If you are pregnant, or ever have been pregnant, and do not find this hilarious...I feel sorry for you.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Anywhere I lay my head I'm gonna call my home...
This time next week, we'll finally have made the big move to our new place in Oak Park. It's been a huge point of anxiety and stress for me ever since we were approved for the place, and began hammering out time lines for when we would be there. Because of the huge chunk o' cash needed for the first month's rent PLUS security deposit (1 1/2 mos rent ... ay dios mio!,) it was concerning at first that we'd be able to make our...er, my deadline of June 1st (*I'm having a really hard time accepting the whole 'can't lift this/that' and 'taking it easy' stuff, and want to be able to contribute as much as I can, while I can.) BUT, we got a budget together and a plan and I've been really pleased with how everything has come together to make it all happen. Kudos to us, and for those of our family and friends who are providing more support and help than we could've hoped for.
The place? Awesome. I think we both knew as soon as we walked in and peeked around it was where we wanted to be. SO much friggin' space for the kitties to roam around in, and I about pooped my pants when I spied the jumbo-sized kitchen with counterspacegalore, and a vintage butcher's block built in to the wall (SQUEE!) The neighborhood is ridiculously charming, and nearly everything (and I mean everything: library, movie theater, restaurants, farmer's market, metra AND cta,) is within a stone's throw from the apartment. Oh yeah, and there's a Five Guys down the block, too. Score one for the Beast :-)
As much as I'm anticipating being in our new place, tonight - as I continue the arduous task of packing up my little life in flimsy cardboard boxes - I can't help but start to feel slightly nostalgic about leaving this old place. I've been at the same address for almost as long as I've lived in the city, give a year. It's been my haven and my sanctuary, and first "permanent" address since...well, ever.
As the young child of a divorced family, I was constantly shuttled between residencies: weekdays with Mom, weekends with Dad. Some nights I would spend with grandparents, while Mom (or Dad) worked the night shift. As I got older, things changed...but not really: I got a little more say over my "this house/that house" schedule, but the older I got, the more crap I had to lug around - I always felt as if I was living out of a suitcase. Hell, most of the time I actually was. College came, and I was thrilled to finally have all my shit in one place. But with every year came a new dorm, or a new apartment, and EVERY summer I found myself where I find myself tonight: among a tower of cardboard boxes, armed to the teeth with packing tape and a Sharpie. So I'm beginning to understand exactly why I never bothered to move the last few years, and why this move is causing me to lash out irrationally at Sean when he (what I perceive to be) carelessly removes the magnetic poetry from the side of the dishwasher.
This was THE first place that was truly MY place. A home of my own creation. And just as I'm finally in that comfy zone, I'm find myself abandoning it to move to new place that will never, ever be just my place. It will be ours. (Then later this year...ours + 1.) And that's exciting, yes...but terrifying, too.
I wonder if having this kid will ever make me NOT feel sometimes like such a scared, helpless little kid myself.
The place? Awesome. I think we both knew as soon as we walked in and peeked around it was where we wanted to be. SO much friggin' space for the kitties to roam around in, and I about pooped my pants when I spied the jumbo-sized kitchen with counterspacegalore, and a vintage butcher's block built in to the wall (SQUEE!) The neighborhood is ridiculously charming, and nearly everything (and I mean everything: library, movie theater, restaurants, farmer's market, metra AND cta,) is within a stone's throw from the apartment. Oh yeah, and there's a Five Guys down the block, too. Score one for the Beast :-)
As much as I'm anticipating being in our new place, tonight - as I continue the arduous task of packing up my little life in flimsy cardboard boxes - I can't help but start to feel slightly nostalgic about leaving this old place. I've been at the same address for almost as long as I've lived in the city, give a year. It's been my haven and my sanctuary, and first "permanent" address since...well, ever.
As the young child of a divorced family, I was constantly shuttled between residencies: weekdays with Mom, weekends with Dad. Some nights I would spend with grandparents, while Mom (or Dad) worked the night shift. As I got older, things changed...but not really: I got a little more say over my "this house/that house" schedule, but the older I got, the more crap I had to lug around - I always felt as if I was living out of a suitcase. Hell, most of the time I actually was. College came, and I was thrilled to finally have all my shit in one place. But with every year came a new dorm, or a new apartment, and EVERY summer I found myself where I find myself tonight: among a tower of cardboard boxes, armed to the teeth with packing tape and a Sharpie. So I'm beginning to understand exactly why I never bothered to move the last few years, and why this move is causing me to lash out irrationally at Sean when he (what I perceive to be) carelessly removes the magnetic poetry from the side of the dishwasher.
This was THE first place that was truly MY place. A home of my own creation. And just as I'm finally in that comfy zone, I'm find myself abandoning it to move to new place that will never, ever be just my place. It will be ours. (Then later this year...ours + 1.) And that's exciting, yes...but terrifying, too.
I wonder if having this kid will ever make me NOT feel sometimes like such a scared, helpless little kid myself.
Monday, May 17, 2010
(Possible) Contact
So there we are, sitting on the couch when Jess lets out an, “Oh.” Concerned, I ask her what’s wrong. She indicates her tummy and my Dad-alarms go off. I perk up as if I’d be able to dive in there and assist should anything actually be wrong. I place my hand on her tummy and rest it there for a moment.
Woah. I definitely felt something. To be sure, I mute the television (because, you know, that helps me FEEL things…). There it is again! It’s a huge surprise to me and I react accordingly. I mean, sure I know there’s a baby in there…but to feel it for the first time is totally different. It’s confirmation that there really IS something in there.
I let out a yell and bicycle my legs for a second. It was a mixture of giddy and terrified. Movement is a great sign (the doctor said so), but it’s SO FREAKING WEIRD. Seriously. There is a…THING in there. AND IT’S MOVING.
Next thing I know, Jess is up and running toward the bathroom. Ten minutes later, she emerges and says, “Well, it’s possible that could have just been gas.” We laugh.
Tell you what, even if that WAS just gas…it was still a wonderful reality-check. There’s going to be a time in the near future when I can actually see the imprint of a foot on her belly, so this should be nothing, right? Well, it was something all right. It was (possibly) the first time I’ve made contact with our child.
It’s just one world-changing moment after another. First there was the, “I’m pregnant.” Then there was the first heartbeat. The first ultrasound. The first trip to Babies-R-Us. And now, first movement. Each time I thought, “This can’t possibly get any more real.” It’s crazy to think that my entire life is going to be full of those moments. It’s scary, but REALLY exciting.
And now for something completely different.
I’d like to address the well documented “Second trimester blonde moments.” Jessica is THE most “on top of it” person I’ve ever met. She ALWAYS has her shit in order, and I love her to death for it. The list making, the reminders, the coupon cutting…she is VERY rarely unprepared or off base about anything. Still, there have been far more moments than usual where I’ve had to question her sanity. Anyone who knows me understands that I have an absolutely terrible memory. That being said, Jess’ memory has been worse than mine at times. I’ll remind her of something she said (or didn’t say) a mere hour ago, and she’ll deny it completely. I know she’s not lying about it, but hearing how adamant she is to the contrary makes me question MY OWN sanity.
Given the amount of hormones that are coursing through her body at this time, I find the best recourse is to agree with her 100%, no matter what. “You’re NOT holding an ice cream cone right now, honey? I believe you.” And so on.
That’s not to say I haven’t had my own behavioral issues lately. For some reason (can’t imagine what) I’ve been considerably more protective of her. Crossing a parking lot together, I’m scanning the area like a hawk. Driving down the highway, I’m estimating the other cars’ trajectories, ready to grab the wheel and perform evasive maneuvers. This may not SOUND like a big deal, but there are moments where I’m sure I overdo it a bit.
One such moment occurred yesterday while we were out running errands. A terrible Chicago driver (read: Chicago driver) honked at us as we were parallel parking. Seeing as we’d had our turn signal on for a good minute before we stopped, this shouldn’t have surprised the guy one bit. As this honk-happy prick drives by us, Jessica leans out the window and, to put it delicately, lets him know what she thinks of him. Now, this sort of thing isn’t abnormal. I’ve seen it a hundred times. It probably shouldn’t have mattered to me, but this time it did…
See, in MY head, this guy was going to stop his car, get out a massive flamethrower, and dispose of my new family. So what did I do? Well, I did what any other intelligent person would have done in my situation. I turned to my already seething pregnant fiancé and told her to knock it off.
Uh-oh.
So there’s a very fine line to tow. I don’t want either of my babies (Jess & the Beast – not twins, settle down) to be in harm’s way. I don’t want there to be even one spark for a potentially risky situation, and a dangerous one at that. At the same time, the absolute LAST thing I should do is further aggravate a very beautiful and understanding explosion of hormones with a snide comment. So…lesson learned. Does the road-rage upset me? Yeah. Do I think it’s unnecessary? Yeah. Even so, next time that happens I’m going to have both middle fingers fully extended and the filthiest thing I can muster up spewing from my mouth at this extremely unfortunate yet-to-be-determined stranger.
I mean…better him than me, right?
Woah. I definitely felt something. To be sure, I mute the television (because, you know, that helps me FEEL things…). There it is again! It’s a huge surprise to me and I react accordingly. I mean, sure I know there’s a baby in there…but to feel it for the first time is totally different. It’s confirmation that there really IS something in there.
I let out a yell and bicycle my legs for a second. It was a mixture of giddy and terrified. Movement is a great sign (the doctor said so), but it’s SO FREAKING WEIRD. Seriously. There is a…THING in there. AND IT’S MOVING.
Next thing I know, Jess is up and running toward the bathroom. Ten minutes later, she emerges and says, “Well, it’s possible that could have just been gas.” We laugh.
Tell you what, even if that WAS just gas…it was still a wonderful reality-check. There’s going to be a time in the near future when I can actually see the imprint of a foot on her belly, so this should be nothing, right? Well, it was something all right. It was (possibly) the first time I’ve made contact with our child.
It’s just one world-changing moment after another. First there was the, “I’m pregnant.” Then there was the first heartbeat. The first ultrasound. The first trip to Babies-R-Us. And now, first movement. Each time I thought, “This can’t possibly get any more real.” It’s crazy to think that my entire life is going to be full of those moments. It’s scary, but REALLY exciting.
And now for something completely different.
I’d like to address the well documented “Second trimester blonde moments.” Jessica is THE most “on top of it” person I’ve ever met. She ALWAYS has her shit in order, and I love her to death for it. The list making, the reminders, the coupon cutting…she is VERY rarely unprepared or off base about anything. Still, there have been far more moments than usual where I’ve had to question her sanity. Anyone who knows me understands that I have an absolutely terrible memory. That being said, Jess’ memory has been worse than mine at times. I’ll remind her of something she said (or didn’t say) a mere hour ago, and she’ll deny it completely. I know she’s not lying about it, but hearing how adamant she is to the contrary makes me question MY OWN sanity.
Given the amount of hormones that are coursing through her body at this time, I find the best recourse is to agree with her 100%, no matter what. “You’re NOT holding an ice cream cone right now, honey? I believe you.” And so on.
That’s not to say I haven’t had my own behavioral issues lately. For some reason (can’t imagine what) I’ve been considerably more protective of her. Crossing a parking lot together, I’m scanning the area like a hawk. Driving down the highway, I’m estimating the other cars’ trajectories, ready to grab the wheel and perform evasive maneuvers. This may not SOUND like a big deal, but there are moments where I’m sure I overdo it a bit.
One such moment occurred yesterday while we were out running errands. A terrible Chicago driver (read: Chicago driver) honked at us as we were parallel parking. Seeing as we’d had our turn signal on for a good minute before we stopped, this shouldn’t have surprised the guy one bit. As this honk-happy prick drives by us, Jessica leans out the window and, to put it delicately, lets him know what she thinks of him. Now, this sort of thing isn’t abnormal. I’ve seen it a hundred times. It probably shouldn’t have mattered to me, but this time it did…
See, in MY head, this guy was going to stop his car, get out a massive flamethrower, and dispose of my new family. So what did I do? Well, I did what any other intelligent person would have done in my situation. I turned to my already seething pregnant fiancé and told her to knock it off.
Uh-oh.
So there’s a very fine line to tow. I don’t want either of my babies (Jess & the Beast – not twins, settle down) to be in harm’s way. I don’t want there to be even one spark for a potentially risky situation, and a dangerous one at that. At the same time, the absolute LAST thing I should do is further aggravate a very beautiful and understanding explosion of hormones with a snide comment. So…lesson learned. Does the road-rage upset me? Yeah. Do I think it’s unnecessary? Yeah. Even so, next time that happens I’m going to have both middle fingers fully extended and the filthiest thing I can muster up spewing from my mouth at this extremely unfortunate yet-to-be-determined stranger.
I mean…better him than me, right?
Sunday, May 16, 2010
A Beast by any other Name...
So.....
There's been a bit of a buzz lately about our chosen nickname for the lil' one. From more than a few individuals. Their reactions range from the slightly annoyed to the extremely offended, but the general consensus is the choice terminology for our unborn child is quite the inappropriate one.
When the opinions of said individuals began to trickle in, I did what any other hormonally-charged impregnated female would do: I flipped out like a four-year old, threw myself on the bed and began to cry uncontrollably. I hadn't even popped the kid out, and already felt like I had failed as a parent. Feelings of inadequacy flooded in and I felt powerless to stop them; I was the straight-A student who had brought home a B, and disappointed them all. Luckily, the Boy let this go on for about 2 minutes before he strolled in and put it a stop to it all by offering me some perspective, and a shin-kicking reality check. (Did I mention I love him madly and can't wait to marry him and have his babies? Oh,...right....)
Despite popular belief (and personal aspirations,) I am not made of stone. In fact, I'm an extremely sensitive individual; one of my worst flaws is that I care too much about what others think of me and my actions, and have been known to go to ridiculous lengths to avoid conflict and please everyone in the process. That, in itself, isn't necessarily a bad attribute to have - BUT, when it is at the expense of my own happiness, my own wishes...well, my friends, that's when it becomes a bit different.
From the moment I first found out about the life growing inside me, I felt a connection to it. The connection to what it was doing, how it was growing, how it was changing and changing me. The first time I verbalized this connection to the Boy, the name just rolled out of my mouth. Without premeditation, or thought. We were discuss dinner plans, or something similar, and I casually told him that the Beast demanded Mexican that night. He stopped, and gave me a look, and we both started laughing. Not just because it was unexpected or funny, but because it was so us. It was as if it already understood what sort of family it was being born into.
We didn't choose "The Beast," the Beast chose for itself.
Lots of expectant gals have their "beans" and their "bumps," and that's just fine. But that's not who I am/who we three are. Does that mean that I'm any less excited about the little one? That I acknowledge the miracle of its existence with any less love and adoration as the mothers who regard their unborn children with conventionally cuter monikers? Hell to the NO. And, by the way, if any of you happen to think otherwise you can do one of the following: a.) keep it to yourself. b.) let me know, and you and I will have a private discussion about the future of our friendship, or c.) don't read this blog :-) I realize that this is just the beginning of the onslaught, and so I'd better get used to it. Because once you're pregnant, everyone - and I mean everyone - starts coming out of the woodwork to offer you a shit ton of unsolicited advice. *And, on an related-but-unrelated-note, many thanks to those mommies who have offered sound advice (Sarah M. and Sara B!) that reaches beyond the cliches of others'!
So I'm steppin' off the pregnant lady pedestal, now. 'Cause, yes, my back hurts... but mainly, there's some Ben & Jerry's Oatmeal Cookie Chunk calling me from the freezer.
'Night, y'all.
There's been a bit of a buzz lately about our chosen nickname for the lil' one. From more than a few individuals. Their reactions range from the slightly annoyed to the extremely offended, but the general consensus is the choice terminology for our unborn child is quite the inappropriate one.
When the opinions of said individuals began to trickle in, I did what any other hormonally-charged impregnated female would do: I flipped out like a four-year old, threw myself on the bed and began to cry uncontrollably. I hadn't even popped the kid out, and already felt like I had failed as a parent. Feelings of inadequacy flooded in and I felt powerless to stop them; I was the straight-A student who had brought home a B, and disappointed them all. Luckily, the Boy let this go on for about 2 minutes before he strolled in and put it a stop to it all by offering me some perspective, and a shin-kicking reality check. (Did I mention I love him madly and can't wait to marry him and have his babies? Oh,...right....)
Despite popular belief (and personal aspirations,) I am not made of stone. In fact, I'm an extremely sensitive individual; one of my worst flaws is that I care too much about what others think of me and my actions, and have been known to go to ridiculous lengths to avoid conflict and please everyone in the process. That, in itself, isn't necessarily a bad attribute to have - BUT, when it is at the expense of my own happiness, my own wishes...well, my friends, that's when it becomes a bit different.
From the moment I first found out about the life growing inside me, I felt a connection to it. The connection to what it was doing, how it was growing, how it was changing and changing me. The first time I verbalized this connection to the Boy, the name just rolled out of my mouth. Without premeditation, or thought. We were discuss dinner plans, or something similar, and I casually told him that the Beast demanded Mexican that night. He stopped, and gave me a look, and we both started laughing. Not just because it was unexpected or funny, but because it was so us. It was as if it already understood what sort of family it was being born into.
We didn't choose "The Beast," the Beast chose for itself.
Lots of expectant gals have their "beans" and their "bumps," and that's just fine. But that's not who I am/who we three are. Does that mean that I'm any less excited about the little one? That I acknowledge the miracle of its existence with any less love and adoration as the mothers who regard their unborn children with conventionally cuter monikers? Hell to the NO. And, by the way, if any of you happen to think otherwise you can do one of the following: a.) keep it to yourself. b.) let me know, and you and I will have a private discussion about the future of our friendship, or c.) don't read this blog :-) I realize that this is just the beginning of the onslaught, and so I'd better get used to it. Because once you're pregnant, everyone - and I mean everyone - starts coming out of the woodwork to offer you a shit ton of unsolicited advice. *And, on an related-but-unrelated-note, many thanks to those mommies who have offered sound advice (Sarah M. and Sara B!) that reaches beyond the cliches of others'!
So I'm steppin' off the pregnant lady pedestal, now. 'Cause, yes, my back hurts... but mainly, there's some Ben & Jerry's Oatmeal Cookie Chunk calling me from the freezer.
'Night, y'all.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
My Baby's Got a < 3
...And that lil' sucker's ticker was going STRONG at yesterday's prenatal visit! It was even playing a little game of hide-and-seek with the doc, as she had to keep moving the wand around to keep up with it. This little gymnastics show, in combination with it's strong, house music heartbeat, is a fantastic sign that I'm growing a super-healthy kid inside there.
Happy Mother's day to me :-)
Happy Mother's day to me :-)
Thursday, May 6, 2010
There Will Be Blood
16 weeks down, 24 more to go!
It's weird to think I'm almost to that half-way point, because it doesn't feel like it at all. In fact, time seems to be flying by these days - so much so, that I'm freaked out there won't be enough time for everything that goes along with this whole baby thang. There's so much going on these days - what with the big Move on the horizon, job-hunting for the boy, coordinating a yard sale, looking for a ob/gyn near the new digs, deciding on midwife-assisted vs. hospital birth, work work WORK - I almost forgot to schedule my next prenatal visit, and would have had my amazingly perceptive fiance extraordinaire not reminded me. Multiple times.
I'm not usually the type that has to be told something twice, but lately the first trimester symptoms of morning sickness have been replaced by a case of absent-mindedness, aka: the second trimester "dum-dums." This dumb blond phase is something that all those pregnancy books mention, but definitely never something I thought I would experience. I mean, I'm a chronic list-maker. At work, I know the names of mostly all our clients and their pets, and greet them as such (without checking the scheduler to confirm) as they walk up to the desk. Cum laude graduation status aside, I think I pass for a pretty intelligent, "with-it" person. But lately, I can't even remember to tie my own freakin' shoes before I walk out the door (and I CAN still reach them, damnit!)
However, there are other, more shocking, symptoms occuring lately...
For example, during pregnancy one forgets about the little monthly visitor usually bestowed upon us. Other than the occasional glance at the unopened box of tampons under my bathroom sink (purchased a few days before knowledge of the Beast's existence came to light. Oh Creator, you are hilarious,) I had, myself, all but forgotton the terms "period" and "menstral." That is, until one unsuspecting night I lounged on the couch, munching away on some Snyder's honey mustard pretzels bites and watching Modern Family. I reached up to wipe away some crumbs that had, themselves, been lounging on my upper lip...only to stare at my hand in horror as I pulled it away.
I had finally gotten my period.
And it was flowing steadily...out of MY NOSE.
I leapt to the bathroom, sending pretzels and sleeping kitties flying, and held my head over the sink while the blood oozed out. At the same time, I'm grasping for any type of tissues and/or washcloth within arms reach and trying my best not to panic. The last time I had gotten a nosebleed was in college: I had just gotten out of the shower, and Sean came over to my place for one of our first dates. I remember vividly the look of horror on his face as he came through the door; me, in my robe, smiling happily and telling him it would just be a minute. His reply of "Um...I think there's...something on your face." My response of a quick mirror glance and immediate mortification. (In truth, I believe that it was, in fact, this exact moment that he fell in love with me and on which our entire present is based.)
Eventually, the bleeding slowed and my anxiety levels dropped. I ended up following up with "What-to-Scare Yourself-Shitless-With-When-You're-Expecting," and found out the second trimester also contains a bevy of other possibilities - one being nosebleeds. Apparently they can happen due to a combination of congestion/dry nasal passages and the surplus of blood my body is now pumping to fuel the Beast, and its placenta (every traveler should have a carry-on, right?)
Looks like I won't have to wait another 6 months to put those tampons to use, after all.
It's weird to think I'm almost to that half-way point, because it doesn't feel like it at all. In fact, time seems to be flying by these days - so much so, that I'm freaked out there won't be enough time for everything that goes along with this whole baby thang. There's so much going on these days - what with the big Move on the horizon, job-hunting for the boy, coordinating a yard sale, looking for a ob/gyn near the new digs, deciding on midwife-assisted vs. hospital birth, work work WORK - I almost forgot to schedule my next prenatal visit, and would have had my amazingly perceptive fiance extraordinaire not reminded me. Multiple times.
I'm not usually the type that has to be told something twice, but lately the first trimester symptoms of morning sickness have been replaced by a case of absent-mindedness, aka: the second trimester "dum-dums." This dumb blond phase is something that all those pregnancy books mention, but definitely never something I thought I would experience. I mean, I'm a chronic list-maker. At work, I know the names of mostly all our clients and their pets, and greet them as such (without checking the scheduler to confirm) as they walk up to the desk. Cum laude graduation status aside, I think I pass for a pretty intelligent, "with-it" person. But lately, I can't even remember to tie my own freakin' shoes before I walk out the door (and I CAN still reach them, damnit!)
However, there are other, more shocking, symptoms occuring lately...
For example, during pregnancy one forgets about the little monthly visitor usually bestowed upon us. Other than the occasional glance at the unopened box of tampons under my bathroom sink (purchased a few days before knowledge of the Beast's existence came to light. Oh Creator, you are hilarious,) I had, myself, all but forgotton the terms "period" and "menstral." That is, until one unsuspecting night I lounged on the couch, munching away on some Snyder's honey mustard pretzels bites and watching Modern Family. I reached up to wipe away some crumbs that had, themselves, been lounging on my upper lip...only to stare at my hand in horror as I pulled it away.
I had finally gotten my period.
And it was flowing steadily...out of MY NOSE.
I leapt to the bathroom, sending pretzels and sleeping kitties flying, and held my head over the sink while the blood oozed out. At the same time, I'm grasping for any type of tissues and/or washcloth within arms reach and trying my best not to panic. The last time I had gotten a nosebleed was in college: I had just gotten out of the shower, and Sean came over to my place for one of our first dates. I remember vividly the look of horror on his face as he came through the door; me, in my robe, smiling happily and telling him it would just be a minute. His reply of "Um...I think there's...something on your face." My response of a quick mirror glance and immediate mortification. (In truth, I believe that it was, in fact, this exact moment that he fell in love with me and on which our entire present is based.)
Eventually, the bleeding slowed and my anxiety levels dropped. I ended up following up with "What-to-Scare Yourself-Shitless-With-When-You're-Expecting," and found out the second trimester also contains a bevy of other possibilities - one being nosebleeds. Apparently they can happen due to a combination of congestion/dry nasal passages and the surplus of blood my body is now pumping to fuel the Beast, and its placenta (every traveler should have a carry-on, right?)
Looks like I won't have to wait another 6 months to put those tampons to use, after all.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Sean's 1st post
“I get to coach Little League baseball.” This is all I’ve been able to think about since we found out we’re having a baby. I get to coach Little League baseball, and no one can think I’m weird or creepy because hey - I’ve got a kid on the team.
Okay, that’s not ALL I’ve been thinking about:
I’d like to coach basketball too. Seriously though, whether our child is a boy or a girl…they’re going to play organized sports.
Okay, okay, I’m done joking around…for now. I can’t tell you how excited I am to be a father. Whatever its gender, this beast is going to be SO loved it’s ridiculous. Jess & I are extremely excited to be starting this new chapter of our lives together, and the support and encouragement we've received has been amazing. We seriously can't thank everyone enough for their good vibes and well wishes.
Now, the first time all of this really “hit” me was during the first ultrasound. Even the previous visit in which we heard its little heartbeat for the first time, it didn’t really set it. When I saw this…THING for the first time though…blurry like Sasquatch, sleeping inside my fiancé’s uterus – it was beautiful. I allowed myself to really get excited for the first time.
That excitement lasted for about thirty seconds. At which point, the doctor started rattling off all of the terrible diseases it could be born with. Don’t get me wrong; Jess & I are going to love this baby even it’s nothing but stumps and a wad of hair. Still, there are SO many things to stress out about, my mind hasn’t stopped racing. Part of me welcomes the worry of medical issues, if only because it distracts from the financial issues.
These first couple months have been weirdly rough for me. So much of the focus is on Jessica (as it should be, and probably will be ‘til it pops out) that I feel helpless most of the time. I mean, what can I really do at this point? Make sure she’s comfortable, try not to irritate her (any more than I usually do), and remind her that she’s going to be a fantastic mother. Oh, and read LOTS of books. Sometimes I feel guilty about everything – like I’ve infected her with this alien organism, and now I just get to sit back and wait until it bursts from between her legs, probably wearing a top hat and whirling a cane. How those got into Jessica’s uterus…I’ll never tell. “Well now wait a second, Sean, what if it pops out wearing a dress and tiara?” Glad you asked, Sean. If that happens, it probably means he’s gay.
Truth be told, I’ve never really thought too hard about whether or not it’s going to be a boy or a girl. I meant what I said earlier about stumps and hair. Really, at this point it’s completely out of our control. Dwight from The Office would disagree:
“It’s simple. For the first hour after conception, apply extreme heat to the uterus. For the next three months, extreme cold.”
Tell you what though – for all the stress and worry and fear and uncertainty that creeps into my head hourly...for all the terrible and disturbing things I’ve never even thought to think about until now…I know that whenever things get tough, no matter what fears creep in – “I get to coach Little League baseball.”
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