Goof-around time

You must be relieved to be reading this, as it means I did not get shot at the gun range. Actually, I should say that of all the places you could go on an average day, the gun range is where you are least likely to be shot. Lots of rules, very well-regulated--and a ton of fun, believe it or not. And I'm not a bad shot either. My human silhouette target is deader than disco.

On an unrelated note (thank goodness), I'm really glad we're having a girl. Now, if it sprouts a weiner in the next four months, it's not like I'll mourn it. Mourning the Weiner will not be the title of my fatherhood memoir.

Although that would fly off the shelves.

No, see a girl is better because throughout her childhood, Julie will want to take her shopping all the time. That'll be expensive, but it'll also mean that I won't have to give up hobbies like video games, poker, Legos (shut up), and doing the crossword at Starbucks.

I'm not saying that my hobbies are exclusively boy hobbies and that all girls like to do is go to Banana Republic. But the chances of me having an occasional Saturday to goof around increase with a daughter. With a son, Julie would be like, "Well, I'm going to Banana Republic, so you boys can clean the rain gutters."

Wait, maybe I need a little buddy to clean the rain gutters.

No, here it is:

"Daughter? Oh Daughter?"
"Yes, Father?"
"Clean the rain gutters before you and your mother leave."
"Gladly, Father! Newspaper?"
"Indeed!"

Clearly I have it all figured out.

Stereotyping guys who like guns

My buddy wants to take me to the gun range tomorrow. I'm not exactly a card-carrying NRA member. But yeah, the gun range. We're gonna go shoot stuff.

I mean, I don't even own a gun, let alone many guns to necessitate an entire rack.

So I'm wondering the percentage of fathers-to-be who go to the gun range and accidentally get shot. I'm guessing it's quite low, but still. I haven't announced to Julie, "We is gonna gun it up tomorrow." She might say no, which would result in an argument followed by me going anyway.

It'll be fine. I'll try not to piss off any of the tobaccy-chewin' possum-eatin' mullet-wearin' McCain supporters. Probably my best bet is to not speak at all.

Hopefully they don't read this blog...where I write every day about how my wife is pregnant and how that makes me feel. Yeah, I think I'm safe there.

Comma

Do you remember watching School House Rock during summer school after you failed the 6th grade? You watched it at some point, right? Sing with me: "Conjunction junction...what's your function?" So catchy. That was actually a finalist for our wedding's first dance. Don't believe Julie when she contradicts this.

Say to her, "Contradiction...that's just fiction!" You'll be so cool.

There was this character in School House Rock who only said, "COMMA!" A dependent clause would walk to the left of an independent clause, and the comma guy would shove himself between them and shout "COMMA!" If you remember this grammatical concept, you get a gold star. Otherwise, examine the previous sentence as an example of said concept.

Then give yourself a less-desired green star.

Julie and I went to Babies R Us yesterday, where sensibility and restraint went to die. Both of us wanted a replacement for her giant phallus pillow.

They had a pillow there that was the spitting image of the comma guy from School House Rock. It has since replaced the brown phallus, causing all to rejoice.

Now if Julie ever feels tempted to leap out of bed at the first buzz of her alarm, she'll remember to pause.

Pillow talk

The experts recommend that pregnant women use a body pillow for extra support. Pregnant women can't sleep on their backs, you see, because their stomachs might get maimed by the ceiling fan.

So we got Julie a body pillow and she picked out a brown pillow case, making the whole thing look like a gigantic turd. All in all, it feels like there's three of us in the bed now. And she cuddles with the pillow more than with me.

Here's a picture of the hateful thing:


Great Wall of China, anyone?

In other news, we're 20 weeks along. I'll post a picture of the belly tomorrow or so. She's looking awesome and feeling generally well. She has this Mama-Belt extender thing that allows her to wear some of her non-pregnant pants. Its effectiveness is waning, however, so I suspect a wave of maternity shopping will crash into our shores quite soon.

Hopefully she won't require a second body pillow.

A light problem

We have the most ridiculous house. But seriously, if you want to buy it, let me know. You'll absolutely love it.

I don't know if our house sucks as much as we suck as homeowners. In apartments, we didn't have to worry about anything except for the upstairs neighbors' amorousness, which was actually a huge pain and resulted in more than one ceiling plaster shower. From us hitting the ceiling with a broomstick, not from--come on, people, it's not like they were horny belugas or something. But still.

Actually, this one time, Christmas Eve I believe it was, suddenly we had 12 cop cars outside the place. Seems our aforementioned upstairs neighbors had thrown a party and someone got a widdle bit angwy and hit a dude with a beer bottle. So that was fun.

But anyway, at least we didn't have to worry about mowing the lawn, replacing the washer and dryer, or reading the paper to find out what percentage of the value we lost this month. My current beef is the upstairs bathroom. See, we're moving our bedroom upstairs so we can be closer to the baby's room. That requires, per Julie's mandate, better lighting over the sink in the upstairs bathroom.

Problem is, the only hard wiring is above the toilet, not the sink. Above the toilet. Above the toilet. Maybe I'll just install a new mirror using the current hard wiring and say, "Honey-kins, you don't mind straddling the commode whilst you primp, do you?"

Older, wiser

I've developed a new philosophy on the F-word that will ultimately cause me to eliminate it from my vocabulary.

Being a married guy in my twenties, without kids or conservative linguistic beliefs, I've thrown around the big efferoony from time to time. Julie does too. Oh yes, she does, like a Navy soldier with extra KP--except she doesn't actually do anything KP related. The kitchen is as foreign to her as airplane controls are to Navy soldiers.

That paragraph made me dizzy.

Okay, so here's why if you're a swearer you should avoid EF YOU SEE KAY. By wasting fook on insignificant concerns ("Holy floop, that's a juicy apple!") you have nothing to say when something truly disturbing happens.

My problem is that I've cheapened farp in my own mind. It means nothing anymore. And since it means nothing, when the teenager in the BMW that his parents bought him for his 16th birthday (even though last year they found marijuana in his bedroom), cuts us off with no turn signal, endangering our unborn child, I have nothing meaningful to say. So I stew. And then I find myself getting angry two days later at a non-juicy apple.

Point being, I'm not going to say frake unless I really, really need to.

And now, ladies and gentlemen, I have hereby reached the maturity of a 13-year-old.

Using my head

In the last ten years, I have fallen once while in-line skating. I was with Daisy and skating backwards in a parking lot. She got behind me and down I went, kerflump. I say kerflump because it wasn't even a bad fall. The parking lot had a few scrapes, but I was fine. I am a good skater, Boitano-esque but less flitty.

The other day at Hoigaard's, with birthday money burning a hole in my brain, I upgraded my skates. My new ones have 90-millimeter wheels, which is thrashingly hardcore.

I also bought a helmet, my first fatherhood-related impulse buy. It took a baby on the way to turn me into a helmet guy. I figure cracking my head open stupidly might hinder my parenting effectiveness.

Clutter

We are de-junking the house in preparation for the baby. It's not a pretty process. Yesterday found us at Goodwill and Half-Price Books--separate trips so that everything would fit.

For Goodwill, we had the back seats of our Rav4 folded up and so many bags of clothes stuffed in the back that the moths suffocated. We also had unopened wedding gifts from almost five years ago. Apologies to whoever gave us the ice cream malt maker, the table-top marshmallow roaster (seriously), and the handheld blender that we didn't like as much as the other handheld blender.

Also, Mom and Dad, we got rid of the George Foreman grill you got me when I moved into my first apartment. My bad.

So we felt pretty good about ourselves. Back at home, we refilled the Rav with books and DVD classics such as Interview with the Vampire and season one of the Man Show. You know the giant tupperware storage bins you can find at Target? Three of those. Now, Half-Price Books isn't known for paying top dollar for anything, but it doesn't matter. How much do you suppose we got?

Try $110 on for size. I told you it was a lot of books.

I feel like we only scratched the surface. Next up is clearing out the basement and switching our bedroom with the current guest bedroom. I'll explain that whole debacle another time.

Special order

The line at Panera was wickedly long this afternoon. Everyone had questions about the menu, special instructions with their order, and a jar of pennies to pay with.

"What are you ordering?"
"Chicken salad sandwich."
"Good."
"Why?"
"Deli meat is bad for pignant people."
"Don't say pignant."
"Hey, I'll give you twenty dollars if you say 'I would like a chicken salad sandwich on your freshest bread'."

Julie thought this was a fantastic idea. I flashed her a crisp Andrew Jackson as proof of its existence, and we inched forward in the line.

"Can I help you?"
I ordered first. "You-pick-two with turkey chickpea chili and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich."
"Uh, we can't put a children's sandwich in a you-pick-two."

This was unexpected.

"Okay, I'll have a cup of turkey chickpea chili and half a PB&J; charge me whatever you want."
"We can't do half sandwiches unless they're with you-pick-twos."

Who's on first? What's on second?

"A whole one then, and you can have half of it."
"Thank you."

I eyed Julie to indicate that the dare was still on. She took a deep breath and said, "I'll have a chicken salad sandwich," and then she totally cracked up and could not continue speaking.

The worker girl turned to me, cock-eyed. "That'll be twelve-hundred dollars. You said I could charge you whatever I wanted."

Once our kid arrives, I'll take her to Panera and she can eat the other half of my PB&J. That'll be cool.

Supermom

Julie's mom took her shopping today. The only thing they didn't come home with is a baby.

Seriously, it's pre-birth and this kid has more clothes than I do. True, they're very small clothes, but I could probably rip out all the stitching and sew them into a week's worth of adult-sized summer onesies, complete with butt flaps.

Tempting.

Julie isn't a clothes horse; she's more carnivorous about it. She's a clothes wolverine. And now she's transferring that trait to our child. Which is okay with me. When she gave me the 20-minute tour through the contents of those massive Babies R Us bags, it was clear that she (and/or her mom) put thought into each item. My job was to nod. I can nod.

You know when you order drive-through and ask for ketchup or something, and you get every condiment available? The worker swipes his hand through the condiment trough and tosses them all in. That would have been me at Babies R Us. Grab two of these, one of those, who cares, two more of those, and off to Best Buy two stores down. It's not even born yet, so to me it's like buying clothes for Harvey the Rabbit.

But with this creature actually growing in her, I totally understand how Julie has humanized it to the point that she's excited about clothes. It's nesting; I've read about it. I've also read that the father begins to comprehend the situation the second the squirming, slimy thing is handed to him.

Until then, my plan is to keep my mouth shut and try not to act like a big baby.

Pregnancy fingernail analysis

That's my hand on the left, Julie's on the right. Examine the nails, please.

See how Julie's are lovely and modelesque? They haven't looked that good since our wedding day, when she had a French manicure. And see how mine are nibbled away like hunks of cheese in a rat cage? An expert would take one glance at our two sets of nails and conclude that we're with child.

Go with me on this. I've always been a gnawer, but it's been especially bad lately. I think it's stress, becoming a dad and all. Not that I feel stressed, but why else would I punish my nails so?

Meanwhile, a pregnant woman's nails grow faster than usual. But why isn't Julie stressed? Easy: I'm her husband!

Back

My great uncle and aunt own a cabin on Lake Michigan along the Indiana Dunes National Lakeshore. My family has visited in August for decades now, and when Julie and I started dating, she came too. The first time, we had been dating three-and-a-half months. This August will be our tenth year together at the Dunes.

That first year, 1999, something about that trip cemented our relationship. We just clicked. Ever since then, we travel whenever we can.

Okay, check it out. We've been all over Ireland--twice. We've conquered Paris, Amsterdam, and Barcelona. We've traveled domestically to New York, San Francisco, Las Vegas, and now Baltimore and Washington D.C.

Next up is Florence, Italy. We're just not sure when. We have no qualms about traveling with a baby and being that couple. It's not really fair to the kid, though, to have her grow up and we tell her how many places she visited before she could appreciate them.

Oh well. She'll get over it.

Sorry I missed some days of posting, by the way. Too tough while on vacation. Fun trip, though--another time I'll give you the highlights that you might actually care about. None of that "The National Portrait Museum had a lot of beautiful art" crap, and no slide shows, so don't worry.

Camden

We're in Baltimore visiting friends, so I've hopped on their laptop to keep my blogging streak alive. Yes, I am that cool.

We just got back from an Orioles game at Camden Yards, the best place in America to watch a baseball game. Julie loves going to baseball games for one specific reason: the hot dogs.

Seriously:
"Julie, wanna go to a Twins game?"
"Do I get a hot dog?"

In fact, the first time I ever asked her out was to a Twins game. She said no. I should've asked if she wanted to go out for a hot dog where there would also be a baseball game to watch.

Anyway, what hit me in a profound way tonight was that I will have to teach my daughter the rules of baseball at some point. Her mother won't be any help. She consistently fails the baseball pop quizzes I give her.

"What's a double play?"
"When two things happen at once?"
"Incorrect. What does it mean when you're a switch hitter?"
"You run the bases backwards?"

Teaching a child the rules to a sport suddenly seems daunting when one's on the way. I guess there's always wikipedia.

Oh boy oh boy...

It's a girl. Julie is ecstatic, and I think I am too. She's wanted a girl all along, a little version of herself. I've gone back and forth. I'm not lying when I say I was seriously leaning girl when the tech told us.

So yeah, a girl. A girl. A girl.

A girl.

It's one of those words that if you stare at it long enough and say it enough times, it doesn't sound like a real word. Sounds like one you made up. Girl.

More importantly, we saw kidneys, arms and legs, a round head, calcium in the bones, fingers and toes, heart chambers, a brain, and blood pumping. No cleft lip. There's urine, too. Urine!

One slight hiccup is that Julie currently has what's called a low-lying placenta. All it means is that we get another ultrasound at 28 weeks or so. In most women, this situation takes care of itself. The placenta rises or whatever. But let's say worst case scenario it's still low-lying at 28 weeks. Then she'd have to have a C-section. A low-lying placenta ends up bad for hooha births because you want the baby coming out first.

But like I said, the doc said that in her case, it'll likely resolve itself. If not, then thank God for technology.

Don't even ask us about names. We've told you enough.

Girl.

House husband

Today was the last day of school. I submitted final grades, de-stapled everything from the walls, returned my textbooks and novels to the book room, and crammed all my supplies into cabinets. After officially checking out tomorrow, I am done.

But then there's the list, which I'll get into another day. The first item on the list, to give you an idea, is to reorganize the basement. It'll be awesome. You should come over and help.

And tomorrow, if you've been keeping track, is the day we find out the sex of the kid. I'm hoping for a boy or a girl. Maybe I'll keep you posted. If you're good.

Sharing

Tulip's favorite treats are ice cubes. She's sexually frustrated.

Daisy normally doesn't care about ice cubes. She has more expensive tastes, her favorite being feces of goose. But the other day while Tulip recited the alphabet to get an ice cube, Daisy trotted into the kitchen, suddenly in the mood for some tasteless frigidity.

Tulip sprinted out of the kitchen with hers. Daisy sat dutifully, so I dropped one at her feet. Then, like a python striking a villager, Tulip charged into the kitchen, snatched Daisy's ice cube from under her nose, and made off with it to the living room.

Daisy pursued.

On the rug in the above photo, Tulip guarded both ice cubes and snarled at Daisy with a snarl that I'd never heard snarled. Daisy, 20 pounds heavier than Tulip, retreated to the couch.

With these role models, I'm sure our child will have no problem learning how to share.

Pop goes the crazy pregnant lady

Julie wants some pop. Somebody, anybody, bring over some pop. We're out of Sprite and Root Beer, and it's a crisis. I realize that I could run out and get her some pop in the time it will take me to write about her wanting pop, but that's beside the point.

I've worked enough today.

"You could drink that half-can of Sprite you left on the living room table yesterday."
"I hate you."
"I'll run out and get pop if you make me an offer I can't refuse."
"Get me some pop."
"That's the offer I can't refuse?"
"I have to settle my tummy."

I realize that's a low blow, revealing to the world that Julie says things like "I have to settle my tummy." Truly uncalled for, but all's fair in love and war.

I'll continue to barter with her: I buy her some pop, and I get to buy myself a new receiver. Gotta make this happen now, though, because Hell's Kitchen starts in 25 minutes.

Pain

Julie has been reading about the attitude an expectant mother should have about the labor process. Some women obsess over it, and that's not good. High anxiety plus passing a child equals a bad experience for the father.

I mean the mother. You know what I mean.

Likewise, a mother should not completely ignore all information about labor. It's best not to be surprised. "This is going to HURT? Nobody told me this!" Then the mother looks like an idiot, which by extension makes the father look like an idiot. Add the inevitable pain, and you end up resenting the baby and naming it Humperdink out of revenge.

But you can't get a straight answer about pain from a doctor, because doctors use euphemisms. I had sinus surgery after high school to repair a deviated septum. Yes, I was that kid: the deviated septum kid. Anyway, you wake up after surgery with a Charmin roll of gauze stuffed up each nostril. You're also groggy with medication, so you don't realize that a rotting corpse could take a dump on your face and you wouldn't smell it.

That gauze has to come out after about a week. You go in and the doctor says, "This is going to feel a little odd." Then he gives you a towel to bite on. You're thinking "A towel?" when all of a sudden he starts pulling your brain out your nose.

In retrospect, I don't know if I would have benefited from more honesty about how much it would hurt. Certainly nine months of honesty would have prompted me to run away to Canada or something. But there's a balance, and "a little odd" two seconds before a nasal lobotomy doesn't cut it.

Julie has the right attitude so far. Become informed, but don't obsess. Plus, I guess you get a baby out of the deal, so that's pretty cool.

Dogs = Kids

Julie bought some new treats for Daisy and Tulip. She showed them to me at Target, and I was like, "Yeah okay. Whatever." Our dogs will eat anything, you see. I could act enthusiastic about a button, and they'd eat it first and ask questions later.

So after feeding them and taking them out this morning, I got a hankering for a new surge protector. Target would be opening in ten minutes, so I lured the dogs back into their cages with some of these new treats.

And there the treats sat, untouched on the cage floors. It was the most bizarre thing. I was like, "Come on, guys. Eat! Yummy treaty to eaty!" And they stared at me like I'd given them rocks recently run through the dishwasher.

Then I looked at the bag, where it said "With the delicious taste of real fruits & vegetables."

I think we can close the book on this one, Captain.

Tulip snack

Tulip vomits yellow bile in the morning if we don't feed her soon enough. Sorry if that sentence ruined your breakfast. You shouldn't eat next to your computer anyway; crumbs get in the keyboard.

Tonight we're giving Tulip a snack so her stomach isn't so empty when we try to sleep in tomorrow. Except Julie's idea for a Tulip snack is 1/3-cup of food, and 1/2-cup of food is a normal meal for her.

Which caused me to joke: "Are you fattening her up so you can eat her?"

But then I thought: Is she?

*Update: Tulip started whining at 7:00, which is better than 6:00. My arm was 100% asleep, so I had to move it with my other arm to get it out of the way so I could get out of bed. No bile expulsion, so life is grand. Gosh, I can't wait to experience the nighttime and morning shenanigans that a baby will bring. How unfortunate that I can't breastfeed. "Dearest, the spawn desires milk. Don't worry: I'll spread out so your side stays warm."

Hot date

Julie owns all six seasons of Sex and the City. I share this because you need to know why I agreed to go see Carrie and her gal-pals tonight rather than staple my eyelids to a bus. You can't live with my wife and not watch Sex and the City.

To inject even more coolness into the evening, we ate dinner at the geriatric hour. When we ordered drinks, Alex Trebek was about to reveal the Final Jeopardy category, and that is no exaggeration.

Let's zoom in on dinner for a sec. I ordered a vodka martini because, well, I'm not pregnant.

(For any of my students who might stumble upon this blog and think "Whoa! Drinking is tight!" remember that your brain, specifically your frontal lobe and pre-frontal cortex, is not yet fully developed, and everything you do, positive and negative, will directly affect your brain's ability to process information and basically be normal and healthy as an adult. Do you really want to mess with that? Wait to drink. The teenage brain is a sapling, so water it with water. You should also note that I've put up with you all year and therefore deserve a drink once in awhile.)

So anyway, I sipped my drink and leaned over to kiss my wife. It was pretty smooth considering the dinner staff was about to replace the lunch staff. Then Julie, like a person lost in the desert desperate for water, started maniacally licking her lips, saying "Alcohol! Alcohol!" The nursing home residents at the next table thought we were pretty weird.

I won't go into detail here about Sex and the City and spoil the myriad surprises. Gotta say, though, they should have named it "Cougars in the City." I'm kidding. A more accurate title would be "Marital Dysfunction: A Trite Romantic Comedy Set Arbitrarily in the City."

Now we're home playing Guitar Hero, proving that despite all this, we still rock.

Hairy dilemma

Julie made her own hair appointment, thereby withdrawing her proposal that I act as her secretary. (Refer to the post below if that made no sense.)

So here's what worries me a tad. I read in one of my "So You Knocked Up Your Wife" books that mothers-to-be have a peculiar but biological need to chop their hair off. This is why so many moms have mom hair.

And after that comes mom jeans, and then you're really in trouble.

I doubt that Julie will suddenly fall off the fashion wagon, but you never know. First it's an intense need for a hair change, and before you know it, it's "Moon boots are comfortable, that's why."

Maybe I'll go with her on Saturday.

Cousin It

Today Julie requested via email that I make her a hair appointment for 11:00 on Saturday. I could tell she thought it was rather obnoxious, for her last line was "Does this make me a beeatch?"

There is a line. Pancakes at 6:20 in the morning is barely under the line, but scheduling hair appointments is over the line. I teach teenagers and generally dislike authority, so I am familiar with the idea of sticking a toe over the line to test whether the line truly exists.

And if that silly woman thinks she can get all Miranda Priestly on me, then I'll just toss my cellphone into a Paris fountain and get down with my fabulous self. What, you think my Devil Wears Prada allusion compromises my masculinity? Hey, I just denied a pregnant woman a hair appointment. I got it in spades, dawg.

Rough

Julie might have one of those pregnancies where morning sickness lasts the entire nine months. We're at the 16-week mark, and this morning was the roughest yet.

You need a little context. Normally Julie's work schedule is relatively reasonable, with no meetings before 8:30. But today she had a meeting at 7:30 in Brooklyn Park, well north of her usual office in Minneapolis. This meant getting in the shower at 5:45, where normally she wakes up at 6:00, snoozes until 6:20, and lies on the couch until 6:45.

We had a plan. I woke up at 5:15, preheated the oven to 450 degrees, shaved, exited the bathroom and put hash browns in the oven, showered, removed hash browns from the oven (literally 20 seconds remained on the timer when I exited the shower), and served to pregnant sicky on the couch at 5:41.

Six minutes later, she threw up in the shower. Never made it to Brooklyn Park. She did go to work later, but everyone knows that a morning vomit session in the shower eliminates any possibility of a good day.

This evening, after serving her an inspired plate of butterscotch-chip pannercakes and bacon, I requested her fork.

"When we have our second baby," I began. And now you see why I took her fork. If your wife is sick with your first baby, remove all sharp objects before referencing a hypothetical second baby. My instinct for self-preservation rarely fails me. Anyway, "When we have our second baby, it'll be easier. We're learning everything the hard way with this one. Today we learned not to change the morning routine."

"Thank you, Mr. Genius. I don't think I want hash browns tomorrow."

I slowly slid her fork back to her.

Glory

There is a food that Julie has rejected since its invention, a food that I have pushed and pushed for her to embrace, Super Bowl after Super Bowl, with no luck.

Totino's Pizza Rolls. Morsels of heaven, at least if heaven is cheesy and processed, which I sincerely hope it's not, but you get the picture.

Last night when I approached her with my white apron and waiter's notebook for her snack request, she said, "We don't have any more pizza rolls, do we?"

I stayed cool because too much outward glee might have sent the craving back into the depths. I simply said, "Okay honey," while my heart pounded.

As I tiptoed away, she said, "Actually, I want a hot ham and cheese with curly fries from Arby's."

Despair.

But then: "Tomorrow I want pizza rolls."

My little Julie is becoming more awesome. Is it too much to hope that next she'll stop hating Chipotle?

Identity

It's almost noon, and I'm sitting out here listening to Julie gag in the bathroom. Hwah, hwah, hwah. Nothing solid coming out, but a raging cesspool within.

So I don my Superdan cape and fly into the bathroom. "How can I help, maiden?"

"I'm just, hwah, grossed out by everything."

"Fear not! I will fix you the snack of fortitude."

"Hwah."

"Oh God."

"I almost just threw up on you."

"Uh...wanna make out?"

And then the words that every father-to-be hears at some point.

"You did this to me."

Turns out I'm not the hero, but the villain.