Mad magazines upon reaching adulthood. I was obsessed with it and mourned being unable to read back issues from the 60s and 70s.

Now that I reflect on what a crappy magazine it really was, I don't blame him. In fact, I think I threw out my collection too.

A couple relics from my childhood remain, but if my kid thinks she's getting them, then she's got another thing coming. My Legos are mine.

Did I say relic? I should clarify. My name is Dan, and I've sort of rediscovered Legos.

Hiiii Dan.

Shut up. They're vehicles, okay? Sweet vehicles. I can picture Julie tonight: "I thought I told you not to write anything embarrassing on that blog."

So anyway, today for some reason my brain is skipping over the next two trimesters of pregnancy, skipping all the diaper changing, skipping all the important moments like walking and talking, all the way to when our son or daughter turns to their mother and says, "Mommy, why won't Daddy let me play with his Legos?"

"Because he's a man-child, honey. Eat your peas."

Dream

The best advice we've gotten is to avoid doing too much research. Some expectant couples come home every day and Google things like "babies born with spiked tails" and work themselves into a tizzy.

I think it's tougher if you're the woman, the one who is actually with child. How can you avoid becoming neurotic? The man can help. Like, don't call the fetus "alien spawn." I totally do not do that anymore.

This morning, Julie woke up from a bad dream. The baby had arrived, normal and healthy. She had just finished feeding it, when all of a sudden it transformed into our dog, Daisy.

You might be chuckling now, but imagine this...


suddenly changing to this...


See, now you're gasping in horror.

When she woke up, she wasn't shrieking in a pool of sweat or anything like that, but she had the profound feeling of relief you get at the moment you realize it was all just a dream.

Meanwhile, Daisy had the same dream, and it was the best one she'd ever had.

Names

At Julie's ultrasound in June, we plan to learn the sex of the child. That is, unless the little imp decides to moon us rather than flash us. Once we know, or are almost certain, or have a general hunch, the great name debate will begin.

Currently, our dog Tulip is the most compelling predictor that I will have no say whatsoever. "You got to name the mutt, so I get to name the kid" will not stand, of course, but I'll give it a shot anyway.

I already feel as though Julie has first say on the middle name, since she took my last name when we married--though anybody who knows us would agree that my last name is more aesthetically pleasing than her maiden name. I'm just saying.

I'm in trouble with my in-laws now, aren't I.

Anyhow, I'll at least demand approval rights on all first names, being that I'm a teacher and all. I mean think about it: I've known several thousand teenagers. If you've ever gotten below a C in my class, we're officially not naming our kid after you. Sorry. In life, there are consequences.

But I do like the suggestions we've gotten. My favorite so far is Aquaman. As stated by a gentleman in period 3 (whose name was eliminated in 2001), if we put the kid on the swim team, then during meets the announcer will say, "In lane four is Aquaman." And the other kids will just quit. Genius.

Maybe it's better that I'll have no say whatsoever.

Bovine renaissance

For the last 18 months or so, Julie devoted herself to a strict dietary code. Well, not as strict as vegan, or even vegetarian, and certainly not as militant as fruitarian. But strict. She was off cow.

It was something about the environmental impact of McDonald's hamburgers (which come from cows, allegedly) being greater than the weight of the actual burgers. Sheesh, people, it's the rain forests! Didn't you watch An Inconvenient Truth? If you eat red meat, your carbon footprint is like one of Shaquille O'Neal's steel-toed Sorels.

So one day Julie put on her best Al Gore stern face and proclaimed that she would eat red meat no more. And worldwide, cows rejoiced.

The other day, however, our friends Claire and Ethan, parents of a two-month-old charmer named William, served us French-dip roast beef sandwiches with Boar's Head roast beef, otherwise known as the good stuff. Without a bang, a whimper, or even a shrug, Julie was back on cow. We didn't even mention it to them. They'll read here, for the first time, that their serpentine hands offered this forbidden beef from the bovine of knowledge.

I would like to publicly thank them. Seriously. Pregnancy is not a good time to be off cow. Last night, Julie ordered an Angus beef cheeseburger and devoured it like a champ. She's back. Let the cows cower.

Battle of the aunties

My mom has called me at least four times to change the name she wants the baby to call her. First it was Granny, then Nana, and now I think it's something like Gaga or Granshnookins. It must be exciting for her to anticipate her first grandchild calling out to her: "Gimme anoder goat food, Gran Gran," and everyone at the petting zoo giving a collective, admiring "Awwww."

What's really going on with the phone calls, though, is jockeying for position. My mom doesn't want Julie's mom to dibs the best grandma name and leave her with "Other Gamma" or some other inferior name. I think the two grandmas will be equal favorites, especially when Julie and I call them both "Grandma." It's the mom and dad that decide names, after all, not the grandmas.

But if you've read the comments in my last post, you see another battle brewing. Julie's sisters both think that they will be the favorite auntie. I think it'll be a tie...if they're lucky. Anybody who's ever seen my sister Lori interact with a child should take notes.

What happens when it's just you and the pre-verbal progeny?

Last night I got home from parent-teacher conferences at around 8:30. There was Julie at her computer, WORKING! My calming influence only affects her when I'm in the room, you see, so in my absence she had descended into a productivity spiral.

But what happens during those first 6-16 weeks of motherhood when she's home with no career-related work to do? I mean think about that. For those weeks, she won't be involved with project plans, status updates, or even with speaking to the pricing team about overcoming career roadblocks. No brand image. No E's of Excellence. Just...mommy stuff.

So she'll be occupied with feeding and wiping the baby, teaching it multiplication tables, taking it to t-ball practice, and all that. And oh yes, sleeping. But will that be enough to keep her happy until I get home each day? Doesn't it all get monotonous after awhile? Won't she go cRaZy?

Hey, could I use these concerns to convince her that we need--that she needs--a 50+ inch LCD TV?

Someday

Julie's mom knits, crochets, sews, basically engages in any activity that involves using sticks to turn yarn into blankets or quilts or afghans or whatever. When she serves spaghetti, it looks like a little noodle sweater with sauce on top. She calls it sweaterghetti, and...okay, that last part was a lie. You get the picture, though.

So Julie's mom and dad have spent the last 10 years or so with three daughters, all of a child-bearin' age, and nary a grandchild to show for it. You can imagine their reaction when, at a picnic table in the middle of a Wisconsin order-at-the-counter barbecue joint with various animal heads on the wall, we announced we were expecting.

Let me back up a second. Here's how we did it. Julie took out two balls of yarn and handed them to her mom.

"What's this all about?"
"So you can knit booties for your grandchild."

I'll leave the details of their reaction to your imagination. After lunch, we went back to their house, and the soon-to-be grandma hauled a gigantic garbage bag up from the basement. In it were blankets, quilts, afghans, etc., all baby-themed, that she had already created, thinking "Someday."

Kick me

I know pregnant women sometimes complain that people feel compelled to just walk up and touch their stomachs. It's as if growing a kid in there suddenly makes that part of their body accessible to the public, like interactive art or the railing of an escalator.

My wife isn't far enough along to show, but this summer when she takes the light-rail to work, I'm sure she'll come home with stories of little grannies (or worse) who decided they wanted to feel the fetus kick.

If I'm ever present when it happens, they might subsequently feel my kick.

But what I get to deal with are stories at work from formerly pregnant women. Maybe it's the sign I wear around my neck that says, "Talk about your labor while I'm eating lunch. Make it as grody as possible."

It's like suddenly I'm showing.

Me Make Baby Oof Oof

My first reaction was not unlike George Costanza's: "My boys can swim!" Then I grunted and flexed my nonexistent biceps.

Now I'm just trying to keep the woman fed. In the morning it's egg sandwiches, yogurt and granola, or most recently, bagels and honey nut cream cheese. I wake up before she does, so I become like a quarterback (a grunting, manly quarterback), handing off breakfast to her as she plods from the bed to the living room couch.

It's an extraordinary feat of timing, really. I can see why botched hand-offs usually result in fumbles.

One thing I've figured out, though, is that if I match her bite for bite, I will end up looking pregnant, too.

The little dude (or dudette) is only an inch or two long, but it has a beating heart, which we saw last Wednesday. Kind of doubting whether that little translucent jelly bean will morph into a person, but the doctors claim this has happened once or twice before.

Last night I bought the Juno DVD...