Like I'd talk about that, you pervs.
My sister-in-law Jen and her boyfriend Jason had a barbecue tonight. Our friends Claire and Ethan came with William, their three-month-old.
William is like a football with limbs and a head, the perfect size to chill with on your lap while eating a kabob. I pondered stealing him, but where would we go?
I'm excited to learn the sex of our child. We need a pronoun to use besides it. Then again, you always hear about the parents whose doctor says it'll be a girl, but months later out pops a boy. So the boy has to sleep in a pink crib and wear pink onesies. When he learns to talk he says, "Mama, why pink?"
"Well Billy, because your manhood was so small and underdeveloped during the ultrasound, everyone thought you were a girl."
And then issues, ladies and gentlemen. Lots of issues. So I'm excited to learn the sex, but I hope the ultrasound is one of those without-a-doubt ultrasounds, like "My GOODNESS, you're having a boy."
Not that I'm dead-set on a boy. Sure, I want a little football baby like William, but I'd take a little princess, too, a daddy's girl whose boyfriends would fear me--because I'll tell you what I'll do on June 13th if we find out it's a girl. I'll start lifting weights. Seriously. If it's a girl, I'm bulking up so all the boys in her class know what's what.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Friday, May 30, 2008
Deer
Forgive our weird wall design. Look at that mama!
We ate at this authentic Spanish restaurant called El Meson with my sisters-in-law and their husbands. (One is not a husband yet, but it's easier to pluralize "husband" than say "the one's husband and the other's boyfriend." They should get married and make it easier for everyone to conserve words.)
It's fun to show off Julie. Opening greetings, previously "Hey, how's it going?" become "Can I touch it?" and that's just crazy. Of course the sisters have free reign to touch the belly whenever they please, but their husboy-men are understandably more tentative.
"It feels like a deer belly," said Jodie's husband Matt, thereby winning the quote of the night award. Now I'm pondering a line of maternity summer tanks with "It feels like a deer belly" printed across the torso. I could sell them at Cabela's.
In lieu of dragging Julie to Indiana Jones afterward (my birthday, my movie), I opted for a rain check because, well, I wanted to play with my presents. You only turn four once, you know.
I'll make Bambi take me to a matinee tomorrow.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Berfday
I turn 29 tomorrow and expect the following voicemail from my mom:
"Hi Dan! Just wanted to let you know that 29 years ago on this day, I gave birth to you. It sucked. You were worth it, though."
It's birthday tradition, and we'll start a similar tradition once our kid turns one. "Listen, you drooling little ball of stink. I don't know if you're aware of how many batches of hashbrowns and trips to Noodles and Company I made for your mother while she was knocked up with you, but let's say you make me breakfast and we'll call it not remotely close to even."
And then Julie can be like, "You made me want to vomit constantly, and now all you do is spit up constantly, which is like milk-vomit, which also makes me want to vomit. I know you can't talk yet, but I'll be expecting an apology the moment you can."
Birthdays really aren't about you, you know. They're about the hardship your parents endured to bring you here. They're about the anniversary of the day when you made your mother scream in agony and your father feel pathetic and helpless next to her. So happy birthday, Mom and Dad. My sincere apologies.
"Hi Dan! Just wanted to let you know that 29 years ago on this day, I gave birth to you. It sucked. You were worth it, though."
It's birthday tradition, and we'll start a similar tradition once our kid turns one. "Listen, you drooling little ball of stink. I don't know if you're aware of how many batches of hashbrowns and trips to Noodles and Company I made for your mother while she was knocked up with you, but let's say you make me breakfast and we'll call it not remotely close to even."
And then Julie can be like, "You made me want to vomit constantly, and now all you do is spit up constantly, which is like milk-vomit, which also makes me want to vomit. I know you can't talk yet, but I'll be expecting an apology the moment you can."
Birthdays really aren't about you, you know. They're about the hardship your parents endured to bring you here. They're about the anniversary of the day when you made your mother scream in agony and your father feel pathetic and helpless next to her. So happy birthday, Mom and Dad. My sincere apologies.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Rounded
I've been obsessing over TV stands. I wanted something sleek, something that radiated the same level of awesomeness that I radiate.
The problem is that most of them are clearly not intended for babies. Very few babies buy TV stands; the target market is somewhat older. Still, the TV stand companies should consider that their target market might include soon-to-be fathers. Then again, how many soon-to-be fathers do you know who make electronics display their first spending priority?
I radiate awesomeness. I can't help it.
Finally, I found one that fits all my specifications. It also looks pretty, a requirement that Julie has. I'm all about the power, you see, and Julie wants nice cup holders.
What I'm really excited about, though, and what makes this post somewhat relevant on a pregnancy blog, is the fact that I found one with rounded edges. This way, when Baby inevitably uses the stand as a walking aid and trips, Baby will only become slightly injured, not utterly maimed like I was as a child. I still have the small yet incredibly hardcore scar just below my left knee (right knee?) to prove it.
By the way, Julie is feeling better. My hypothesis is turkey sausage. In fact, don't you feel a little nauseated just reading it? Imagine being pregnant. I won't be feeding her turkey (gag) sausage again. Or it could have been something else. Still, she's feeling better. For now. It's possible, incidentally, that the new TV stand will answer all of her problems. At least if she has to bend over to vomit while she's standing next to it, she won't hit her head on anything sharp.
The problem is that most of them are clearly not intended for babies. Very few babies buy TV stands; the target market is somewhat older. Still, the TV stand companies should consider that their target market might include soon-to-be fathers. Then again, how many soon-to-be fathers do you know who make electronics display their first spending priority?
I radiate awesomeness. I can't help it.
Finally, I found one that fits all my specifications. It also looks pretty, a requirement that Julie has. I'm all about the power, you see, and Julie wants nice cup holders.
What I'm really excited about, though, and what makes this post somewhat relevant on a pregnancy blog, is the fact that I found one with rounded edges. This way, when Baby inevitably uses the stand as a walking aid and trips, Baby will only become slightly injured, not utterly maimed like I was as a child. I still have the small yet incredibly hardcore scar just below my left knee (right knee?) to prove it.
By the way, Julie is feeling better. My hypothesis is turkey sausage. In fact, don't you feel a little nauseated just reading it? Imagine being pregnant. I won't be feeding her turkey (gag) sausage again. Or it could have been something else. Still, she's feeling better. For now. It's possible, incidentally, that the new TV stand will answer all of her problems. At least if she has to bend over to vomit while she's standing next to it, she won't hit her head on anything sharp.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Sicky
I've been reading up on second trimester nausea. It could be the iron content in her prenatal vitamins. It could be something she ate. It could just be bad luck.
Regardless, it sucks.
Regardless, it sucks.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Epiphany
We live on a quiet suburban road. You'd be tempted to play street hockey on it, shouting "Car!" and then "Game on!" every hour or so.
A kid across the street is trying to fly a kite as I type this. It's a serious kite, too, like a bi-plane with three wings, so I guess a tri-plane. His sister's on one of those Razor scooters that serve as yet another reminder that toys are better now than when I was a kid.
I'm tempted to shout out my window at her that she should be wearing a helmet. And I'm also tempted to run out there and explain to her brother the dangers of power lines and the overall unlikelihood that he'll get this kite up just by running up and down the street. He should jog over to the middle school, where they have enough open space for a kite festival--in fact they have one there every summer.
Oops, I wasn't looking closely. The little girl is wearing a helmet. Now I'd like to go compliment her parents. But then of course remind them of kite-flying best practices.
In other words, I think I'm starting to think like a dad.
A kid across the street is trying to fly a kite as I type this. It's a serious kite, too, like a bi-plane with three wings, so I guess a tri-plane. His sister's on one of those Razor scooters that serve as yet another reminder that toys are better now than when I was a kid.
I'm tempted to shout out my window at her that she should be wearing a helmet. And I'm also tempted to run out there and explain to her brother the dangers of power lines and the overall unlikelihood that he'll get this kite up just by running up and down the street. He should jog over to the middle school, where they have enough open space for a kite festival--in fact they have one there every summer.
Oops, I wasn't looking closely. The little girl is wearing a helmet. Now I'd like to go compliment her parents. But then of course remind them of kite-flying best practices.
In other words, I think I'm starting to think like a dad.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Mu Mu = No No
Some maternity shirts try to hide the pregnancy in a parachute of material. Some are tighter, encouraging the woman to get down with her hot pregnant self.
I think Julie looks better in the second type of shirt. Now that she's beginning to show more, she's entering the stage of Pregnant Hottie. And that means new clothes. The maternity section of Baby Gap is OK. They at least have a nice chair for me to sit in. Oh, is that chair for pregnant women? Anyway...
Target's maternity section is apparently highly regarded, but I'm not seeing it. Julie hasn't had any luck there, but at least the electronics are nearby, giving me something to do.
But really, she's still flirting with the whole wardrobe switcheroo. I feel like we're approaching the tipping point, where all of a sudden we'll spend hundreds of dollars each weekend on maternity chic. It's coming: there's lightning on the horizon and faint sounds of thunder.
At least when it hits, I won't have to try too hard to keep her away from the parachutes.
I think Julie looks better in the second type of shirt. Now that she's beginning to show more, she's entering the stage of Pregnant Hottie. And that means new clothes. The maternity section of Baby Gap is OK. They at least have a nice chair for me to sit in. Oh, is that chair for pregnant women? Anyway...
Target's maternity section is apparently highly regarded, but I'm not seeing it. Julie hasn't had any luck there, but at least the electronics are nearby, giving me something to do.
But really, she's still flirting with the whole wardrobe switcheroo. I feel like we're approaching the tipping point, where all of a sudden we'll spend hundreds of dollars each weekend on maternity chic. It's coming: there's lightning on the horizon and faint sounds of thunder.
At least when it hits, I won't have to try too hard to keep her away from the parachutes.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Not handy
My dad hardly ever pays someone for a service he can figure out how to do himself. He's like MacGyver without the mullet, which is to say that he's almost as cool as MacGyver. For example, rather than call a tow truck to haul away his finally-dead Corolla with 220,000 miles on it, he dragged it behind another car. With a rope.
I was the guy steering the Corolla. It was totally awesome.
There's a certain admiration a son has when he can watch his dad under the hood of a car, pounding and cranking willy-nilly, and then roaring the engine to life. Or this: my dad invented a top-secret garage opener. I'd tell you how it works, but then I'd have to kill you.
The handy gene occasionally skips a generation, however, and I'm worried that it skipped mine. If we happen to have a son, I'll have to bone up on hose clamps and socket wrenches. I don't want to have to sit my son down and say, "This is who we call when a light bulb goes out," or "It's going to be really expensive for the man to fix our toilet, so you won't be getting a Christmas present this year."
Today my dad had a sailboat race (you read that right), so I took our hopeless lawn mower to the hardware store and learned it would take weeks to fix it if I left it with them. After I described the problem ("It, uh, doesn't start"), this 70-year-old guy said, "Well, I'm gonna save ya about 80 bucks, sonny," and handed me this bottle of mower go-juice or something and told me to siphon out the gas and then "splash a little of it" into the new gas.
When I signed the credit card slip (total of $11 for the magic juice and siphon), he was amused by my illegible signature. "Don't worry, sonny. I'm not gonna show this to anyone."
Later, the siphon introduced me to the wonderful taste of old gasoline, but then the serum worked: the mower started. If we have a son, he'll just have to endure his dad getting teased by the old hardware store guys every time something breaks and Grandpa's busy.
I was the guy steering the Corolla. It was totally awesome.
There's a certain admiration a son has when he can watch his dad under the hood of a car, pounding and cranking willy-nilly, and then roaring the engine to life. Or this: my dad invented a top-secret garage opener. I'd tell you how it works, but then I'd have to kill you.
The handy gene occasionally skips a generation, however, and I'm worried that it skipped mine. If we happen to have a son, I'll have to bone up on hose clamps and socket wrenches. I don't want to have to sit my son down and say, "This is who we call when a light bulb goes out," or "It's going to be really expensive for the man to fix our toilet, so you won't be getting a Christmas present this year."
Today my dad had a sailboat race (you read that right), so I took our hopeless lawn mower to the hardware store and learned it would take weeks to fix it if I left it with them. After I described the problem ("It, uh, doesn't start"), this 70-year-old guy said, "Well, I'm gonna save ya about 80 bucks, sonny," and handed me this bottle of mower go-juice or something and told me to siphon out the gas and then "splash a little of it" into the new gas.
When I signed the credit card slip (total of $11 for the magic juice and siphon), he was amused by my illegible signature. "Don't worry, sonny. I'm not gonna show this to anyone."
Later, the siphon introduced me to the wonderful taste of old gasoline, but then the serum worked: the mower started. If we have a son, he'll just have to endure his dad getting teased by the old hardware store guys every time something breaks and Grandpa's busy.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Nature
We had dinner this evening with one of Julie's former coworkers and her husband. Their kids are six and three and probably the coolest kids worldwide. The six-year-old is a democrat, knows everything about dinosaurs and presidents (and likely realizes McCain is a dinosaur), and he writes books in his spare time. The three-year-old wants to do everything her brother does, and she has the dramatic talent to one day perform on a major stage.
When I was little, on the other hand, all I ever did was bounce a tennis ball off the garage door. Guests would ask my parents, "What's exciting with little Daniel these days?"
"Did you see the marks on the garage door? Our son made those marks."
"Anything [thunk] else?"
So what makes a kid who they are? I know, I know: some combination of nature and nurture. Our dinner companions tonight are the real deal when it comes to parenting, but certainly they got lucky too.
But will we? I mean, there are tons of movies about normal parents whose kid is a psychopath. And they all say they're "based on a true story." I have this irrational, almost-midnight fear that we'll become the true story.
"So what's little [insert name] up to?"
"Um, you're going to want to duck now."
When I was little, on the other hand, all I ever did was bounce a tennis ball off the garage door. Guests would ask my parents, "What's exciting with little Daniel these days?"
"Did you see the marks on the garage door? Our son made those marks."
"Anything [thunk] else?"
So what makes a kid who they are? I know, I know: some combination of nature and nurture. Our dinner companions tonight are the real deal when it comes to parenting, but certainly they got lucky too.
But will we? I mean, there are tons of movies about normal parents whose kid is a psychopath. And they all say they're "based on a true story." I have this irrational, almost-midnight fear that we'll become the true story.
"So what's little [insert name] up to?"
"Um, you're going to want to duck now."
Thursday, May 22, 2008
No reason and certainly no rhyme
The following items appeared on the Target list today:
Macaroni and cheese
Hash browns
Orange face scrub
Orange toothpaste
Oranges
Anybody noticing a theme? She also eats a lot of carrots. And Cheetos.
And her stomach is looking a bit pumpkinish lately...
This weekend, she wants to go outside and get some sun.
Are we having an orange baby?
Macaroni and cheese
Hash browns
Orange face scrub
Orange toothpaste
Oranges
Anybody noticing a theme? She also eats a lot of carrots. And Cheetos.
And her stomach is looking a bit pumpkinish lately...
This weekend, she wants to go outside and get some sun.
Are we having an orange baby?
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Progress
I think there's something in there. A friend of ours is two months more pregnant than Julie is, and that baby has become a kickboxer. Julie isn't feeling anything yet, but she's entering that noticeable stage. Amazing, I tell you. She wears pregnancy like it's couture.
The cravings are mutating, though. Yesterday at 6:00 in the morning, I drove to McDonald's for a McSausage McEgg McBiscuit or whatever. I'm McWhipped, yes. Only I got home to discover that the savvy motivated drive-through employee had placed the incorrect sandwich in the bag.
It was an Egg McMuffin: ham instead of sausage and English muffin instead of biscuit, a favorite breakfast treat just one month ago. But yesterday, it nearly caused a tearful meltdown. Julie was upset about it, too.
Of course, I tell this story to the women at work, and they're like "Well you didn't check the bag?" Which illustrates a point I made a couple weeks ago: the husband is always wrong.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Belly
Julie's mom sent her the following email today:
Clearly this woman wants me dead.
"Julie? Juuuuulie? Lift your shirt, honey. It's Tuesday and time for the weekly picture for your mom's pregnancy flip-book. Auuuuuuugh! My eye! You yanked it directly from my socket! Now you're eating it!? My God. My disgust at this moment trumps my excruciating pain."
Here's a little something for the baby book.
I know, I have an amazing physique. And that sweater. I'm man-pretty.
I'll post a current photo of Julie in a day or so, after I sedate her with a McDonald's Sausage Biscuit.
Could you please have Dan take pictures of you every week now (from the side - shots of your baby belly), and e-mail them to me:?? I am saving his blog and I would save the photos too -- for the baby book!
Love, Mom:)
Clearly this woman wants me dead.
"Julie? Juuuuulie? Lift your shirt, honey. It's Tuesday and time for the weekly picture for your mom's pregnancy flip-book. Auuuuuuugh! My eye! You yanked it directly from my socket! Now you're eating it!? My God. My disgust at this moment trumps my excruciating pain."
Here's a little something for the baby book.
I know, I have an amazing physique. And that sweater. I'm man-pretty.
I'll post a current photo of Julie in a day or so, after I sedate her with a McDonald's Sausage Biscuit.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Shoes
"Would you rather be called Jabba the Julie, or Julie the Hutt?"
"Jabba the Julie, maybe?"
Yesterday I dragged Jabba the Julie off the couch and made her take a walk with me. Part of this dragging involved putting shoes on her. Have you ever put a shoe on another person's foot? You feel like you're going to snap it off. Then after a few unsuccessful seconds, you fantasize about snapping it off. Finally, it makes an unlikely sloop sound and it's on.
In a few months, she won't be able to bend over to tie her shoes. Then later she won't be able to see whether she's even wearing shoes. And that'll be absolutely hilarious.
I almost bought baby shoes the other day. It was an ultimately flawed mother-to-be gift, like "Hey honey, put these supercute baby Birkenstocks on your desk at work."
"But feet are disgusting," she would have said.
"Yes, but these are for lovely baby feet that do not even exist yet," I would have replied.
"So you got me sandals for grody womb feet."
That would've been trouble. The bad production of Swan Lake was much better.
"Jabba the Julie, maybe?"
Yesterday I dragged Jabba the Julie off the couch and made her take a walk with me. Part of this dragging involved putting shoes on her. Have you ever put a shoe on another person's foot? You feel like you're going to snap it off. Then after a few unsuccessful seconds, you fantasize about snapping it off. Finally, it makes an unlikely sloop sound and it's on.
In a few months, she won't be able to bend over to tie her shoes. Then later she won't be able to see whether she's even wearing shoes. And that'll be absolutely hilarious.
I almost bought baby shoes the other day. It was an ultimately flawed mother-to-be gift, like "Hey honey, put these supercute baby Birkenstocks on your desk at work."
"But feet are disgusting," she would have said.
"Yes, but these are for lovely baby feet that do not even exist yet," I would have replied.
"So you got me sandals for grody womb feet."
That would've been trouble. The bad production of Swan Lake was much better.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Class of 2031
If all goes according to plan, our kid will graduate from college in 2031. Tuition will be six digits a year by then, but we are of course expecting a full scholarship. You know, I was going somewhere with all that, setting up a joke or something, but just typing it makes me want to hurl a little.
We spent part of the weekend in Duluth for my cousin's graduation from UMD. Like most college graduates, she doesn't quite know what she wants to do with her life. Really, she has what any 22-year-old wants: an apartment in Minneapolis and graduation money.
On the drive back, we made the requisite stop at Tobies for elevensies (meal taken at 11:00, between second breakfast and lunch for all you non-Hobbits; by the way, the Tobies sign should have an apostrophe somewhere, but we eat there anyway). I ordered coffee to go with my burger, but Julie fiendishly snatched it from my hands.
"Me coffee no go bye bye."
"You're so weird." Sip.
"Need coffee sustenance. Give, wench."
"I'm just having a little." Sluuuurp.
"You're going to give our unborn child ADHD."
Is that true, though? I know pregnant women can technically drink coffee every day in moderation and be fine. But can't it also give you a child who has to wear a helmet at recess?
At any rate, with skyrocketing college tuition, Julie should be sticking to more intellectual beverages like Ovaltine and V-8.
We spent part of the weekend in Duluth for my cousin's graduation from UMD. Like most college graduates, she doesn't quite know what she wants to do with her life. Really, she has what any 22-year-old wants: an apartment in Minneapolis and graduation money.
On the drive back, we made the requisite stop at Tobies for elevensies (meal taken at 11:00, between second breakfast and lunch for all you non-Hobbits; by the way, the Tobies sign should have an apostrophe somewhere, but we eat there anyway). I ordered coffee to go with my burger, but Julie fiendishly snatched it from my hands.
"Me coffee no go bye bye."
"You're so weird." Sip.
"Need coffee sustenance. Give, wench."
"I'm just having a little." Sluuuurp.
"You're going to give our unborn child ADHD."
Is that true, though? I know pregnant women can technically drink coffee every day in moderation and be fine. But can't it also give you a child who has to wear a helmet at recess?
At any rate, with skyrocketing college tuition, Julie should be sticking to more intellectual beverages like Ovaltine and V-8.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Just eat orange tic tacs instead
One thing that's grossing Julie out lately is brushing her teeth. And she has this wonderful tendency to vocalize her gags. Let's see if I can spell the sound she makes: Hwaah. Yup, that's pretty accurate.
Luckily, the gags haven't yielded any solid matter, which would negate the entire toothbrushing experience. I know better than to take the husband-as-coach approach, but I have several idiotic comments should I ever feel like annoying her.
- You know it isn't necessary to brush your throat, right?
- Maybe if you gagged quietly, you would gag less. Or at least I would.
- Pretend the toothpaste is something you enjoy, like scallops.
- You are using the tube that says "Toothpaste," aren't you?
- The garage might be a nice place to brush your teeth from now on.
I'll keep these to myself, lest they provoke her to do something to her toothbrush that would injure me greatly and make it even grosser for her to brush after.
Luckily, the gags haven't yielded any solid matter, which would negate the entire toothbrushing experience. I know better than to take the husband-as-coach approach, but I have several idiotic comments should I ever feel like annoying her.
- You know it isn't necessary to brush your throat, right?
- Maybe if you gagged quietly, you would gag less. Or at least I would.
- Pretend the toothpaste is something you enjoy, like scallops.
- You are using the tube that says "Toothpaste," aren't you?
- The garage might be a nice place to brush your teeth from now on.
I'll keep these to myself, lest they provoke her to do something to her toothbrush that would injure me greatly and make it even grosser for her to brush after.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Splits
So, Swan Lake. We've seen it twice, once the famous Bolshoi Ballet when it came to Minneapolis, and once the largest Swan Lake in the world, which we saw in Amsterdam. Julie's a fanatic, and I try not to nod off.
In the beginning there's this grand ball, and this guy is gesturing at everyone as if to say, "You are splendid, and we are splendid too! We are all splendid! Come and bask in the opulence!" And they bow at each other, there's more gesturing, and it's all very precious. Ick. The swans are cool, but they don't show up for an eternity.
This particular Swan Lake was amateurish compared to the other ones we've seen. No orchestra, long scene changes, dancers visible in the wings, and we had a sneaky feeling the audience was filled with family and friends of the cast. That's right, folks: I'm simultaneously a ballet cynic and a ballet elitist.
But here's a beautiful thing about pregnancy: Julie got hungry. We left at intermission and went to IHOP for pigs in a blanket. We gestured at each other, bowed, and then stuffed our splendid faces.
In the beginning there's this grand ball, and this guy is gesturing at everyone as if to say, "You are splendid, and we are splendid too! We are all splendid! Come and bask in the opulence!" And they bow at each other, there's more gesturing, and it's all very precious. Ick. The swans are cool, but they don't show up for an eternity.
This particular Swan Lake was amateurish compared to the other ones we've seen. No orchestra, long scene changes, dancers visible in the wings, and we had a sneaky feeling the audience was filled with family and friends of the cast. That's right, folks: I'm simultaneously a ballet cynic and a ballet elitist.
But here's a beautiful thing about pregnancy: Julie got hungry. We left at intermission and went to IHOP for pigs in a blanket. We gestured at each other, bowed, and then stuffed our splendid faces.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Thumper
The baby's heartbeat sounded like the bass in a techno song. Like a sprinter's heart before the starter pistol goes off. Like yours the first time you got kissed.
My first real kiss happened in kindergarten. I remember it perfectly. Her name was Gretchen, and she was a total hottie.
Wompa Wompa Wompa. That's how Julie described the heart sound.
They used a microphone hooked up to a little speaker. I bet the OB/GYNs have karaoke contests with them after hours, with songs like "Baby Baby" by Amy Grant.
First she spread the goo on Julie's stomach. They use that goo for everything. It's like the doctor on Seinfeld who tells you to take off your pants for every procedure. "Sore throat, huh? Take off your pants." With gynos, it's "Nice to meet you, husband Dan. Let me just squirt goo on my hand before I shake yours."
Then she rubbed the microphone on the goo, and before long there was that Wompa Wompa Wompa. Julie teared up, I kept cool, and then we were done. But I must admit, for a second there my heart was going just like it did that day in kindergarten.
My first real kiss happened in kindergarten. I remember it perfectly. Her name was Gretchen, and she was a total hottie.
Wompa Wompa Wompa. That's how Julie described the heart sound.
They used a microphone hooked up to a little speaker. I bet the OB/GYNs have karaoke contests with them after hours, with songs like "Baby Baby" by Amy Grant.
First she spread the goo on Julie's stomach. They use that goo for everything. It's like the doctor on Seinfeld who tells you to take off your pants for every procedure. "Sore throat, huh? Take off your pants." With gynos, it's "Nice to meet you, husband Dan. Let me just squirt goo on my hand before I shake yours."
Then she rubbed the microphone on the goo, and before long there was that Wompa Wompa Wompa. Julie teared up, I kept cool, and then we were done. But I must admit, for a second there my heart was going just like it did that day in kindergarten.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Lemon head
Julie gets fetus updates emailed to her every week. Early in the pregnancy, she swallowed a microscopic Dennis Quaid, and he sits on her pancreas (feels to him like a beanbag chair) and types updates on his microscopic laptop. This week, apparently, the fetus is the size of a lemon.
No, not like an Edsel. That'll take another 20 weeks or so. It's the size of an actual lemon.
And it can grimace. Grimace! Which incidentally it's doing as I type this, since Julie is watching a season one episode of Grey's Anatomy. Meredith hasn't yet learned that McPuffyhair is married. Sooooo dramatic.
Tomorrow we have an appointment to hear the heartbeat. They have two soup cans connected by string, one placed on her paunch, the other stretched across the room and held up to my ear. "I hear it, honey. Amazing! And Dennis Quaid says your fallopian tubes are very tubular. He thinks he's funny."
The email also says the fetus can suck its thumb, which makes me wonder when I'll stop calling it a fetus and start calling it a (gulp) baby. Give me a day. Let me hear its heartbeat, and it'll no longer be a fetus.
No, not like an Edsel. That'll take another 20 weeks or so. It's the size of an actual lemon.
And it can grimace. Grimace! Which incidentally it's doing as I type this, since Julie is watching a season one episode of Grey's Anatomy. Meredith hasn't yet learned that McPuffyhair is married. Sooooo dramatic.
Tomorrow we have an appointment to hear the heartbeat. They have two soup cans connected by string, one placed on her paunch, the other stretched across the room and held up to my ear. "I hear it, honey. Amazing! And Dennis Quaid says your fallopian tubes are very tubular. He thinks he's funny."
The email also says the fetus can suck its thumb, which makes me wonder when I'll stop calling it a fetus and start calling it a (gulp) baby. Give me a day. Let me hear its heartbeat, and it'll no longer be a fetus.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Superdan
Superheroes have it rough. Bruce Wayne deals with all that angst from his childhood, added to Gotham being a crime-ridden slum. Superman wears those ridiculous red briefs. And Peter Parker experienced firsthand the cinematic turd-fest that was Spider-Man 3. And that hairstyle. Poor guy.
As for me, my plight yesterday was that everyone around me felt vomitous.
Julie felt horrible and actually stayed home, but don't worry because she's feeling better today. But yesterday she was a writhing mass of nausea most of the day. And you know what happens when you lie around all day. You don't exactly feel fantastic when you finally take your head off the pillow.
After I got Julie into bed by 9:00 or so, Tulip decided it was her turn to be sick, but she upped the ante. First she yakked semi-digested food, then bile and foamy white nastiness literally 15 times. I tried to get her to drink water, but clearly she was expelling lots more fluids than she was taking in, which is no good at all if you're a 16-pound doggie.
So at midnight, I took her to the 24-hour vet. They gave her a below-the-skin fluid injection, which combats dehydration while making her look like Quasimodo. They also gave her an anti-nausea pill and sent us home with prescription food. Amazingly, I got home by 1:00 AM, fell asleep on the couch, and woke up again at my normal time of 5:15 to get ready to teach.
To address your inevitable question earlier about why I would compare myself to the men in tights, I handled all that dog vomit clean-up and impromptu midnight vet visit without my sick pregnant wife even stirring in her sleep. Go me!
As for me, my plight yesterday was that everyone around me felt vomitous.
Julie felt horrible and actually stayed home, but don't worry because she's feeling better today. But yesterday she was a writhing mass of nausea most of the day. And you know what happens when you lie around all day. You don't exactly feel fantastic when you finally take your head off the pillow.
After I got Julie into bed by 9:00 or so, Tulip decided it was her turn to be sick, but she upped the ante. First she yakked semi-digested food, then bile and foamy white nastiness literally 15 times. I tried to get her to drink water, but clearly she was expelling lots more fluids than she was taking in, which is no good at all if you're a 16-pound doggie.
So at midnight, I took her to the 24-hour vet. They gave her a below-the-skin fluid injection, which combats dehydration while making her look like Quasimodo. They also gave her an anti-nausea pill and sent us home with prescription food. Amazingly, I got home by 1:00 AM, fell asleep on the couch, and woke up again at my normal time of 5:15 to get ready to teach.
To address your inevitable question earlier about why I would compare myself to the men in tights, I handled all that dog vomit clean-up and impromptu midnight vet visit without my sick pregnant wife even stirring in her sleep. Go me!
Monday, May 12, 2008
Mothers' Day
Happy Mothers' Day, one day late. Don't worry, I was on time with Julie. I've always been one of those can't-keep-a-secret gift givers. Well, I keep the secret, but it's agony to do so. I almost wish we were celebrities, so I could call in anonymous leaks to Fox News regarding what I'm getting everyone for Christmas.
Point being, I gave Julie her gift on Mothers' Day about three seconds after she woke up.
A couple posts ago, I wrote about how I was hanging with Gramps at the mall. We were actually there to search for the perfect mother-to-be gift. Such gifts do not exist, by the way, unless you want to go the candle route (boring) or the perfume route (bad idea with her fickle pregger nose).
Or like stationery or something, but I'm saving that for when she turns 100 and they finally take away her flying car license, compelling her to write angry letters about it to President Dick Cheney's preserved head.
So after moseying around the Mall of America, eating Haagen Dazs, and dropping off Gramps, I drove to the Galleria (snobbiest mall in Minnesota), then Target, and came home with still nothing. I just wasn't feeling it, you know? It's not like I'm going to buy her clothes. "Here, honey, it's a belt with lots and lots of notches." She'd beat me with it.
I went on-line, then, and hit the jackpot. Swan Lake tickets, baby. I'm taking her to the ballet. It's the perfect gift because it demonstrates my willingness to suffer for her happiness.
Point being, I gave Julie her gift on Mothers' Day about three seconds after she woke up.
A couple posts ago, I wrote about how I was hanging with Gramps at the mall. We were actually there to search for the perfect mother-to-be gift. Such gifts do not exist, by the way, unless you want to go the candle route (boring) or the perfume route (bad idea with her fickle pregger nose).
Or like stationery or something, but I'm saving that for when she turns 100 and they finally take away her flying car license, compelling her to write angry letters about it to President Dick Cheney's preserved head.
So after moseying around the Mall of America, eating Haagen Dazs, and dropping off Gramps, I drove to the Galleria (snobbiest mall in Minnesota), then Target, and came home with still nothing. I just wasn't feeling it, you know? It's not like I'm going to buy her clothes. "Here, honey, it's a belt with lots and lots of notches." She'd beat me with it.
I went on-line, then, and hit the jackpot. Swan Lake tickets, baby. I'm taking her to the ballet. It's the perfect gift because it demonstrates my willingness to suffer for her happiness.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Horsey
Julie's parents are officially winning the "Spoil the Fetus" contest. Below is a rocking horse they bought at an Amish store.
I never had anything that cool when I was little. All I played with was a box. If I concentrated, I could shift my weight forward and back and get it to rock. "Go play in your rocking box," my parents would say. "Dinner is in the kitchen whenever you feel like making it."
Okay, that was a total lie. Except I did have a box, and it was amazing.
Tulip feels very protective of the fetus, so she insists on testing any new toys that come into the house.
After careful analysis, she approves of the Amish craftsmanship and gives the taste of the mane a 9.5 out of 10.
I never had anything that cool when I was little. All I played with was a box. If I concentrated, I could shift my weight forward and back and get it to rock. "Go play in your rocking box," my parents would say. "Dinner is in the kitchen whenever you feel like making it."
Okay, that was a total lie. Except I did have a box, and it was amazing.
Tulip feels very protective of the fetus, so she insists on testing any new toys that come into the house.
After careful analysis, she approves of the Amish craftsmanship and gives the taste of the mane a 9.5 out of 10.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Classy, high-brow humor
I hung out with my 82-year-old grandpa today, whose name is Harry, but I call him Gramps. Gramps gave me some baby name advice: Harry if it's a boy, Harriet if it's a girl.
This of course inspired me to think of all the middle names we could go with to ruin young Harry's adolescence. Peter. Richard.
I know, I'm immature. Willy.
Gramps also decided to help me compose a Mother's Day card for Julie. True, she's not yet technically a mother. Nor did she demand or even hint that she wanted recognition. Trouble is, all the ladies she works with wished her a happy Mother's Day on Friday. Meaning they'll ask her on Monday what her husband did to acknowledge it.
So anyway, Gramps wanted to help me write the card. His best idea was:
Front of the card: "Since it's Mother's Day and you haven't had your baby yet..."
Inside of the card: "...you're pretty much just screwed."
My apologies if you just snotted on your computer screen.
I believe this proves that immaturity is genetic.
This of course inspired me to think of all the middle names we could go with to ruin young Harry's adolescence. Peter. Richard.
I know, I'm immature. Willy.
Gramps also decided to help me compose a Mother's Day card for Julie. True, she's not yet technically a mother. Nor did she demand or even hint that she wanted recognition. Trouble is, all the ladies she works with wished her a happy Mother's Day on Friday. Meaning they'll ask her on Monday what her husband did to acknowledge it.
So anyway, Gramps wanted to help me write the card. His best idea was:
Front of the card: "Since it's Mother's Day and you haven't had your baby yet..."
Inside of the card: "...you're pretty much just screwed."
My apologies if you just snotted on your computer screen.
I believe this proves that immaturity is genetic.
Friday, May 9, 2008
Shopping for elastic skirts and whatnot
Julie's mom is taking her shopping tomorrow. Thank God. This saves me the inevitable "Dan, we need to go look at tummy cremes" evening.
I swear, it's every guy's dream to have a wife with two sisters and a mom who want to take her shopping for maternity stuff. Her mom even found a high chair. It's oak, Amish, and 50% off. It's also about five months early for a high chair, but you gotta be impressed that she's thinking about that while Julie and I are still as clueless as a couple of monkeys flinging their poo.
I mean, I don't know if I would have ever thought to buy a high chair. I'd be feeding junior in his crib, wondering why no one had ever invented a chair that was baby-sized and just a little bit higher than other chairs.
While we're at it, though, I should throw out there that daddy needs a new set of speakers and a TV to go with them. It's not fair that there's so much maternity miscellany to buy and nothing for the dad.
Is that selfish? They wouldn't even have to be Bose speakers. Okay, yes they would.
I swear, it's every guy's dream to have a wife with two sisters and a mom who want to take her shopping for maternity stuff. Her mom even found a high chair. It's oak, Amish, and 50% off. It's also about five months early for a high chair, but you gotta be impressed that she's thinking about that while Julie and I are still as clueless as a couple of monkeys flinging their poo.
I mean, I don't know if I would have ever thought to buy a high chair. I'd be feeding junior in his crib, wondering why no one had ever invented a chair that was baby-sized and just a little bit higher than other chairs.
While we're at it, though, I should throw out there that daddy needs a new set of speakers and a TV to go with them. It's not fair that there's so much maternity miscellany to buy and nothing for the dad.
Is that selfish? They wouldn't even have to be Bose speakers. Okay, yes they would.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Add a swear jar to the Target list
I rarely swear in my classroom, and during those rare occasions it is always a PG-13 word, never in anger, and never ever to put someone down.
I deserve a cookie.
I also don't usually swear in writing. Swearing effectively requires the spontaneity of speech, and since writing is generally more planned, swearing just makes you seem like a tool.
But I like a good swear word as much as the next person. Julie does too. I think swearing adds flair to conversations. Used moderately and artistically, a swear word can be like an unexpected marshmallow in a spoonful of Lucky Charms.
And people who say swearing indicates a small vocabulary are just being supercilious.
That said, you are not supposed to swear in front of babies. It's true: I saw why on the internet. Nevertheless, I'll rue the day when we start replacing certain words with phrases like "poopy bottom."
We'll be so uncool.
I deserve a cookie.
I also don't usually swear in writing. Swearing effectively requires the spontaneity of speech, and since writing is generally more planned, swearing just makes you seem like a tool.
But I like a good swear word as much as the next person. Julie does too. I think swearing adds flair to conversations. Used moderately and artistically, a swear word can be like an unexpected marshmallow in a spoonful of Lucky Charms.
And people who say swearing indicates a small vocabulary are just being supercilious.
That said, you are not supposed to swear in front of babies. It's true: I saw why on the internet. Nevertheless, I'll rue the day when we start replacing certain words with phrases like "poopy bottom."
We'll be so uncool.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Sick...in the head
This morning after I left for school, Julie experienced sudden morning sickness. It was the first time in the entire pregnancy that morning sickness became more than just a feeling, if you catch my drift.
All together now: Ewwwwwwww.
You would think that a sick pregnant woman would stay home. And she did, except she took a two-hour conference call while curled in agony on the couch.
Then she went to work.
All together now: Craaaaazy.
This evening, she's feeling better. I have fed her and placed her on the couch. The lady sleeps.
When I'm not home, she needs a large British woman in a white dress who will force her to rest when she's sick, who will gently restrain her and take her car keys and phone, and who will say things like, "Wouldn't you just love a nice cup of ginger tea, deary? Let's sit you down and get a blanket around you. There now. There."
Or a drill sergeant: "You will NOT go to work today, you lunatic! Now drop down and give me 100 minutes of sleep!"
All together now: Ewwwwwwww.
You would think that a sick pregnant woman would stay home. And she did, except she took a two-hour conference call while curled in agony on the couch.
Then she went to work.
All together now: Craaaaazy.
This evening, she's feeling better. I have fed her and placed her on the couch. The lady sleeps.
When I'm not home, she needs a large British woman in a white dress who will force her to rest when she's sick, who will gently restrain her and take her car keys and phone, and who will say things like, "Wouldn't you just love a nice cup of ginger tea, deary? Let's sit you down and get a blanket around you. There now. There."
Or a drill sergeant: "You will NOT go to work today, you lunatic! Now drop down and give me 100 minutes of sleep!"
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
No pannercakes
This is Tulip:
And here's Daisy again. You can see Tulip there in the background:
When Julie arrives home from work, she is ravenous. If she gets dinner within four minutes of her second foot entering the house, she probably won't think about eating Daisy or Tulip. At least she won't admit to thinking about it. I'm pretty sure Tulip is aware of Julie's agitation when she's hungry; she's apt to hide under the couch. Daisy remains unaware, for Daisy is dumb.
Well, she's a sweet dog. She does sometimes get confused, however, such as when we found her sleeping in Tulip's open cage, which along with Tulip's bed, is much too small for her.
Sing along, Chris Farley fans: "Fat dog in a little bed..."
Not the sharpest bulb in the Happy Meal, or however the saying goes. Anyway, so yesterday I had dinner scheduled perfectly. The sauce was in the pan, the water was just reaching a boil, and Julie would be home in 13.6 minutes. Then she called, and I told her of the brilliant pasta that would be ready the second she got home.
"But I want pannercakes."
"Um, yes. That's what I was thinking, too. You know, cook up some pasta, then make pancakes. I'm on it."
As soon as she hung up the phone, I dumped the water and de-sauced the pan. Then I discovered empty space in the fridge where the milk usually sits. Panic ensued. I tried calling Julie back, but no answer. And that got me wondering whether she would ever get hungry enough to consider nibbling on a dog. Okay, I was hungry too, and possibly hallucinating.
We ended up going out.
And here's Daisy again. You can see Tulip there in the background:
When Julie arrives home from work, she is ravenous. If she gets dinner within four minutes of her second foot entering the house, she probably won't think about eating Daisy or Tulip. At least she won't admit to thinking about it. I'm pretty sure Tulip is aware of Julie's agitation when she's hungry; she's apt to hide under the couch. Daisy remains unaware, for Daisy is dumb.
Well, she's a sweet dog. She does sometimes get confused, however, such as when we found her sleeping in Tulip's open cage, which along with Tulip's bed, is much too small for her.
Sing along, Chris Farley fans: "Fat dog in a little bed..."
Not the sharpest bulb in the Happy Meal, or however the saying goes. Anyway, so yesterday I had dinner scheduled perfectly. The sauce was in the pan, the water was just reaching a boil, and Julie would be home in 13.6 minutes. Then she called, and I told her of the brilliant pasta that would be ready the second she got home.
"But I want pannercakes."
"Um, yes. That's what I was thinking, too. You know, cook up some pasta, then make pancakes. I'm on it."
As soon as she hung up the phone, I dumped the water and de-sauced the pan. Then I discovered empty space in the fridge where the milk usually sits. Panic ensued. I tried calling Julie back, but no answer. And that got me wondering whether she would ever get hungry enough to consider nibbling on a dog. Okay, I was hungry too, and possibly hallucinating.
We ended up going out.
Monday, May 5, 2008
Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong
It's stressful to always be right. You have to worry about convincing others that your point of view is superior to theirs. Plus, there's the time crunch that comes when everyone discovers your infallibility and constantly seeks out your advice. Then you have to decide whether to charge a fee for your advice, which creates a host of other problems such as how to file it in your taxes.
Luckily, there's pregnancy. With pregnancy, if you are a husband, you need not worry about the downfalls of being right, because you are not right. You are wrong.
Being wrong is easy. All you have to do is memorize these short sentences:
- I must have made a mistake.
- On second thought, you are absolutely correct.
- I don't even know what I was thinking.
- Thank you for setting me on the right path.
- I regret that I was such a jackass.
And of course:
- My bad.
I'm happy to have the break from always being right. In fact, I'm considering never being right again, as long as that's okay with my wife.
Luckily, there's pregnancy. With pregnancy, if you are a husband, you need not worry about the downfalls of being right, because you are not right. You are wrong.
Being wrong is easy. All you have to do is memorize these short sentences:
- I must have made a mistake.
- On second thought, you are absolutely correct.
- I don't even know what I was thinking.
- Thank you for setting me on the right path.
- I regret that I was such a jackass.
And of course:
- My bad.
I'm happy to have the break from always being right. In fact, I'm considering never being right again, as long as that's okay with my wife.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
And then spring arrives
Remember how two posts ago I compared my pregnant wife to Jabba the Hutt, thereby incurring the wrath of pregnant women everywhere? Hardly anyone reads this blog, though, you might say. They still know. Last night this pregnant waitress at the Highland Grill gave me the stink eye. They know.
Well, just as quickly as Minnesota turned to spring, then back to winter, and then to spring again, Julie is a popping firecracker of energy. Yesterday I grilled hot dogs and cheesy brats (good 'son' foods because...never mind), and she's been Super Julie ever since.
This morning, she gardened. Gardened. Which basically entailed piling wet leaves from all over our ample gardening spots, then calling "Daaaaaan" so that I could suck them into my incredibly fussy mulcher thingie. Hard grueling work, in other words, and much different from our normal Sunday routine of being as lazy as humanly possible.
Now she's out of the shower and asking for--did you guess it?--leftover brats. They must be her anti-Kryptonite.
Well, just as quickly as Minnesota turned to spring, then back to winter, and then to spring again, Julie is a popping firecracker of energy. Yesterday I grilled hot dogs and cheesy brats (good 'son' foods because...never mind), and she's been Super Julie ever since.
This morning, she gardened. Gardened. Which basically entailed piling wet leaves from all over our ample gardening spots, then calling "Daaaaaan" so that I could suck them into my incredibly fussy mulcher thingie. Hard grueling work, in other words, and much different from our normal Sunday routine of being as lazy as humanly possible.
Now she's out of the shower and asking for--did you guess it?--leftover brats. They must be her anti-Kryptonite.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Diaper talk
Today the in-laws came over for Julie's mom's birthday. After a brief conversation lull, Julie's mom asked us what type of diapers we planned to use. With only six months until the baby's arrival, it was high time we discussed such things. (Tomorrow we're touring prep schools.)
Specifically, she wanted to know if we would opt for the Huggies landfill diapers or the cotton natural ones. Julie sometimes gets all kooky-environmental, so it was important that I answer first.
"Cotton ones allow feces to flow down the baby's legs, right?" Case closed!
It got as quiet as it usually does when someone says "feces" at a birthday party.
Before long, I learned that when using cotton diapers, you put little plastic pants over everything, which supposedly prevents leakage. Sounds like a buncha tree-huggin' hooey to me.
I think we should pile all the baby's dirty diapers in the front yard. Then when he's finally potty trained, we can show him exactly how he has impacted the environment since birth.
Maybe he and his little friends can play king of the hill.
Specifically, she wanted to know if we would opt for the Huggies landfill diapers or the cotton natural ones. Julie sometimes gets all kooky-environmental, so it was important that I answer first.
"Cotton ones allow feces to flow down the baby's legs, right?" Case closed!
It got as quiet as it usually does when someone says "feces" at a birthday party.
Before long, I learned that when using cotton diapers, you put little plastic pants over everything, which supposedly prevents leakage. Sounds like a buncha tree-huggin' hooey to me.
I think we should pile all the baby's dirty diapers in the front yard. Then when he's finally potty trained, we can show him exactly how he has impacted the environment since birth.
Maybe he and his little friends can play king of the hill.
Friday, May 2, 2008
Jabba
The glow of pregnancy, when the woman strolls barefoot atop a grassy hill, sipping iced tea and inhaling the fresh Sunday morning air, hasn't arrived yet. We are in the couch stage. You know, the one where she lies on the couch.
"All you do is lie there and incubate our fetus."
"Bring me Teddy Grahams and Nutella, servant boy."
Really, she's a lot like Jabba the Hutt.
Don't get me wrong. She doesn't look anything like the vile gangster from Tatooine. But she does lie around a lot, and I sense that if we had a Sarlacc pit in our front yard, she would have me thrown into it (to be painfully digested over thousands of years) if I suddenly failed to comply with her commands.
I can't imagine how much energy it must take to function all day while simultaneously growing a person inside of you. Julie does well at work, but when she gets home, she crashes. I frequently have to wake her up because it's bedtime. Luckily, she still has her sense of humor.
"You're like Jabba the Hutt, you know."
"I don't even know what that is. Is it that fat gremlin?"
"All you do is lie there and incubate our fetus."
"Bring me Teddy Grahams and Nutella, servant boy."
Really, she's a lot like Jabba the Hutt.
Don't get me wrong. She doesn't look anything like the vile gangster from Tatooine. But she does lie around a lot, and I sense that if we had a Sarlacc pit in our front yard, she would have me thrown into it (to be painfully digested over thousands of years) if I suddenly failed to comply with her commands.
I can't imagine how much energy it must take to function all day while simultaneously growing a person inside of you. Julie does well at work, but when she gets home, she crashes. I frequently have to wake her up because it's bedtime. Luckily, she still has her sense of humor.
"You're like Jabba the Hutt, you know."
"I don't even know what that is. Is it that fat gremlin?"
Thursday, May 1, 2008
The bet
Julie and I have a bet about whether my mom knew of the pregnancy before we announced it.
A little background. My mom is connected to the worldwide brain network of moms. This is in no way affiliated with the internet, since she double-clicks everything and types with two fingers. She just always knows stuff. Like, I was 19 and on the phone saying, "Mom, there's uh, this girl I like and stuff. I dunno."
And she replied sounding like she was shooting soda cans off the back fence: "Dan! ask! her! out! She! might! be! the! one!" And so on.
So four years of dating and almost five years of marriage later, Julie and I made this bet, and when we announced the big news over breakfast, I had the distinct impression that my mom was feigning surprise. I asked her directly if she had somehow known, and she played dumb. "Oh Dan. Ohhhh Dan. No, I did not know. Did not know."
Then Julie explained the bet and acted all smart about it.
But yesterday my dad called me.
"I was hoping for your voicemail."
"Hi Dad."
Then he said he possessed proof that my mom DID know about Julie being preggers. He told me to hang up and not answer again when he called back, and moments later I listened to his voicemail, which was actually my mom voicemailing him the day before they came over for the fateful breakfast.
"So Tom, Dan just invited us to breakfast on Sunday. Do you think? Could it be anything? I just...I don't know. I think it might be something." And the word "something" had a higher pitch than the other words, like the two tones of a doorbell. "It could be SOMEthing."
She knew! But since her voicemail to my dad didn't explicitly say, "I hereby predict that Julie is preggers with our grandbaby," my stubborn pregnant wife claims I lost the bet. Unbelievable.
A little background. My mom is connected to the worldwide brain network of moms. This is in no way affiliated with the internet, since she double-clicks everything and types with two fingers. She just always knows stuff. Like, I was 19 and on the phone saying, "Mom, there's uh, this girl I like and stuff. I dunno."
And she replied sounding like she was shooting soda cans off the back fence: "Dan! ask! her! out! She! might! be! the! one!" And so on.
So four years of dating and almost five years of marriage later, Julie and I made this bet, and when we announced the big news over breakfast, I had the distinct impression that my mom was feigning surprise. I asked her directly if she had somehow known, and she played dumb. "Oh Dan. Ohhhh Dan. No, I did not know. Did not know."
Then Julie explained the bet and acted all smart about it.
But yesterday my dad called me.
"I was hoping for your voicemail."
"Hi Dad."
Then he said he possessed proof that my mom DID know about Julie being preggers. He told me to hang up and not answer again when he called back, and moments later I listened to his voicemail, which was actually my mom voicemailing him the day before they came over for the fateful breakfast.
"So Tom, Dan just invited us to breakfast on Sunday. Do you think? Could it be anything? I just...I don't know. I think it might be something." And the word "something" had a higher pitch than the other words, like the two tones of a doorbell. "It could be SOMEthing."
She knew! But since her voicemail to my dad didn't explicitly say, "I hereby predict that Julie is preggers with our grandbaby," my stubborn pregnant wife claims I lost the bet. Unbelievable.
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