Good Things Sometimes Come In Threes.

Hi, Finn. We had a good couple of days this week. On Sunday and Monday, you sacked out for a good long time after the 2AM feeding, allowing your mother and I the luxury of four hours' uninterrupted sleep. Of course, a third night was more than we could hope for. Last night it was as if you were possessed by a demon who would not let you rest before you screamed yourself hoarse. No amount of rocking, walking, singing, shushing, binky, boob, commandment, cajoling, pleading, praying, swaddling or changing would calm you to the point where we could coax you to sleep. When we were able to get you to calm down, you closed your eyes for no longer than thirty seconds before shaking yourself awake and commencing to scream again. It was about 6AM before I was finally able to get you to settle, and when you did sleep, it happened like I clicked off a light switch. To keep you from waking Mama, who needed a break after spending the whole day with you, I cradled you on my chest and fell asleep downstairs on the couch with the light and TV on, unable to move for fear of waking you again.

On your good days, it's alternately comforting and terrifying to have you stretched out in bed between us, because I love to know you are safely asleep, dreaming whatever it is newborn babies dream of, and afraid you might wake up crying for milk or a new diaper or just for the heck of it. This conflicting set of emotions guarantees I am awake for at least an hour after we put you down, ears cocked to any sign of unhappiness or distress. Because when you start crying, you make the Baby Jesus cover his ears in sheer auditory pain: changing your diaper is like climbing into an air raid siren to prepare a tax return. It's loud, it's messy, and someone will feel like they got cleaned out when everything is finished.

Your cord hasn't come off yet, which is still a little gross. Mama and I have this thing about bellybuttons. It's more than a thing, really; it's sort of an allergic, nervous reaction to touching the whole area, ours or someone elses'. Your cord is like a little black snakeskin stuck to your tummy, and it gives me the heebies when I have to change your diaper. We have to do "cord care", which is supposed to help it dry out and fall off, but it's still there, taunting us. Cord care is essentially just wiping it with a little alcohol and trying not to think about how it must feel for you; luckily you can't form words yet and say things like quit knocking the damn thing around, OK? it feels like it's still attached to my frickin' lung, and it's more than a little uncomfortable, jerk. It will be a banner day when the cord does come off, because Mama and I both get grossed out just looking at it. And, we are obviously hoping that you will be an innie, because outies are just nasty.

You do have one very interesting new habit you've picked up that makes me laugh every time it happens. Your father has, for as long as he can remember, sneezed in threes. One, two, a pause, and then three. Sometimes four or five, if I'm wading through a field of ragweed or dusting under the bed, but always at least three. My genetics have apparently passed this strange rule on to you, with an absolutely endearing, heart-melting twist: You will sneeze that little baby sneeze, wrinkling up your face as they hit you like bolts from the blue, one, two, three, and then in perfect cadence directly afterward, an exclamation: Agh! as if to say, ain't that some shit?

Papa's new mission in life is to get that on tape somehow.

Posted on October 1, 2008 11:11 AM | link to this entry | comments (4)

Finley, Day 6

Hi, little one. I haven't written anything in a few days because, well, we're still getting used to your schedule. Or, actually, to your stomach's schedule. Your first night at home was a bit of a struggle, because we don't know how you like to do things and neither do you. So there was a lot of crying, pacing, holding, feeding, and napping, and we were left exhausted the next morning while you slept in like a drunk after a bender.

Thursday evening was better, because the dairy delivery arrived, much to your mother's relief. So you fed for shorter periods of time and passed out for longer periods, meaning we were all able to get a little more sleep. I did have to get up and rock you for about an hour and a half Friday morning while we both watched the early version of Headline News, just to give Mama a rest. You like the rocking. Actually, you like the walking. Last night I paced the upstairs rooms for about fifteen minutes until I got you to close your big blue eyes, and then I watched a preview of Clone Wars while you were passed out on my lap like a warm loaf of dough. You have this hilarious tic during sleep where you've been still for a long while, and suddenly throw your hands up in the air like your team just scored a touchdown. You also like to start with your head up in the crook of my elbow, and after an hour or so you've wiggled your way down to the other side of my lap, all fast asleep.

We still haven't graduated to mechanically-assisted devices yet, even though we have a garage full of them. You simply don't like to not be held. I know Mama smells good, and when I wear my fleece, I'm at least above room temperature, but this may not work out for us three down the road, girl. At some point you're going to have to be cool with the crib or the co-sleeper, because Mama and I need our rest. I'm going to keep trying, and I guess we'll have to settle you into things.

Grandpa also stopped by to visit yesterday, something he's been chomping at the bit to do since, well, a month before you were born. You obliged him by passing out cold, and he held you in his lap like a piece of the finest, most delicate china he'd ever seen. I think he likes you, even if he's afraid you will suddenly shatter into a million pieces.

Finn, I have to apologize in advance for the whole diaper thing. You and I have at least three years ahead of us, which means my icy hands will be wiping your bare bottom approximately 4,350 times before you're potty trained. Daddy has low, low blood pressure, which means his hands are always cold. The thing is, though, you lose your freaking mind when anybody changes you. When the drawers come off, the world comes to an end, and as soon as we button you back up, it's all sunshine and roses. Laying in bed with you napping between us after a particularly stressful changing, Mama reflected, "She doesn't like having her clothes taken off." Which, in retrospect, might be a good thing. It means I may get to spend less time chasing boys off with a shotgun after you hit puberty.

Posted on September 27, 2008 5:34 PM | link to this entry | comments (0)

Baby, Day Three.

Hi, little one. Daddy is typing one-handed with you laying asleep across my forearm, a hold I've been practicing for years on the cats. It's nice to know they've been handy for something, because other than the simple-minded one, they want nothing to do with you. You've been crashed out in my arms like a starlet after a five-day coke binge, and it's a beautiful, wondrous thing, because Daddy needs to get a little work done, and Mama is sleeping alone for the first time since labor started.

Today was your first visit to the pediatrician, at the tender hour of 9:15, and you seemed to tolerate the exam pretty well until we had to take you out of the sleep sack. Instead of doing the bundle thing with blankets like they showed us at the hospital, you have a green fleece sack with velcro wings which are supposed to contain your arms, which you like to flap around your head like a wounded bat. You're actually getting skilled at getting out of the sack on your own, which is why I've started calling you Finley Houdini; every time I turn around you're wiggling around like the DJ told you to wave your hands in the air like you just don't care. Ordinarily that would be fine, but your nails are long and you keep scratching your own pretty face. I'm terrified to do it, but tomorrow I have to bust out the file and remove your talons before you slice open Mama's boob. So cool it with the jazz hands until I screw up my courage, OK?

Last night was pretty rough on us three because the milk fairy hasn't arrived yet, and you're getting frustrated. Bless your mama, though; she keeps at it, even though your suction is powerful enough to swallow tables, chairs, and large household appliances. She's tired and sore but continues to offer up the tap, chewing her lip when you latch on like a feral wolf. Finn, when you're fifteen and she won't let you wear makeup and she just doesn't understand and she's the worst mother ever, I'm going to remind you of all this before I make you go apologize to her.

We have found, though, that there's a reason "pinky" rhymes with "binky". In the hospital, when we needed to give Mama a break, I plugged in and that seemed to comfort you; you'd happily suck the little finger on my right hand down to a nubbin. That worked great until last night, when you suddenly realized, THIS IS NOT BOOB. No amount of talking, singing, rocking, or pacing would make it better, and child, we can't have that. I now fully understand the visceral, primal reaction parents have to a crying infant, and you didn't even come out of my stomach.

Knowing we would spend another sleepless night unless other arrangements were made, a newborn binky was procured, boiled, and offered, and lo, the gods did weep with joy: the offer was accepted with a sigh, a yawn, and a couple hours of blessed silence.

Hang tight, kid, milk is coming.

Posted on September 24, 2008 5:12 PM | link to this entry | comments (2)

The Eagle Has Landed.

Mama and baby are napping upstairs, while the cats prowl the halls, wondering what the hell is going on and what is that noise?

Posted on September 23, 2008 3:54 PM | link to this entry | comments (0)

Dear Finley Rose.

Hello, little one. It's so good to finally see your face! You are, without a doubt, the most beautiful little girl I've ever laid eyes on.

Up until your arrival yesterday, your mother has been a whirlwind of energy, and in the last month I'd estimate she's made an entire grocery aisle worth of prepared meals, labeled, sealed, and fitted neatly into our kitchen freezer. She decided, during her bout with morning sickness, that she couldn't count on me to feed her anything with flavor, so she took matters into her own hands. Between all of that work, she's shopped for the final few items we need, organized the baby accessories, cleaned the room, and hung the animals on the wall.

We also finally moved everything downstairs and into the office, and the door to the old exam room is in, courtesy of Mr. Scout and his trusty pneumatic nailgun. Daddy loves you, he loves your Mama, and he loves chocolate cake. But Daddy LOVES the pneumatic nailgun. When I told Mr. Scout I'd installed all the trim and woodwork on the porch by drill and hammer, his eyes got big as dinnerplates. "That's old-school," he said, as he shook his head sadly.

It was a good thing we got that done on Saturday afternoon, too, kid, because mama woke me up at about 2:45 on Sunday morning with bad, bad cramps and contractions in her upper back. "I've never felt anything like this before," she said. It was at this point I knew your arrival was near. Contractions were short, anywhere from 15 to 30 seconds, but as soon as we started timing them, they got longer and averaged about five minutes apart. Mama paced the bedroom while I notified the doula, and she muscled her way through some earth-shattering pain laying on the bed. The breathing exercises we'd practiced seemed to help her get through a little easier, but I have to tell you girl, your mama is a strong woman.

The books tell you there's a point when things are kicking into higher gear: it's when the mother-to-be hits the first sign of doubt. When mama said, "I don't think I can do this," I knew I needed to get her into the car and on the road as soon as I could. but first, we needed to get down the stairs and outside. We timed the next contraction's valley and she hustled downsairs to lay on the couch, while I ran outside and debated the wisdom of backing the Jeep up to the front door. I settled for parking it on the lawn directly outside the hedge, figuring you would not appreciate bouncing over two four-inch speedbumps as we came off the curb to the driveway. Immediately after another contraction, we hustled out to the car and sped off to the hospital as the sun peeked over the horizon.

When you're old enough to understand, I'll thank you for throwing the switch at 6AM on a Sunday, because there was nobody on the road other than the three people I almost hit while trying to dial the wrong numbers for both the doctor and the hospital. Opting for safety, I hung up the phone and we bombed into the hospital unannounced, leaving the Jeep in the valet spot, and raced up to the sixteenth floor to the delivery ward.

After wheeling your mama into the tiny Registration office, we had to fill out the paperwork they promised us we wouldn't have to fill out while your mother did her best not to scream her head off or strangle the harried woman typing at the computer. Once we made it into our room, they got mama into a bed and had a midwife check your progress while friendly nurses offered epidurals. There was a brief glimmer of hope in mama's eyes at the thought of drugs, but I asked them to give us some time and made her concentrate on breathing. When the midwife quietly announced "eight centimeters", I could hear the gears click into overdrive, any chance of drugs evaporate, and we were suddenly surrounded by trays of instruments, monitoring equipment, and busy nurses.

The doula was driving in from Pennsylvania, so she got in about a half an hour after we did. She was great in helping me help your mama through the last hour of labor, especially when the doubt hit her again. This was at the point when she was having problems resisting the urge to push. Right about that time, the doctor came in, your water finally broke, and HOLY SHIT, WE'RE HAVING A BABY: you were fully dilated and at 0 station.

I will say this many times in my life, and you can always return here to read it in print: There's no way in hell I could have done what your mama did, even if I was drugged to the gills. She did everything herself with no pharmaceutical aid, and after she squoze your head through her vajayjay, she was cracking jokes with the doctor while I was sitting on a nearby chair, trying to get blood back into my head. Someday you may have children of your own, and robots might deliver them painlessly with the aid of magic Star Trek drugs, but you can always tell people your mama is HARD-CORE. I imagine the only way I could come close to understanding that kind of pain would be to drag a car with no wheels from one side of the city to the other using only my penis. Oh, and NO THANK YOU.

When you finally popped out, little one, it was like the whole world just came to a stop while you took a good deep breath and started crying: I've never heard a sweeter sound in my life. And, a girl!

Holding your warm little body in my hands for the first time, I felt that cliched feeling where my heart felt so big and full of love for you and your mama that it about burst. You squirmed a little, you cooed a little, and your big blue eyes blinked all around the room as if you were checking out a hip new club. And then you looked in my eyes, and squinched up your face, and sneezed, and looked at me again, as if to say, What is that fuzzy shit on your face? you better not try and kiss me with that beard, Mister. It was that moment when I realized I'd have not one but two women in my life giving me a hard time, and I was in love.

Posted on September 22, 2008 8:07 PM | link to this entry | comments (7)

Dear Swiss Chard.

Yeah, I thought that sounded pretty stupid too. It's supposed to be indicative of your overall length, which they claim should be 19 inches. You're also supposed to be six and a third pounds in weight, which gave your mother a laugh this afternoon. I'd guess you hit that particular benchmark a few weeks ago by the sound of things.

You seem to be doing just fine, according to all the doctors and checkups; the hiccups you have constantly are normal, from what they say, and that'll go away as you get older. Unless, of course, you share the same unfortunate and embarrassing reaction to very spicy foods like your father, which means they will fire up just as your nose starts running, and you'll have to escape to the restrooms to be polite and keep your malfunctioning sinus and gastrointestinal systems from hiccuping snot all over your date. Welcome to the family, kid.

Mama is doing well, although you're making it increasingly harder for her to sleep. All the books have line drawings of sleepy pregnant women perched on great architectural stacks of pillows like they have successfully completed a Tetris level. This, apparently, is propaganda underwritten by the pillow industry, because we bought a shitload of pillows for your mother to try and wedge between critical pressure points in order to find peace, but she has not had success. She spends much of the night shifting from one side to the other in a futile attempt to keep her hips and back from aching, and the pillows usually find their way to the floor by morning. The books suggest propping the belly (your space capsule) on a firm pillow; when she tried this, she found it impossible to breathe. She's actually getting a lot of that now, come to think of it. Can you please get your feet out of her diaphragm?

One of our favorite games, when I have time to lay on the bed or the couch next to her, is to watch you moving around in there. You're definitely head-down, and we can feel your little butt right up front, as well as your feet. It's definitely a trip to watch you run a hand down the side of her stomach, or kick a knee out and watch her skin ripple and wave.

So now we play the waiting game. I'm starting, this week, to keep the Jeep gassed up and pointed toward the road for a clean getaway. Your mother is packing the hospital bag. The doula is on standby. Today I'm writing my maternity email to current clients so that they're in the loop on your arrival and my disappearance. There's no rush, kid—one helpful thing to know about your mother and father is that even though we have the best of intentions, we're almost always late.

You asked how's the porch coming? It's looking better each day. The baseboards are almost in, the woodwork around the door is up, and everything has at least one coat of primer. I had to do some clever woodworking to make the baseboard along the front of the house completely level, because they kept the original porch floor when they enclosed the room, which was sloped slightly downhill. You shouldn't notice that once I put in some toe molding, though. Aside from a new door and finish paint, we're almost home free!

Posted on September 8, 2008 1:23 PM | link to this entry | comments (1)

Dear Cantaloupe.

Your mother and I got out of town last weekend. We chose Berkeley Springs, WV, for a quiet retreat, thinking that a spa weekend would be a nice way to relax and enjoy ourselves before all hell breaks loose you arrive. Back in the 1700's, this dude named George Washington—you'll hear all about him in school—stopped by to take a bath, and he was so smitten with the area that he incorporated the town and bought land there.

We picked a quaint little inn online and booked a room, then made spa reservations for Saturday afternoon. We found out that many of the more exotic-sounding spa services aren't offered to pregnant women, as the mere touch of a hot stone or drop of scented oil will send the expectant mother into immediate labor, so we opted for a massage, facial, and pedicure. I've never been to a spa before, or had anyone other than a doctor look at my toenails with more than a cursory glance, so I was a bit nervous about the idea of a professional massage. Well, that, and nuding up in front of someone other than your mother. Unfortunately, they separated the two of us upon entry, and I was handed a locker key and a robe to change into. Alone in the dressing room, I closed my eyes, let the new-agey Muzak put me into a state of peace, dropped my boxers, and put the robe on. Then I slipped into a pair of flip-flops, and headed out into the unknown. I don't often wear robes in public, so it took a little adjusting and an eyeful of someone else's privates to realize the robes needed constant attention. I wound up walking around with my hands jammed in the pockets so that I would keep the two folds covering my junk.

I was scheduled for a hot-rock massage first, and the masseuse let me get situated on the table while she waited outside (whew) Nervous, I made conversation as she prepared the rocks and got herself organized. It turned out she grew up in the town next to the one I graduated high school in, so we spent the majority of my massage gabbing away about travel, family, and Southern food. I'd have to rate my first professional massage as comfortable, friendly, and informative, but not as relaxing as it probably should have been.

Next came a facial, which at the outset made me feel like a foolish pantywaist, but turned out to be a very pleasant experience. My masseuse was a younger woman who bundled my face up in a towel, pointed a steam generator at my face, and slapped about fifty coats of lotion on my skin. She also massaged my feet and hands, and then put them in these weird heated bag things which (I guess) ensured I was marinading properly. I hope your bottom is as smooth as my cheeks were on Saturday afternoon, little one. I hope it smells as good too.

Finally, we had a pedicure, and this your mother and I got to enjoy together. I had worried about my feet being nasty all day, but the woman hovering over my toes told me, with wonder and awe in her voice, that I have beautiful feet. Given the fact that I wear glasses, my hair is receding, my nose is bent, and I do not have the rippling muscles of an olympic swimmer, having this one redeeming physical quality is comforting. Even if it is my feet. Hopefully this trait will be passed along to you, little one. After she was done with my nails and a refreshing pumice scrub, I opted for a simple clear polish, figuring it would go with sandals and evening wear equally well.

Later, after relaxing in our room, we wrapped up our evening with dinner at a restaurant downtown, enjoying the cool air, relaxed atmosphere, and our buttery smooth skin.

You will be happy to know your crib is now assembled, and we have organized your room as much as possible. We still face a game of musical chairs with all the furniture in the house before we can really set your room up correctly. I have to finish the front porch first, and then we can move our office downstairs. Then the big futon in your room will move into that room, and we can push your crib to the far wall and have room for the dresser we still haven't found. See? Isn't that simple? It's really kind of fitting, when I think about it, because we didn't get to sleep in our own bedroom until a year after we moved into this house, and neither will you. Welcome to the family!

Posted on August 20, 2008 11:21 AM | link to this entry | comments (6)

Thank You.

Mother, baby and I all thank everyone for their incredible kindness and generosity. We are humbled and blessed. Thank you!

Posted on August 11, 2008 9:57 AM | link to this entry | comments (0)

Dear Quartet of Navel Oranges.

Yeah, I know, the comparisons are getting weird. What can I say, these are the jokes, kid.

It's been a while since we've talked, and I apologize for that. I haven't felt much like writing lately, and I don't know why that is. It's been a hectic couple of weeks, and the rest of the coming month is more of the same. We're padding out the social calendar now while we have some time, knowing that we will be beholden to your stomach for the months following your arrival. It's good, too—lots of people to catch up with, things to do. I've been working my tail off trying to complete a bunch of work that's all due right around your birthday ahead of schedule so I'm not making client calls in the delivery room.

Your checkup was today, and they measured you out at five pounds, which is a full pound above average. This also moves your expected delivery date ahead two weeks (the computer offered an emotionless prediction of 9/11, which would be Very Much Not Cool) which is what I've been saying all along. I'm cool with the 78th percentile, but your mother and I would rather you seek to excel in the intelligence tests and not on the sizing charts. Your mother has been eating less food with more frequency these days, which means you're definitely making yourself comfortable in there, sitting directly on her bladder. We had to hit the Target up for two king-sized pillows so that she could try to get some decent sleep again. She would really like it if you could hold it down while she closes her eyes—we understand that hiccups are beyond your control, but quit the breakdancing lessons until you're walking, OK?

Meanwhile, we took last Friday afternoon off to go witness a quiet marriage ceremony and enjoy the afternoon on a patio in Ellicott City with friends and cold drinks.

Sunday we drove down to the Eastern Shore to visit with some other friends who have bought a beautiful house in Easton (and who are trying to get your parents to move out there with them). I don't have pictures of that, because I was too busy laughing and enjoying myself, but I did snap some shots of this Land Rover for sale on the side of Rt. 50. It's a little too expensive for us, but we will have one someday, I swear to you.

Leaving that parking lot, Jen spied this interesting, uh, display, and thought it deserved a picture. I've always thought it was "Deer Corn", but what do I know?

Finally, good news: our windows arrived yesterday afternoon, which means we can get the porch rolling again!

Posted on July 29, 2008 4:50 PM | link to this entry

Summer Showers.

Somehow, we made it back from New York State yesterday, our jeep stuffed to the gills with new baby gear. Intermittent thunderstorms didn't dampen the beautiful baby shower my mother held for us on the front porch of the house, and we were overwhelmed by the generosity of our family, who brought thoughtful gifts and sage advice. Thank you, everyone.

The rest of the weekend was spent relaxing on the porch, eating too much cake, and visiting with my mother's brother, who I haven't seen in years (and who hadn't met Jen yet). As always, the weekend was too short, and we had to head home to the heat.

Posted on July 22, 2008 9:36 AM | link to this entry | comments (0)

Dear Butternut Squash.

I've told you about our family car situation before, so it's no surprise I've got alternate forms of transportation on my mind these days. Your mother and I got some test driving in this weekend due to a last-minute cancellation, and I'm pleased to report we've got a contender.

The test drive process is pretty interesting. I kind of figured the salesguy would ride along and yammer in our ears, but they just made a copy of our license, handed us a key, and pointed us at a $16,000 toy. We checked out the Fit first, and it was a hard act to follow. They gave us a red one, which was pretty spiffy, and we both took turns wringing it out (or, as much as one can wring out a 1.5 liter engine) on I-70. When compared to the Jeep, and even the Saturn, it's not as powerful a ride, but it still has zip. The interior is completely misleading—it looks like it would be tiny from the outside but it's cavernous inside. The controls are easy to use, and the wheel, steering, and brakes are all tight as a drum. And when the salesman showed us how the big half of the rear seat folds down to a flat cargo deck (without touching the smaller half, where you'd be strapped in), I was sold. Strollers, christmas presents, livestock, shipping containers—I could fit anything in there.

The Civic sedan was less than impressive. The interior felt alternately cramped in some places and huge in other places, and the wheel felt like it belonged on a go-kart. They could only give us an automatic for a test drive, so we didn't get to feel out the engine, but everything about the car was adequate enough. Quibbles: the speedometer is placed waaaaay up on the front of the dash and the tach is right under the steering wheel. The seats were comfortable and the controls were pretty easy to use. Overall, for the money, I'm not as impressed as I should have been.

Finally, we tried out a Matrix up at the Toyota dealer. They're already showing the 2009 models, which have been redesigned into ugly streamlined blobs, and again all we could get was an automatic to play with. The inside of the car is uglier than the outside. It feels like the dashboard was shoved up under the windshield by a snowplow, and the gearshift sits almost vertical on the center console like an old Alfa Romeo. The gauges are clear, but when I pushed the seat back to get my legs comfortable with the pedals I felt like I had to lean way forward to touch the wheel. The rest of the cabin is functional but uncomfortable. The car itself has more power than the Fit, but gets lousier gas mileage. The back seat feels smaller than the Fit, and the rear deck isn't as spacious. Overall, it's just not as well-designed inside, and the base model is $4K more than a tricked-out Fit. Sorry, Toyota.

In other news, your mother took us on a Sunday field trip: there's a pretty pick-your-own farm out west of here with rows and rows of ripe blueberries, raspberries, and cherries she's been dying to visit for years. We got an early start out of the house and were in the fields, bag in hand, by 10:30, and after an hour or so had collected over 5 lbs. of delicious ripe blueberries. A half hour later, we were standing under cherry trees bending under the weight of the fruit on their boughs. I noticed an interesting phenomena out there too: we picked alongside families with everything from bundled newborns to bored teenagers, and after a few initial minutes of inaction or complaint, everyone seemed to get in on the fun together, which made me look forward to the day we can take you picking with us.

Posted on July 14, 2008 4:04 PM | link to this entry | comments (1)

Dear Chinese Cabbage.

Good afternoon, little one. Our pregnancy bulletin says you're reaching about 2¼ pounds, which doesn't sound like much, but I'm sure your mother would love to disagree. You've already had your first case of hiccups and you're blinking now, which is pretty amazing, really. The doctor is happy with your progress, and your little heart sounded great yesterday!

With all the planning going on around the baby showers, we've been doing a lot of explaining our decision to keep your gender a mystery until your birth. To be fair, we've gotten about an 80% approval rating from those people who've asked, and those are usually very supportive—which makes up for the 20% or so who have given us puzzled looks and even responses verging on hostility. I suppose it makes the process of buying gifts for you marginally harder, but hell, I'm a guy, I've purchased for baby showers before, and I've never had a problem finding something for a child of unspecified gender. They act as if we're keeping this secret just to make their visit to Babies 'R' Us that much more difficult. (This reaction also seems to parallel a particular response to the idea of natural delivery: Birth is treated like a nose job). It's not that we want to inconvenience anyone, really.

Maybe it's the society we live in nowadays, where CNN shows us news from all over the world as it happens, the Internet is a repository of knowledge undreamed of ten short years ago, and medical procedures are broadcast on cable TV. People expect information immediately: What is this thing growing on my arm? Who is Jennifer Anniston dating today? What's GM's stock price right now? With three clicks on my phone, I can answer most of these questions and send you to WebMD to die of hypochondria overload. But do we need to know all this stuff? Just because they can tell us what you are doesn't mean we want to know.

In the meantime, we've heard several of the wives' tales about predicting the gender, which I'll share with you here. Perhaps when you're old enough we can all sit down over coffee, read this, and laugh.

The Chinese Birth Calendar.
Recommended to us by our accountant, who swore by its accuracy. We sat in her office before going over our financial records and looked up the table (pleasure before pain), which claimed we would have a boy. Jen did some looking online when we got home, and found other calendars, all of which claimed different results.
Net result: 50/50 odds.

Baby's Position (where Mother is carrying).
Apparently, if the baby is way up high (directly under the chest), this means it will be a girl. When the baby is low, it's a boy. Problem: How do we know what "high" is? Jen has been told it's when the boobs are resting on the belly. I don't think this is the case with you, although I think you're riding high, personally—I've seen some women carrying kids down around their knees. Yee-ouch.
Net result: 50/50 odds.

Genetics.
Science says that the male carries the determining genetics for gender. Looking back through my family, we're averaging about one girl for every three boys (save my Uncle Brian, who dents the curve with his output), and that carries through to my grandparents, where the ratio is slightly wider (1:4). My wife's family is skewed the opposite way, and with twins to boot.
Net result: Boy.

Needle Reading.
I've heard of this, but we haven't tried it. There are all kinds of variations on how to do this, some simply dangling a threaded needle over the wrist, belly, or wedding ring, and some sound like complicated forms of the Macarena. Whatever the case, an unscientific poll says that circles equal girls and lines equal boys. I'm going to leave it up the the pros at our family shower in a few weeks.
Net result: Undetermined.

Drano Method.
Apparently a few ounces of mother's morning urine added to a jar of two tablespoons of crystal Drano will produce a chemical reaction (no duh) which will predict the gender: dark color==boy, light or no color==girl. This sounds like a method pioneered by poor Appalachian plumbers.
Net result: Gross. No way.

Baby's Heart Rate.
This theory states that a heart rate above 140bpm means girl and below means boy. But Jen's found places that say it's the other way around. Again, with the myths it's hard to get the straight dope. For the record, you're averaging about 155.
Net result: 50/50 odds.

Morning Sickness.
The common wisdom says that if Mother had bad morning sickness in the first trimester, she will be having a girl. Your great-grandmother had terrible morning sickness, and she gave birth to your grandfather, so go figure. As for you, I'll put it like this: For all your mother had to deal with during her first three months, you'd better be a Nobel-winning kung-fu champion movie star. No pressure.
Net result: Girl.

Baby Activity.
If the baby is very active, this means boy. But again, what is "very active?" Is it 24-hour frat party active, or 5-hour kegger? Is it drum lesson active or Zeppelin concert active? Your mother says you've been very active.
Net result: Boy.

Craving Salt.
If the mother craves salt, this means boy. But your mother had these cravings long before you were born, and there have been no plans to install a salt lick in the living room. I'd say her intake has stayed the same, although her craving for sugar has increased dramatically in the last few months. What does that mean?
Net result: Undetermined.

Cold Feet.
Supposedly, cold feet are the mark of the male gender. During the first trimester, your mother was cold all the time, but we live in a drafty old house. Now that July has rolled around, she's been hotter than a two-dollar pistol.
Net result: Undetermined.

So what does all this mean? It means we have a new and interesting use for Drano, and we're no closer to knowing what you'll be than we were before. That's alright, though—boy or girl, we're taking you to kung-fu lessons and music classes, and I think you'll be just as happy with jungle animals as you would with flowers or race cars. We love surprises, and you'll be the best one of all.

Posted on July 9, 2008 2:40 PM | link to this entry | comments (2)

Dear Cauliflower.

Hi, little one. This past week was a busy one, so this note is late, but I think you understand. Wednesday morning we met with a very friendly doula at a Starbucks up in White Marsh. A doula is sort of like a coach for both your mother and I. She's had several children herself, and she's helped a bunch of other mothers with their deliveries, so she knows what to do during the different stages of labor. I don't know about your mother, but I got a great feeling from this woman almost immediately after shaking her hand. We chatted for an hour and a half, and by the end of the meeting we were both sold. Which means that, barring a scheduling catastrophe or freak September blizzard, she will be one of the first people you meet on the day of the Big Move. She is very familiar with the hospital we'll be at and she gave the OBs in your mother's practice glowing praise, something that very nearly made your mother cry with relief. Also, the combined batting average of the doula and our doctors means the chances are exceptionally good you will be coming out the front door and not through the window.

All that noise you heard on Friday? That would have been the Catonsville parade, right out in front of our house. All the swearing you heard the previous Monday? That was your father's reaction to the people who staked out their spot on our lawn with a tarp and five rusty paint cans. Other houses get neat rows of plastic furniture, and we get the crap from the back of somebody's garage. I'm over it now, though.

Thinking about it for a little while, I smile when I think that you will spend your first couple of years in a house where you will expect this yearly phenomena just like you will expect a cake for your birthday. I wonder if we'll move out in time for us to have to explain to you no, not everyone gets a parade in their front yard, and daddy's yelling at that man because he's trying to kill our grass.

Every year we spend the week before the parade getting ready, and it never seems like we actually are. This year we had some friends come early and help us with some critical tasks which made things run a lot smoother. The parade itself was great. We got the usual state senators, representatives, judges, sheriffs and pageant winners, but no Governor. We did, however, get the Wienermobile! There was a lot of Jeebus this year, too—the tambourine people were back, and the puppets, but the Krishnas didn't make an appearance. The Boumis came out in full force, and there were a whole dealership's worth of Corvettes, along with a gaggle of pretty older cars. And some ugly ones too.

It rained off and on all day, so I would have bet your college fund there would be no fireworks that evening, but they decided to shoot them off anyway. Not that we were in any condition to walk down to see them; instead, we sat our asses on the couch and slowly fell asleep.

Saturday we were all still wiped out, so we did what most other Americans do on holiday weekends: we shopped for furniture and antiques at our favorite haunts, then took in Wall-E at a nice climate controlled movie theater. You will surely like Wall-E when you're old enough to watch it; I'd say it's one of the best Pixar movies in a long while (Toy Story and The Incredibles being my favorites). But we'll get to that in a few years—no hurry. Mommy and Daddy can't afford all those DVDs right now anyway.

Posted on July 4, 2008 12:13 AM | link to this entry | comments (3)

Dear English Cucumber.

It's nearing the end of the sixth month, kid, and we're suddenly feeling like we're way behind on everything. There are showers to consider, interviews with pediatricians, rooms to outfit, college applications to file... Wisely, we decided to take on two of the more daunting tasks this Sunday, setting up a shower registry and looking for some decent maternity wear for your mother:

1. Baby Megastore
You'd think this would be a slam dunk, right? The only baby megastore on this side of town is only a short distance away from our house. We've been to this store before to buy shower gifts for other friends and come away unimpressed with both the selection and the staff. Yesterday we were greeted by a surly girl behind the registry desk who handed us off to a second, quieter girl, who struggled with a fleet of barcode scanners for a full ten minutes before giving up and sending us into the store weaponless. It was here we met up with our first major obstacle: bottles.

Perhaps a lifestyle change is in order

As we quickly learned, choosing a particular bottle brand and model is sort of like declaring a religion. There are so many things to consider: Does it contain Bisphenol A? Slow, medium, or fast flow? Silicone nipple or latex? Aerated or traditional? Does it fit with the breast pump model we like? Can it be used as a flotation device? Already overwhelmed, we turned the corner to find even more bottles and a rack of electric accessories—heaters, warmers, and cleaners; glass bottles, for the folks who don't trust plastic at all, and some weird european-looking stuff that only barely resembled containers. Our sheaf of printouts from the Consumer Reports website didn't cover any of this. What do we pick? Just then, the girl at the registry desk came up and handed us a barcode scanner she'd got working, which added another ten tons of pressure to make a decision. After a quick conference, we decided to punt on bottles and wade further inward. Set phasers on buy, Mr. Scott.

Car mirror, check. First aid kit, check. Baby washing tub, check. Did you know they have baby washing spas? Seriously, a little plastic clawfoot tub with jets and bubbles and a showerhead. Sorry, Cuke, you're not getting a nicer bathtub than Mommy and Daddy—we're one step above a washrag and a bucket. Three aisles in, we hit the stroller section, which I'd come prepared for. I found the one CR ranked their Best Buy and was about to grab a box off the shelf, when your mother turned me around by the shoulders, smacked me upside the head, and showed me a wall of car seat systems, where the seat snaps into and out of a car base, a stroller, a trebuchet, a hoverjet, and a Gundam mobile suit. And just like that, my printouts were worthless.

CONNECT THEM ALL TO FORM VOLTRON!

Further in, we came to diapers, another discussion topic, mainly focusing on the choice between helping save the environment vs. stuffing the landfill with mountains of Lockardugan poop bombs. Punting again, we waded through fields of ugly, overblown, and expensive baby furniture displays with price tags higher than our quarterly tax bill. By the time we made it over to the bedding and linen section, we were exhausted, and we only had ten things in our little phaser. Somewhere around the receiving blankets, we gave up on finding anything we liked, handed our scanner back to the girl, and fled the store.

2. Cheap Trendy Clothing Chain
The company website has a whole section of pretty maternity clothes. Unfortunately, nobody in their right mind would order clothing straight from the website, because the clothes are made so poorly it's impossible to know if it will fit correctly without trying something on.

The brick-and-mortar store, where normal people have to go to try on the cheap clothes, has no maternity section. The bored employee your mother asked told her They're? out? on the floor? mixed in with the clearance merchandise? in that annoying upwards cadence most teenagers have these days. She lied too. There was no maternity clothing anywhere in the store. There was a time when walking into this store meant being accosted by seventeen teenagers with those stupid headsets. Today, there were none to be seen anywhere. A badly managed location, or a sign of the economy's current strength?

3. Wonderful Minnesota-Based Department Store, Local Version
Maternity clothing: Not so much. In fact, it's sort of a joke. They take the trouble to hang a "maternity" sign from the ceiling, the same size as "shoes" or "toys", and the section consists of three bombed-out racks with a bagful of merchandise, all size Small or XXXL. And it's all stuff I wouldn't give my grandmother.

Baby stuff:
We have found calm and peace. There is a wall of bottles here, but in some way it is less threatening, less confronting. At the Superstore, the display is monumental; its sheer size and breadth leave the first-time consumer gasping for air (or wishing for a stiff drink). Here there are eight or nine bottle systems, but they are contained, organized, and somehow friendlier. Everything we might need as new parents is here, contained in six or seven neat aisles, and the selection is better. The designs here speak to us immediately, where the $400 tulle/leopardskin/patchwork/shabby chic bedding sets at the Superstore made us run in horror.

Jen looked at this and said, "They call it a backpack, but it's really there to distract people from the fact that you have your child on a leash."

The furniture is reasonable, the car seat system selection is strong, and they have prices that don't make my wallet burst into flames. Sold!

Posted on June 23, 2008 4:01 PM | link to this entry | comments (6)

Dear Rutabega.

Good morning little one. Your mother and I spent our weekend in a large, cold conference room at the hospital with a trio of other expectant couples and a very nice doula talking about you. The object was to learn about policies and procedures at the facility and to get all us parents-to-be prepared for what's coming. What this actually translated to was a series of talking points outlined with Xeroxed handouts and punctuated with unintentionally hilarious videos produced in 1983. They starred awkward couples with feathered hair, going through the stages of natural childbirth. The first couple was pretty relaxed even though it looked like they were late to a Journey concert, and when the baby finally did appear we were all relieved to not be staring at the husband's bald spot anymore. The second segment made an example of how expectant mothers often need something to focus on while laboring: the husband said soothing words, massaged her back, and then held up a photograph of a cat. I don't know how your mother is going to handle labor, but I'm pretty sure staring at a picture of our cat would make her feel rather foolish. I think some pictures of the things she's not been allowed to have might provide more of a focusing effect, like a plate of sushi or a vodka tonic. GET THIS BABY OUT, MOMMY WANTS A DRINK.

We talked about medication and procedures and choices and outcomes, and the one thing that struck me about some of the other women was that they knew less about what was coming than I did. It's not their fault, really; we live in a society that separates the realities of birth and death from everyday life, which is really backwards: none of the four women in the class had seen a live birth, something our ancestors' women were guaranteed at an early age. I got the feeling, based on comments made by the doula, that some women view inducement as a procedure no more troublesome than a routine dentist's appointment. A few of the women seemed to have limited knowledge about C-sections, and during the video when they yanked the uterus out of the woman's stomach and flopped it around like a gutted fish to examine it, it wasn't just us guys who looked queasy. Had that been my wife and I was in the room, it would take three nurses and 150 cc's of strong horse tranquilizer to keep me from pulling that surgeon's testicles directly over his head for a quick "exam". I think a strong case for natural childbirth can be made solely on the bedside manner of surgeons vs. obstetricians: the surgeon in the video was pulling on the baby's body to get the head out of the incision like a plumber working over a clogged drain.

I did learn a lot from the classes, though, and it was very helpful to see the birthing rooms (very swank, with a commanding view of the city), the recovery rooms (not as swank, but they'll do) and the rest of the hospital. From what it sounds like now, many of the hospital policies are in line with our wishes—the "bed" can be moved to provide a natural birthing position; the mother can move around as much as possible before delivery; and baby stays with mother in both the birthing and recovery rooms. They'll even do the exam in the room after delivery, which is what we're going to request.

Let me say for the record that I am constantly amazed and awed by the strength and poise your mother has shown over the last six months. Your mother is the quarterback, offensive line, and coach all in one, but I'm just the water-carrier. I've been remiss in my duties as father-to-be and birthing coach lately, but I plan to make up for that in the coming months. Today you're going to get poked a bit by the OB, and we're going to have a serious discussion about the birthing plan, which is still under development, but we have a much better handle on what we'd like and what we don't like.

Finally, we're thrilled you like collard greens as much as we do, because the amount of leafy vegetables we're getting from the organic farm is pretty ridiculous. Keep that appetite up, kid.

Posted on June 17, 2008 9:05 AM | link to this entry | comments (0)

Dear Ear of Corn.

Hello little one. I don't have a whole lot of time to write today, but I'd just like to say thanks for re-arranging your room and cleaning up before the doctor's visit yesterday.

We're glad to see the placenta has raised to the right place, which means the chances of having to use the escape hatch instead of the front door have decreased dramatically. The checkup looked great, and you're growing at a perfect rate: the tech said you're around one pound ten ounces, and your heartbeat is strong. Our only concern right now is that you're facing ass-first; if you don't move yourself around some, the OB is gonna have to lay hands on your mother and spin you right round baby, right round.

Posted on June 11, 2008 4:25 PM | link to this entry | comments (0)

Dear Mango.

I haven't written to you in two weeks, and I'm sorry. Your father hasn't been in much of a writing mood lately—there are about six unpublished fragments in my Movable Type queue that don't relate, have no beginning or ending, and have no narrative structure. I think that it must be summertime-related, because I've been strangely unmotivated to do anything these last two weeks, whether it's writing, taking pictures, working on the house, or just being. Strangely though, I've been able to focus on work pretty steadily, which is good news for your diaper fund.

You have been very active these last two weeks, which is great to see. We've been sitting on the bed watching you bump yourself around and making your mother's belly wiggle and move. It's better than TV. If you're as active as this after you're born, we're doomed. When you do finally show up, we will have to have a serious chat about your shyness around the camera. Every time I turn it on to shoot some video of your mother's belly, you stop moving around, and as soon as I put the camera down you start shaking your booty again.

We are no closer to finding you a name than we were last week. We have looked at three thick tomes from the library which claim to contain names other than "Kaitlin," which makes Mommy and Daddy want to punch someone in the neck. In looking through each of these books, though, I get tired and overwhelmed pretty quickly. One of the books seems to have the same fifty or so names re-arranged in different lists throughout each chapter, and then finds it helpful to list the names of famous Hollywood progeny, as if calling our child Blanket, Kal-El, or Speck would be a good idea. Another has a list of names "so old they'll never be new", like anyone is still considering the name Zebediah.

Your mother's been doing the bulk of the baby research for us over the last few months, and from what she tells me, there's a huge industry out there geared towards scaring the everloving shit out of expectant mothers. I'm looking through one of the delivery method books now, in preparation for our upcoming classes. The first three chapters have been a repetition of the same basic idea: HOSPITALS BAD, DRUGS BAD, DOCTORS=UNTRUSTWORTHY. The authors also don't pull punches when comparing their method to the other big method, dissing philosophy and practice, which begs comparison to the old East Coast-West Coast rap feuds of the late 90's. It all gets to be a little tiring after a while. I understand why the authors need to hammer their points home, but I'm ready to just skip ahead to the birthing part now.

We're wary enough at this point to hire a doula to help the two of you with this thing, even though I'm going to be with you two through the whole process. All of the books I've read do this strange thing where they spend an entire chapter ratcheting up the fear quotient, and then when they refer to the actual birthing process it's all puppies and sunshine distilled into a three-sentence paragraph. Maybe I haven't gotten to the meat of the whole thing yet, but this is feeling eerily similar to a lot of the computer programming books I've read, which alternately treat me as if I'm a genius and an idiot in the same sentence. So a doula will help with all of the things I may have read about but don't really understand, and be a more informed advocate for you and your mother where I may not be. Besides, it'll be less freaky for the nurses to walk in the delivery room and see the doula massaging your mother's girl parts instead of me.

Posted on June 4, 2008 9:17 AM | link to this entry | comments (0)

Dear Carrot.

On this day four years ago, your mother and I married each other at a big party in front of our friends and family. It was a wonderful day which went by way too quickly, and when you're ten we'll explain to you all about the locusts.

Your mother and I have had quite a few adventures since then. We've traveled around the world twice, started our own businesses, watched friends and family graduate, give birth, and pass on. And during that time, we've grown closer than we were when we married each other, sharing good times and helping each other through the bad. It's pretty cliche to say "my partner is my best friend", but I think that's what makes your mother and I work—because nobody but a best friend could stand to live with me, that's for sure. Who knew there was a "correct" way to load the dishwasher?

You, our greatest adventure, are doing very well from what we can tell. Your mother is having intermittent Braxton-Hicks Contraptions, which are her body's way of getting itself ready for the Big Stretch. She calls them "contraptions" because she doesn't like the sound of "contraction" in relation to her own body, which I can completely understand. We're also beginning to receive baby clothes from family and friends; your aunt knitted you a beautiful sweater, your grandma sent along a package of new clothes, your aunt sent you a bear-themed bathroom set, and there's a chest-high pile of clothes from one of your future playdates. So throw up all you want, kid—we'll keep you covered.

Mommy is beginning to show now, too, which is good, because for a while there I was thinking that the doctors were fooling us into believing you weren't really there.

We still don't have a name for you yet. All of the ideas we've had are pretty much dead in the water with the exception of one girl name and two boy names, but I don't think we have consensus. We're working on it, though, so don't worry George Lavernius Tiffani Othello Thibodeaux Aragorn Jim-Bob Sally Katrina John Wayne Knute Britney Shaqueela Chewbacca Dylan .

Posted on May 22, 2008 2:33 PM | link to this entry | comments (1)

Car Shopping.

I've lately been scouring back issues of Consumer Reports, reading on different cars, determined to find the one that will provide the best balance of mileage, protection, space, and value. Reliability is key, because if we actually do buy a car, it's going to need to last the three of us a good long time. I started with the Honda Fit, thinking small and nimble meant gas-frugal. When my neighbor found out what I was looking at, he told me to consider an Accord, which he claimed had comparable gas mileage and offered more protection. Consumer Reports put that myth to bed, but I then looked at a Civic, which isn't that much more expensive than a Fit but offers plenty of room and similar efficiency.

For comparable cars, I'm adding in the Scion Xd due to the mileage and reliability ratings, as well as the Nissan Versa and the Toyota Matrix. Even though Jen's 10-year-old Saturn coupe gets 40mpg, modern Saturns are out due to reliability issues and lousy gas mileage, and I'm ruling out any other American brands for the same reason. Subarus are out due to thirsty AWD, as is the Mazda3. I refuse to buy a Hyundai, Kia or Suzuki because I already own enough plastic toys.

Note: I also looked at hybrids but I'm not impressed with the available space: if I need to cart baby, luggage, and X-mas presents around, interior room will already be at a premium. I also looked at VW's TDI offerings, but their cumulative reliability ratings leave me shivering with fear.

To level the playing field, I'm trying to stick with the same basic setup in each car. As much as I hate the idea of a 4-cylinder for durability, it's the best mileage option. A stick shift is a no-brainer; we both prefer them, they're cheaper, and they get better mileage. Crash ratings are important to us, obviously, but I understand I can't own an Excursion and expect to afford the gas, so I'm going with the offense-is-the-best-defense strategy. Each of these cars have standard front and side curtain airbags and ABS brakes.

So what's the deal with the Civic getting 22 city and 40 highway? That seems like an awful big spread to me. If I lived in a more rural area, I'd say Civic all the way, but I'm in one of the more congested corridors of the East Coast. I'll take 33mpg in the city, thank you. I like the idea of a hatchback, and I intend on putting a good-quality roof rack on whatever we buy, as well as a hitch (if I can).

We also have two glowing reviews from Fit owners vs. one from a former Accord owner. My ex used to have a Civic, and I enjoyed that car well enough to consider one of my own. Much of the final decision will involve a test drive.

To be continued...

Posted on May 13, 2008 9:49 AM | link to this entry | comments (6)

Dear Banana.

It was great to go up and visit with your Pop-Pop in the hospital this past week, but it's good to be back home with you and your mother. She surprised me by re-arranging our entire bedroom while I was gone (do you remember all that bumping and clanging?) so it was like coming back home to a comfortable alternate-universe house where the cats don't have funny goatees that mean they're evil. That was a great surprise. Your mother also dragged a room-size carpet down from the attic into the yellow room, which brightens the whole thing right up. You seemed pretty happy to have me back, because you were kicking up a storm last night!

Your Grandpa, circa 1968

Pop-Pop is doing much better now that he has a tracheotomy tube instead of being fully intubated, and he's looking and feeling like himself again. Except for the fact that they shaved his face, which is weird. See, grandpa has had a beard since 1981, when we took a summer vacation and he 'forgot' his razor, and his chin has been missing somewhere in the pine forests of New Jersey ever since. For a few days, he closely resembled his brother Rich, who has a moustache and a Californian devil-may-care attitude, but then they shaved that off on Saturday, and the fact that he has no lips make him the spitting image of his brother Neil, the thought of which keeps your Grandmother awake at night. I sat up with him for two nights in the hospital, helping him get through the initial struggle to clear his lungs, and once he got through the first night things got much easier for him. Grandma's report from this morning says he's going to start physical therapy soon, which means he's well on his way. He liked your latest pictures too. I just hope you're born with lips.

Posted on May 12, 2008 10:47 AM | link to this entry | comments (2)

Dear Heirloom Tomato.

Taking full advantage of the somewhat clear weather, your mother and I did some window shopping at Valley View Farms in preparation for the garden we're planting this year. Given all the gnashing we're hearing this spring about rising food prices, we're refining last year's approach and planting cash crops to save some money. After doing the week's shopping, we returned home and made ourselves 4 lbs. of steamed mussels over tomato-garlic sauce with a side of homemade peasant bread. You really like shellfish, little tomato, because when your mother smelled the broth cooking, you started jumping around in anticipation.

The weather was just too good on Sunday to stay inside elbow-deep in insulation, so we spent the entire day outside, catching up on yardwork, gardening, and cleanup. After an obligatory lawn mowing, I chopped the front hedges back to a respectable height, trimmed the two monstrous bushes by the front door, dismantled an ancient rotting picnic table and got it ready for disposal, moved a pile of wood back to the cradle on the far side of the yard, trimmed several large dead branches from our cherry trees, and wrapped several more branches in netting so the birds don't eat all the fruit.

It was at this point that hubris got the better part of your father, and I pulled up about thirty feet of old busted-up concrete sidewalk on the west side of the house. I'm hoping that by the time you're ready to walk around outside I'll have pulled up the rest of it and replaced it with grass, but I think I'm getting ahead of myself.

Thankfully, your mother was smart enough to start some brisket in a slow cooker early in the day, so we threw together some cornbread stuffing left over from Thanksgiving and inhaled almost the entire thing for dinner. You seemed to enjoy that too, because I spent five happy minutes with my hand on your mother's belly feeling you kicking in there.

Posted on May 5, 2008 10:10 AM | link to this entry | comments (0)

Dear Red Bell Pepper.

Hello little one. That bumping you felt on your head yesterday morning was our latest prenatal checkup, but you're probably getting used to that by now. Your mother and I are a little upset with you for being so uncooperative with the technician. Every time she tried to get a profile of your head to measure, you kept wiggling around and sticking your nose in the way. I can see already how you're going to behave as the progeny of photographers. I will admit, though, that it was great to see you moving around so much.

Everything else is looking beautiful! You have ten little fingers and ten little toes, which made us both very happy, and your little heart is going strong at 151 beats a minute. We're going to start seriously kicking around some names for you in the next couple of weeks, but we have a lot of names that we know we don't want and very few that we like, which makes things difficult. A lot of the good ones are already taken. Don't worry, though—we're not going to get all trendy on you, if we can help it.

Out here, most of the pretty flowers are gone, and the trees are filling in with deep green leaves. I hope your first spring is as beautiful as this one has been, because everything seemed to be richer and more colorful this year. This is the tree in our front yard blooming from the end of March up until this morning:

Sleep tight, little pepper, and try to stay off your mother's bladder. She's getting tired of going to the bathroom every fifteen minutes.

Posted on April 30, 2008 12:11 PM | link to this entry | comments (0)

Dear Turnip.

This morning, between taps of the snooze bar on our alarm clock, your mother took my hand and placed it on her stomach. After a few quiet moments, I felt you bump your head against the ceiling.

That was the best wakeup call ever.

Posted on April 22, 2008 10:30 AM | link to this entry | comments (4)

Dear Avocado.

I'm sorry I didn't write to you last week, when you were an apple, but it was a busy week for the three of us. You’ve now been to three baby showers that aren’t your own. We went to a restaurant for the first time since January and had a meal as a family without making Mommy feel like she's been pounding shots of tequila on spring break. Your legs are growing longer! Outside, the tulip tree in the front yard is blooming, and the daffodils are exploding all over the place.

The warmer weather means I’m doing some research on new cars for getting the three of us around, because the Lockardugan fleet has a total of four doors for two cars. You see, we own two perfectly good, working, dependable coupes that are completely impractical for taking you anywhere, which means that one of them will have to go. As sad as I am to get rid of one, I’m looking forward to a new car. I’d like a full-size American pickup, but I’m setting my sights smaller, on something like a Honda Fit or a Nissan Versa. I know it’s not a sexy as a BMW or a Land Rover, but I don’t think you’ll notice the difference from the back seat.

Then, there’s car seats. At the Target the other night, we looked at the latest models, and I doubt I can get some of those things through our front door, let alone into the back seat of an automobile. Consumer Reports had an article that has me completely freaked out about any kind of car seat at all, because apparently all the good ones are made in Europe, and eight out of ten seats tested didn’t protect the test subject in a side impact. Avocado, I don’t want anything to hurt you, so I hope you can forgive me for the crash helmet and Nomex fire suit you’ll be wearing until the age of three. It’s cool, though-I’m going to do it Evel Knievel-style, with the cape and the scepter and everything.

We had a little scare with our insurance policy this past week, too. Your parents have insisted on employing themselves in the most economically sensitive industry imaginable, which means we pay stupid amounts of money to make sure prescription drugs don't force us to declare bankruptcy. It turns out we have deductibles for each of us as people, and both of those combined equal the family plan. So Daddy has to fall down some stairs and charge up the hospital bills before they'll take care of you. Do you see how much I love you? Now, let me show you how to dial 911 on my cellphone again.

Even though we've shopped a lot for other babies, we haven't started buying stuff for you yet. You're going to be a suprise, but we're not letting that determine specific colors or themes. I think we're going to make the front bedroom yours, which means we need to find a place to store the crap that's in there right now-you'd think with all the room we have in this house we'd be able to find a place for some beds-but things have gotten a lot tighter around here lately.

Your father has been busting his ass to get the front porch fixed up before your arrival, and every day brings a new challenge. Like the ceiling joists, for example. The guys who put them in weren’t familiar with a tape measure, or building codes, or complicated stuff like that. No, they just toenailed a bunch of two-by-fours into the side of the house and stuck a roof on top, which makes the fact that it hasn’t collapstigated once in the last eighty years an architectural miracle. I admit, the tempation to vault the ceiling is very strong, but I want to call in a friend who knows some more about building to see exactly what's possible before I get my hopes up. Whatever the case, it's going to take a little more time than I'd hoped.

At this point, Europe is looking better and better all the time, kid—public transportation, sturdy car seats, socialized medicine, a ban on corn syrup, and one Euro is worth an entire house. And, they know how to make good beer. Think you’d like to learn Italian?

Posted on April 14, 2008 11:23 AM | link to this entry | comments (3)

Dear Lemon.

You're no longer being compared to shellfish, which is great news. You've gotten a little bigger this week, and you're making your mother's life easier in small increments. She's able to move around a lot more and not want to throw up all over herself. She even took you to Trader Joe's to buy cereal on Monday, the first time she's been in a grocery store since January. So I'm celebrating your progress!

Of course, may things are still off-limits; certain foods, smells, and words—which is why I have to sneak a beer in the office while she's laying down in the bedroom. I'm still trying to feed the three of us as best I can, and I have to thank your mother for being understanding of the fact that I've exhausted all three of my dinner ideas. Mommy has strong kitchen-fu, but mine is weak, strictly subsistence-level preparation: I will toast bread, while your mother will actually bake it from scratch. So be prepared for lots of mac 'n cheese when Daddy is in charge of dinner.

It seems like everyone we talk to is knocked up too, so you'll be in good company. The count is up to eight as of today. Since we broke the big news among our family and friends, we've had tons of support and advice, as well as generous offers of furniture and clothing—something that reminds me how lucky we are. Our CPA actually jumped up and down. clapping her hands, when we told her yesterday. It didn't help us on our taxes, but that's not our CPA's fault.

Posted on April 3, 2008 12:03 PM | link to this entry | comments (0)

Multiplication.

January 29.
Dear Zygote,
I'm writing this to you so that I'll remember how it felt when the OB showed us a small dark spot on your mother's uterus, centered it, and said, "That's your baby." It was a peculiar sensation somewhere between my stomach, which felt like it was on spin cycle, and my head, which was alternating between happiness and dizziness. I reached for my wife's hand and held it while the doctor printed out some grainy pictures.

We've been working on this particular project for a while now, and when she told me we should look into buying a pregnancy test, I was cautiously optimistic. We'd had several false alarms in the second half of last year, so I wasn't going to get my hopes too high. One Saturday afternoon in January, we shopped for groceries and home supplies, and when we returned home I got lost in my project, obliviously walking past her several times with handfuls of tools intent on breaking something. When I brought her in to look at the progress, I wondered why her eyes were welling, thinking, dirty old wallpaper can't make her this happy. In a rare moment of clarity, I correctly guessed the reason for her emotion, we held each other in the half-demolished doctor's office, and I was caught between waves of joy and stark terror. This is for real.

Today, before the first meeting with our OB, we sat in the waiting room for our appointment, both nervous and lost in our own thoughts. I skimmed Outside magazine, unable to put the sentences together, and held her hand. Inside the exam room, with the lights turned down, I was amazed that a spot five millimeters long could have such a strong effect on me. The doc pointed out the highlights (not much, considering your size) and assured us everything was fine and that our conception date was most likely the one we thought it was.

February 12.
Dear Lima Bean,
We can see your little heart beating clearly in the grainy black and white monitor next to the exam table. I reach for your mother's hand again, and we both are smiling as the doctor takes measurements. I'm not ashamed to say I got choked up as she told us it's looking good, and that we're past the first big hurdle.

February 26.
Dear Kumquat,
That's what we're calling you this week. See, mommy gets these emails every week that talk about what to expect and what's happening and what to look for, and they compare your size to fruits and vegetables. Which is ironic.

At first, the changes were minor, but now we are dealing with the brutal onslaught of morning sickness, which should be renamed monthly sickness. Food—the mere thought of food—seems to have lost all of its appeal; certain things now go by codenames so as not to make your mother's fickle stomach backflip with displeasure. There are days when the subject is completely verboten, and I must simply place some substance, any substance, in front of her and pray it will not turn her stomach. We have tried all the usual cures: Ginger, watermelon, saltines, graham crackers, ice water, etc., etc.

You laugh at these things. Our normal lackadaisical eating schedule has been supplanted by your demands: YOU WILL BRING FOOD EVERY THREE HOURS. I am horrified to find myself in charge of the menu planning, which is sort of like letting a blind man fly a plane: it's only a matter of time before the whole thing becomes a smoking crater in the ground. You'll find out soon enough what a lousy chef your father is. Thankfully, there has only been one time mommy has sent food back to the kitchen, a dark experience involving a bean burrito unknowingly sabotaged with zucchini. You and mommy both don't like zucchini. Bananas and cantaloupe are always welcome on the menu, but when you get tired of these failsafes, we're fucked.

Meanwhile, the trick has been to keep an outward sense of normalcy while we wait for the first trimester to pass while lying to everybody. Sorry, everyone, we're sorry for the subterfuge, avoidance, and outright lies when you've asked how things are going: "Nothing's new here." The truth is, we're both worn out. Your mother's had to beg off from dinner plans due to 'food poisoning' once already, and we're trying to avoid any social occasion that involves alcohol. This has not been 100% successful, especially given our, ahem, well-known love for the grape and grain. You'll find out about that, too. Meanwhile the secret is killing me.

March 11.
Dear Fig,
Today your parents dragged themselves out of bed to be in the city by 7:45 for a more comprehensive checkup at the hospital, a scant two days after the federally mandated joke called Daylight Savings Time. See how much we love you? You'll find out how grumpy we are at six in the morning in a couple of months.

We got some higher-resolution pictures of you from a cheerless technician who jabbed the sensor clear through to mommy's spine, and for the first time we heard the strong, clear whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of your heartbeat, which made me dizzy with pride. You look good! You have a nose, and little arms, and every time the tech bonked you on the head with the sensor you jumped around like a flea. You're a bit larger than a fig, actually—eight centimeters, to be exact. So we want you to know that you're ahead of schedule and to slow down a little. Your neural tube looks good, which is a relief. We talked to the counsellors about our family histories and tried to remember all the aches and pains and diseases that run through our family trees, and then they took about a gallon of your mommy's blood for testing, and then we were done and it was time for a SANDWICH.

Mommy is holding up well, considering you make her feel like throwing up all the time. I'm running out of ideas for dinner, though, so I'd appreciate it if you'd lift the ban on vegetables, chicken, potatoes, salad, and, well, everything else besides cantaloupe, bean burritos and Trader Joe's Ginger Almond & Cashew Granola cereal. Because they can't make enough of that stuff if that's all the two of you can eat.

Lately there's been a lot of talk about subprime mortgages, stagflation, and unemployment. These are all fancy terms for HOLY SHIT THE SKY IS FALLING. They say "timing is everything", and it looks like we've picked a swell time to start our new family. Things are still reasonably OK right now, but I'm hoping the country hasn't devolved to a Road Warrior state of anarchy by the time you're ready to pop out. All of this cheerful banter has daddy laying awake late at night pondering different ways of earning money to feed you. But don't worry, little one. I'll do whatever I've got to do to keep you safe, warm, and happy.

March 18.
Dear Lime,
Today was a huge day for the three of us. We saw the OB this morning to listen to your heartbeat, which always chokes me up, and every time we talk with her I like her better. I hope she's the one who hands you to your mother on your birthday. We started making some calls to my family to give them the good news, and sent your first picture, and I'd like to thank you for the best birthday present EVER.

We've started telling a few people now, which is alternately exciting and tiring. Your grandparents are thrilled, and they're chomping at the bit to spoil you rotten with all kinds of things they never would have dreamed of giving us, their children. Your great-grandfather really couldn't hear us too well, but after the fifth or sixth time shouting "We're having a baby" into the phone, I think he got it. It's this whole complicated thing with his hearing aid and batteries...we'll explain that to you someday. Hopefully you will get to meet him in person, and hopefully he'll be able to hear you.

Mommy would like to thank you for reducing the level of nausea to a dull roar. The past four or five days has been much better on her, and it's good to see the two of you up and moving around. The three of us took a drive to Lancaster this past weekend to peep some furniture at an outlet store, and you both held up surprisingly well. She's now deep in migraine territory though, which means many evenings are spent in a dark, quiet cave awaiting the bliss of sleep. The cats are not happy with the new arrangement, because they are now banished to the basement each evening, following a frightening moment when one of them used your head for a launching pad (sorry about that). And hey! That Which Shall Not Be Named isn't so vomit-inducing anymore! Talking about it is still tricky, and smelling it still isn't acceptable, but she can actually fix some things for herself in the morning, to which I have to say THANK YOU, because suddenly you've decided that you're getting the two of you up at 6:30AM, and I just can't hang with that.

March 23.
Dear Medium Shrimp,
Yeah, I'm sorry you're now being compared to shellfish. I think they could have come up with something more imaginative than an hors d'oeuvre, and my guess is that you're larger than that anyhow. I've never had the pleasure of eating a shrimp bigger than a lime, but I bet it would be good. I'm sure you'll smell better than shrimp, unless it's shrimp with Old Bay. In which case daddy might have to snack on one of your arms with a cold beer. And hey, what's this whole thing about the smell of beer making mommy want to puke her guts out? You're Irish, kid! Beer is the lifeblood of our people! And your father just learned how to brew it for himself. This is a cruel joke, little one.

This weekend, some carefully laid plans to tell your mother's family at Easter dinner were waylaid by an abrupt visit to the emergency room (not you or your mother, so don't worry), but your aunt is now at home and doing fine. We did finally share the good news with them, even if it wasn't quite the way we wanted, which means it's now time to notify the internets. Dear Internets: WE'RE HAVING A BABY.

Posted on March 25, 2008 4:00 PM | link to this entry | comments (2)