The Final Countdown

We are down to the last few days. I will be a father sometime in the month of August.

The doctors have decided Brooke’s gestational diabetes necessitates the birth of our baby soon. They have decided if the baby does not come by the due date of Aug. 28, we will induce. We have chosen the very next day. We’ll be at the hospital by 6 a.m. Aug. 29.

This kind of takes a little of the fun out of it. If your idea of fun is me getting a call at work or the grocery store or my fantasy football draft or the Frisch’s all-you-can-eat salad bar and panicking, frantically driving home to throw my pregnant wife in the car and burn rubber on the 20-minute drive to the hospital.

Now that we know the day and time, it will be a genteel ride with no traffic – who’s on the road at 5:30 a.m., hookers getting off the night shift? – and me driving a leisurely 45 mph. I probably won't even turn on my radar detector because cops aren't up that early, are they?

What am I expecting at the hospital? Well….

I anticipate a lot of pain. I’ve got mad respect for mothers. I have no idea how they do what they do. The best engineers in the world can’t figure out how to fit an object that large through an opening that small. I expect Brooke to scream and yell like she’s at an English soccer match. As she says, it would be like me passing a kidney stone the size of a basketball. Triple ouch.

I anticipate being the bad guy. I’ve seen the TV shows. Inevitably, the mothers yell at the fathers for getting them pregnant and putting them in this situation. My wife is a saint, but under these conditions, even she might crack. My thick skin will take the insults and I will rely on my cat-like quickness to escape or deflect any blows she throws my way.

I expect to see some things I really don’t want to see. Remember why they call Ms. Nasty by that name – she tells you how it is in there. It is like Normandy on D-Day. There will be blood and guts everywhere and I will be right in the middle. I might need ear plugs, nose plugs and some of those blinders race horses wear, but I am going to gut it out.

I expect to be tired. One friend told me to pitch a tent, I’ll be there awhile. His wife went in on a Friday and gave birth on a Sunday. Oh joy. Sleep will be nearly impossible and I am expected to work the whole time I am there. I practiced my massage techniques in one of the birthing classes and my hands were tired after about five minutes. I’m expected to do much more when the doctor yells “Action” for real. I’m not exactly Richard Simmons when it comes to physical activity.

I anticipate some boredom. If this plays out as long as some people say, there’s going to be some down time. Will they have wi-fi for my computer? How many channels does the TV get? Will we watch Brooke’s reality TV shows or can I convince her to take in a true-crime murder on the ID Channel? That’s the way to put her in the birthing mood -- kids who kill their parents. Lord knows I don’t care who the hell The Bachelorette picks. If I have to watch enough of those reality shows, I’ll beg Brooke to let me trade places with her.

I expect to be nervous. Scared is more like it. My heart pounds now thinking about it. I know even in this day and age of modern medical technology, child birth is not without risks. The thought that something might happen to this sweet little daughter we have dreamed of scares the hell out of me. Sure, I am nervous that she have all her fingers and toes and she comes out as perfect as possible, but I am scared that something worse could happen. I pray this goes smoothly.

I’m even more worried about something happening to my best friend. We’re signed to a lifetime contract. It took me 45 years to find someone to spend the rest of my life with, and I don’t want to lose her. Everyone always accused me of waiting for the perfect woman. I was just waiting for the right woman. I will not part with her, not even for the sake of my daughter. I don’t even know if I could be a parent without Brooke to guide and support me.

But most of all, I expect the unexpected. Something is going to happen to me when my little girl finally comes into this world, and I can’t wait to feel what it is. I joke about my lack of enthusiasm for the pomp and circumstance surrounding pregnancy. I exaggerate my ineptness at parenting. I make fun of my perceived lack of excitement. The truth is, this is the biggest thing that will ever happen to me. Holding her will be like looking back at my past and into my future all at the same time. Those first few minutes, I am going to shut out everything in that room and connect with my daughter. It is not often you meet someone whom you know will completely change your life forever. “Hello, Sydney, I’m daddy. You’re so beautiful. You’re going to make this world a better place.”   

I am thrilled for the future. I am excited about this beautiful little girl bringing youth back into my life. Suddenly, I'll be transported back 35 years. I’ll roll around on the floor like a kid. I’ll laugh at cartoons. I'll play hide and seek. Halloween will frighten me again. I’ll place her tiny hand in mine and we will run through the puddles instead of around them.

This is the end of the pregnancy, but the beginning of the journey. 

The Dingo Ate My Baby!

Preparing the dogs for Sydney’s arrival sometimes has me engaging in embarrassingly foolish behavior.

You will have to read to the end for the worst. First, how I got here…

Brooke has me convinced the dogs will not accept Sydney unless we “handle” this transition right. Apparently she has been reading books by dog psychologists or something. Actually, I don’t know where she got the notion, but I would not be surprised if she reads books by dog psychologists. She’s one of those people who treats her dog like a human, so I am sure she attempts to get some sort of Jedi mind connection with him when I am not around.

By the way, the fact the world has dog psychologists says a lot about the world. There’s nothing wrong with a dog that either a tasty doggie treat or a whack with the New York Times won’t fix. They’re pretty simple creatures.

But if any dog needs a psychologist, it is our Weimaraner, Murphy. You’ll remember my description of him from this post. Long story, short: his nickname is Special Ed.

Brooke is concerned Murphy will feel “misplaced” by Sydney. He has been raised as mama’s “baby” for seven years and she does not feel he’ll adjust well to someone else receiving all of her attention. She’s afraid he might get depressed.

I’ve helped raised Murphy from when he was a pup. I am pretty sure we can cure any problems he has by giving him a pork chop bone or some chicken-fried steak. This is a dog that runs to the dishwasher when it opens because he wants to lick remnants off the plates. Have you ever heard of that disease called Prader-Willi Syndrome, where children can’t stop eating? I think Murphy has it. If we put a 40-pound bag of food in front of him for dinner, one hour later he would be 40 pounds heavier and in a food-induced coma with a look of contentment on his face.

Brooke’s concerns about our German Shepherd are different. She is worried he might EAT our daughter. Vegas has an obsession with children. He’s not mean to them; he thinks every one of them wants to be his best friend. So he spends his time nipping at their hands and arms, trying to get them to play with him.

This causes problems because a German Shepherd’s “nips” hurt. And children are drama queens. A little bit of “hurt” turns into screams for a trip to the emergency room. Sissies.

Side note: I confess to once having this problem. In fourth grade at Franklin Elementary, we started a gang called the Falcons. The initiation into this hard-scrabble group of street toughs was to run down a hill and jump off a bit of a cliff. The fall was about five feet. If you could do it without crying, you were in. Well, I broke my collar bone. I held the tears for all of seventeen seconds. By the time I got to the emergency room, I was screaming like a 12-year-old girl at a Justin Bieber concert. The nurse put up with it for about five minutes and finally said, “Shut the hell up right now. We can’t get you better if all you do is scream. I don’t want to hear it anymore.” Yeah, back then, they could talk to you like that. I didn’t have to be told twice. So I KNOW drama queens.

PS: Because I broke a bone, they made an exception to the crying rule and I was a Falcon for all of fourth grade. Eat your heart out, Bloods and Crips readers.

So Brooke wants us to “ease” our dogs into this. We talk about Sydney like she is a person around them. “This is Sydney’s dresser.” “Sydney is going to sleep here.” “Sydney hates bad doggies that eat her.”

The room itself was a challenge. This room has been an office since I bought the house in 2003. Now it was filled with toys and clothes and girlie little things. Vegas was especially befuddled when things changed. First, his all-male kingdom was infiltrated by Brooke, an enemy spy of the opposite sex, and now the spot where he chewed his ham bones while his daddy watched porn sports on the Internet was becoming a satellite office for Babys-R-Us. His doggie head was about to explode.

We introduced each toy individually. Special Ed thought they were all his. This was not good. He generally chews his toys to bits. So he got a lecture on each and every toy. But it was not all business. When we hung the mobile over the crib and started playing the music, Special Ed cocked his head left and right trying to discern what the hell he was watching. You know how it is when dogs are confused and they start tilting their head back and forth like they’re listening to Sarah Palin explain Paul Revere’s ride or Jessica Simpson discuss how buffalo wings might not be made from buffalo? Always good for a few laughs.

But the most embarrassingly foolish thing I have done to prepare my dogs for the arrival of Sydney is walk around with a stuffed red rabbit and treat it like an actual baby. I call it by her name and hold it and coddle it and act like it is my daughter. I let the dogs sniff it and watch while I tuck it in for the night. Brooke insists this will be good for the dogs and get them used to the baby’s presence. The dogs look at us like we are nuts, but at least they haven’t tried to eat the red rabbit yet. Maybe there is something to this.

But that doesn’t stop me from feeling like a Darwin Award winner for stupidity. I am carrying a doll around acting like it is a real baby so I can teach a lesson to an animal with a brain that is the size of golf ball.

WHO needs a psychologist?

My Wife Says My Posts are Too Long

You know how when you are going to have a baby and you say, “I hope she has your eyes” or “I hope her hair is the same color as yours.”

I love everything about my wife, but I pray Sydney’s head is not as large as her big melon.

Trapped Like Jonah in the Belly of the Whale

This whole baby thing is just an excuse for women to play dress up with baby dolls again.

We already have more than 30 outfits for Sydney. I am pretty sure none of them were purchased by a man. My wife just bought a Halloween outfit that declares Sydney the “Prettiest Pumpkin in the Patch.” Halloween is more than two months away. Babies are pretty much home-bound creatures. Sydney likely will not even leave the house that day.…who will see it? That’s $8 – a six pack – down the drain.

I suspect babies grow fast. She might grow out of some of these outfits before she even tries them on. But this is what women do; they play dress up with babies. They mix and match like they are dressing Lady Gaga.  

All a baby really needs is a diaper and a t-shirt. In the winter, they need some long johns and a winter coat. I’d be happy to let her run around naked until she is 3 or 4. It would save me a lot of money.

These baby showers epitomize the idea of treating your baby like a Malibu Barbie. A bunch of women get together and ooh and ahh over these little outfits that would fit snugly on a Chihuahua. It is like they are all six years old again.

I hate baby showers. Those “couples” showers drive me insane. Whenever I am invited to one of those, I curse the man for letting his wife talk him into it. What a puny little girlie man.

We’ve had three showers. One was thrown by my wife’s family, in Minneapolis. I had no choice but to avoid that one. I need all my vacation days for when my daughter comes.

The second was thrown by her teacher friends after school. A small, intimate gathering. Again, easy for me to miss.

The third one ensnared me like Johah in the belly of the whale. I had no choice but to attend.

My team at work planned a surprise shower for me. I am still not sure how they did it without me knowing. I’m a pretty smart guy and take pride in my ability to sniff out nefarious activity. I have probably only truly been surprised twice in my adult life, once at my 30^th birthday party and now at this shower.

My assistant, who absolutely knew I would not go along with a shower and would have quickly snipped that umbilical cord had I known about it, put it on my calendar as a meeting. I fully expected to discuss a customer service issue. Instead, I walked into a room with 20 women yelling “Surprise!,” a cake and loads of presents.

For the next half hour, I awkwardly opened presents while women oohed and ahhed. I felt like a lingerie model at a Paris fashion show. I was on display.

Don’t get me wrong. I am extremely thankful. These are good people who have good hearts. I’m fortunate to work with such quality folks. Plus, I got a lot of free diapers out of it.

But I don’t really like the focus on me. And I don’t know a onesie from a romper. So I was a little embarrassed by the intense spotlight as I tried to figure out if I was holding something she would wear on her top or bottom.

My wife was invited and she loved it. Of course. She received more outfits to play dress up. More importantly, she got to see me squirm like an unsuspecting scumbag on Dateline’s To Catch a Predator .

That’s fine. If she wants to treat Sydney like an American Girl doll, she can be in charge of all clothing choices. I’ll kindly back out and let her handle ALL onesies, rompers, diapers, pajamas, gowns, diapers, dresses, snap shirts, diapers, socks, shoes, diapers, coats, hats and diapers. I promise to never tread on her territory.   

I'd Rather Tackle Medicaid Cuts than Put Together a Nursery

The colors in our nursery are pink and green. I didn’t have much say in that. I would have preferred orange and black, like the Massillon Tigers, my high school mascot.

We started with a neutral gray paint on the walls. Again, not much say on my behalf. My wife decided shortly after she moved in a couple of years ago that she would repaint every room in our house. There really wasn’t anything wrong with the paint, she just had to put her “mark” on it. It is kind of like a man. There’s nothing wrong with us, but they have to mold us the way they want us.

This painting exercise starts with her asking whether I like certain colors for particular rooms. For example, “Do you like aqua or yellow for the bathroom?” I would inevitably reply, “Whatever you want, hon. I really don’t care.”

Women don't like this kind of answer. 

“You SHOULD care. I NEED your opinion. I need you to weigh in on things. You should care about how our house looks.”

So, I weighed in on the next room. “What color do you like for the bedroom? I’m thinking a light blue. What would you like?” she asked.

“Brooke, I think it would really be cool to have a dark red in the bedroom.”

Silence.

“I think we will go with the light blue.”

Women don’t really want your opinion. They want you to pretend you care and then agree with what they decide.

The truth is, I could care less what color the damn paint is. Men just want functional and practical. They don’t care about the beauty of a room. Women don't care about practicality, they care about how things look. My wife has been on my case since day one about the big wrap-around couch I have in my house. The fact that both of us, our two dogs and our coming bundle of joy can ALL comfortably lie on the couch without touching each other means absolutely nothing to her.

I once had a nine-drawer dresser. It was great for all my clothes. It was easy to fit things in. When Brooke moved in, she decided it was too big for our bedroom. She made me switch to a six-drawer dresser in the guest room. A few months later, she decided that was too big and talked me into a new bedroom set. But the dresser she picked out for me had only three drawers. It looks good in the room, but it is NOT functional. My clothes are stuffed into the drawers like me stuffed into a suit I wore 40 pounds ago. There is no room for give.

So anyway, back to our nursery. When it comes time to put things together and hang things, I am in trouble. I am NOT a handyman. Picture Seinfeld’s Kramer with a hammer. I was a straight A and B student until I hit 7^th-grade Industrial Arts class. My inability to put a 2-by-4 in a vice and saw a straight line landed me my first C. Yes, my valedictorian status was ruined by a damn piece of wood.

The teacher was an a-hole, too. Why are all Industrial-Arts teachers Hitlers with toolbelts? They all have the paddles with holes drilled through them and they walk around like they are Clint Eastwood looking for someone to “make their day.” I signed up for Industrial Arts in ninth grade too, but after a couple of weeks with more crooked saw cuts and a bloody-red ass from run-ins with the teacher’s two-inch thick “Board of Education,” I got smart and dropped the class. Everyone can use another study hall.

I don’t try to fool myself about my handy-man status. I believe in trickle-down economics. If I hire someone to do these projects for me, I am helping the economy. Call me a one-man stimulus.

But Brooke’s dad is a very handy person. In fact, he believes in doing everything himself. The guy once painted his whole two-story house -- up on a ladder and everything. He’s never met a ratchet or socket he didn’t like. I’m sure in his eyes, his daughter marrying a guy who can’t hang a picture straight is a huge failure on his part. To him, I am likely as disappointing as New Coke. Or the movie Gigli. Or Ryan Leaf’s football career. You get the picture.

So, Brooke orders the crib and the dresser “to be assembled.” This is an extreme sin as far as I am concerned. I’d rather pay the $50 for assembly than spend a whole weekend trying to figure out how to screw Part A into Part D.

But Brooke knew her father was coming for a weekend and thought it would be a great project for the two of us to tackle. Thanks, Brooke! Maybe one day I will set it up so you and my mom can visit the Bureau of Motor Vehicles together for a new registration or license. Just a fun way to spend a Saturday.

So her dad and I tackle the crib and dresser. Her brother was here too, but he felt it best to watch sports on television. This might be the last time you ever hear me say this, so listen closely: her brother is a smart man.

By the way, Brooke and her mom tackled the difficult job of shopping for bedroom accessories. Is there any occasion that does not result in a shopping trip for women? Uncle Al just died? “Oh, I will need a dress for the funeral.” The Yoders are doing a barn raising down in Amish country? “Oh, they are going to need a welcome mat. Let’s go to Target.”

The crib was relatively easy; probably only took about two hours. The dresser was a whole other matter. Sweat dripping off my bald head – I never knew how much my head sweated until I didn’t have any hair to absorb it – I would continuously hand him a tool, or hammer in a nail, or read a direction…all incorrectly. Time and time again, he found a way to fix it. But even Mr. Tool Time was struggling with this pesky project. We’d have had better luck tackling the budget deficit. Let John Boehner read these dresser directions; we’ll work on cutting Medicaid.

Several hours later and still not finished, we called it a night and started drinking beer. Now there’s a project I feel confident in tackling. No drills or socket wrenches involved. Just good father-in-law/son-in-law bonding time.

In the morning, I woke up to Brooke and her father finishing the dresser. She apparently became frustrated with our ability to get it done and decided to pitch in herself. Hey, I’m not proud. Don’t let me get in your way. I’ll just watch Sportscenter.

After a couple hours, they unveil the finished project. I walk into our freshly-painted room and spy a beautiful crib-and-dresser combo that would make Martha Stewart smile.  Brooke is beaming. Her dad is sweating, but clearly happy. Her mom comes in so she can also admire the handiwork.

We are all standing there envisioning a tiny Sydney romping around the room with her rattle and pacifier when Brooke says, “Hey, look at these markings on the front of the dresser top.”

We look and can’t figure it out. We examine every inch of the dresser and determine the markings are not right. We tear through the directions and figure out that this particular piece is on backwards. Not a big deal, except every other piece is attached to it. Essentially, we’d have to take the whole thing apart and start all over if we wanted this piece to be right.

Her dad’s brow furrows. His upper lip curls into a snarl. His face gets red. I back up a few feet. He finally says, “Screw it, let’s just leave it like it is. It isn’t hurting anything.”

I nodded my head in agreement. Finally, he was coming around to my way of thinking. A handyman after my own heart.

How to Start a Hell of a Fight with Your Wife

“Feeling the baby kick” is a rite of pregnancy. Every dad has the pleasure of experiencing this first connection with his baby.

The “feel- my-belly” thing has been a source of tension between Brooke and I.

This started at about four months. “Oh, I can feel her kicking! Give me your hand.” Of course, I’d give her my hand. Of course, I would feel nothing. “Oh, just hold it here for a few more minutes,” she’d say. Nothing.

I’d eventually pull my hand away because I had to do important things like plan my fantasy football league roster. This would inevitably be followed by a “You don’t care about the baby!” from my wife.

Look, what might seem like Pele running around scoring goals in your stomach might be undetectable to us men. It is frustrating for me to hold my hand there for an hour and a half and not feel anything.

I have the same problem with those little ultrasound images. My wife will point out the nose, eyes, curve of her elbow….all I see is a Rorschach blot that looks like a pepperoni pizza.

So after several times of going through this feel-my-belly game and never feeling anything, I decided to play a joke on her. We were riding in the car, and I said. “Do you hear that?” Of course there was nothing to hear. Nevertheless, I turned down the radio. “Brooke, it is real faint. Listen close.” Nothing, she said.

I repeated this same routine about every two minutes until Brooke finally threw her hands up and said, in frustration, “I can’t hear anything!!!!”

“Well,” I said calmly, “that frustration is what I feel when you tell me to put my hand on your belly and I can’t feel anything.”

I thought this was an ingenious way to prove my point. In reality, it was a sure-fire way to start what became a tremendous fight. Oh, and did I mention I did this on my way to dinner to celebrate our first anniversary?

I make mistakes. I am not infallible.

Do NOT mess with a pregnant woman. There's a lot of hormonal stuff going on there. I felt like Wile E. Coyote after a couple run-ins with the Road Runner. Do you remember Rocky after he had that first bout with Mr. T? He looked like a jigsaw puzzle with a couple of pieces gone?

My point here is that you mothers need to wait until later in the pregnancy to start that feel-my-belly stuff. I think I first felt the kicks at about 7 ½ months. Now I can even see them. It is a fun and special thing to witness – at the right time.

Otherwise, we dads can just fake it. “Oh god, honey, I can really feel it! That feels so awesome! It was really intense that time!”

Sound familiar, ladies?

Someone Has a Bag Packed and it is Not Mom or Dad

Is it possible for someone to be more excited about the birth of a child than the parents-to-be?

If so, my mom is thisclose to passing me on the excitement meter. She’s as giddy as Charlie Sheen at a pharmaceutical counter.

Yesterday, she informed me she was packing a bag so she would be ready to go to the hospital when I called.

I haven’t even packed my own bag yet. I’m not even sure if Brooke packed a bag yet.

This is not my mom’s first grandchild. She has three grandsons. But her first granddaughter has sent her into a Tasmanian Devil-like tizzy.

It started with her announcing she would quit smoking. My mom, age 62, has smoked since she was a teenager. We’ve tried a gazillion times to get her to quit over the years. She laughs at the threat of lung cancer and an early death. She hacks her way through every morning with a smile on her face. She spends the equivalent of Belgium’s Gross Domestic Product each year on cigarettes. But the announcement of a granddaughter has finally done it. She announced that she knew I DETESTED smoking and she worried it would keep her from her granddaughter, so she was quitting. She’s at eight months and counting. Way to go, mom!

Next, she visited. My mom doesn’t travel much. Even though we only live about four hours away, you’d think I’m in North Korea. She visits less than once a year. I think she has been down here two or three times since we announced the pregnancy and has tried to come a couple more times but we’ve had other commitments.

She called one day a couple weeks ago and wanted to know how long she could stay after the baby is born. She wanted to put in for vacation. How do you put in for vacation when you don’t know what day the baby will be born?

She’s also gone crazy with the gifts. An outfit here.  Some headbands there. A swaddling blanket. When it is all said and done, we’ll probably have enough presents to fill an entire crib to the rim.

It is nice to know Sydney will be surrounded by so much love. But my mom’s exuberance has me a little worried that I’M not excited enough. In fact, there are parts of this whole birth experience that have me a little worried. Both my mom and Brooke’s parents have asked how long they can stay after the birth of the baby. A sleepless wife, a crying baby, my in-laws and my mother all in my tiny house. For a week? Month? How long?

I may take up smoking.

Surrounded by Naked Breasts and Still Bored

Recently, we went to breastfeeding class. You would think I would enjoy any two-hour period when I am surrounded by naked breasts. You would be wrong.

First, the only reason I was at the class was because the dastardly doula from our earlier birthing class casually mentioned she also teaches a breastfeeding class and the mothers usually bring their husbands along. To this point, Brooke was going to the class alone. But with the doula’s proclamation, Brooke immediately looked at me. I didn’t even protest. I simply asked what night it was so I could put it on my calendar.

This gets to this whole new-age dad thing that kind of bothers me. Doesn’t it seem like men have been sucked too far into this whole birth process? Look, I am going to be a better dad than my dad ever was. He only talked to me when he needed to yell at me and straighten my ass out. The only time he ever touched me was when he needed to knock some sense into me. I don’t have to go far to surpass my father in the parenting department.

But do I need to be there at every step of the process? I am pretty sure I will never breastfeed my child. Why waste a class on me? To support my wife? Brooke will be June Cleaver. She doesn’t need Homer Simpson screwing her up.

Some “duties” are just more woman-oriented, and vice versa. I can’t teach her about breastfeeding. She can’t teach me about peeing while standing up.

While I am on the subject, why do I have to be in the room when Sydney comes into the world? Whatever happened to the dad waiting out in the waiting room with a box of cigars? I have heard some stories and I am scared out of my mind on what might happen in there. One buddy was pushed from the room after someone yelled “Code Blue!” and sliced his wife’s belly open in front of him. Another watched as his wife’s internal organs were “hung on a rack” to prepare for a cesarean birth. (Really???? Do I need to see that?) I even saw an Oprah where a group of men proclaimed they could no longer have sex with their wives after witnessing the births of their children. Holy cow!

Is this going to end ugly for me? Let’s just say my head will stay north of the border at all times and if someone yells “Code Blue!” I am going to turn into a combination of Jessie Owens and Ray Charles. I’ll sprint out of there with my eyes closed.

My point is, there is so much pressure on men to play equal parts in the birthing process anymore that, if you beg out of anything because you are uncomfortable, you feel like John Edwards abandoning his cancer-stricken wife for the young hottie taking his campaign videos.

Thus, I agreed to go to breastfeeding class.

My wife began the class by knocking over her water bottle and dumping what seemed like a gallon of water on the floor. This class was held in an old tile classroom the likes of what you would find in an elementary school. This water was everywhere. If anyone knows me, they know I abhor negative attention on myself. I embarrass very easily. Well, you can bet everyone in the class stared at us like we had just brought Niagara Falls into the classroom. Great start.

By the way, I was also sitting in one of those little chairs you would find in a middle school, the kind where the desk is attached to the chair and folds up and down to let you in and out. I’m a big guy. These are tiny chairs. My desk wouldn’t even fold down. Sigh. It just keeps getting better.

There were eight women in this class. Six had their husbands with them. Score one for me in making the right call!

The teacher was a dietician who seemed old enough to have last breastfed while watching Walter Cronkite on the evening news. Seriously, she told us she had started “late” having her children and they were now 29 and 27. So, if she started late, she must have been in her late 50s or early 60s. She likely participated in some bra burnings in her time.

Oh well. I gotta believe breastfeeding is not something that changes a lot over time. It isn’t like there has been a technological revolution in the art of applying breast to mouth.

But this woman’s teaching techniques were a bit outdated. She used an overhead projector with overlaid slides. They were yellow and withered with age. I understand it is the content that counts, but would a powerpoint kill you, Oh Ancient One?

We spent the first part of the class learning about the anatomy of the breast, inverted and flat nipples, feeding times, etc.

Did you know if you have flat or inverted nipples, you are supposed to advise your “lactation consultant?” Do you think our founding mothers had lactation consultants? What did kids do back then if they couldn’t latch on? Maybe that is why George Washington never had any children --- Martha had inverted nipples!

The second part of the class featured a movie showing how to breastfeed. Again, the movie was a bit outdated. All of the women featured are either dead or grandmas right now.

Some of them were kind of hot, in a 1970s kind of way. But breastfeeding is not really sexy, so no matter how hot and how many naked breasts, I really couldn’t get into it.

I was a little interested on the various “holds” and “techniques” to breastfeeding. You have to make sure you don’t push the baby’s nose against the breast because then they can’t breathe. Been there!

The movies did touch on how laws have changed and you can pretty much breastfeed anywhere you want now. And your employer must give you a room to pump.

Brooke is the kind of mother who would be discreet about this kind of stuff. I’m the kind of dad who would throw an enraged fit if someone told my wife she couldn’t feed our daughter because it made someone else uncomfortable. I don’t care if Sydney sucks so hard she gets a milk mustache, no one is coming between my daughter and the nutrition she needs to lead a happy, healthy life.

Brooke plans to breastfeed for at least a year. We learned how good it is for the baby, so we are crossing our fingers it works. I’m crossing my fingers on both hands because if mom has to do all the feeding, dad gets to sleep more, right? We learned babies might feed every hour or two during growth spurts! Since I can’t breastfeed, Brooke is going to spend a lot of time getting up and down. This will be one part of this parenting thing I will not be able to share with her. I love you, honey!

The class was ok.  Brooke didn’t need me there, but I am glad I went. I would have felt like a real “boob” if she had to go through that all by herself.   

Sometimes, "I Love You, Honey" is the Best Answer

I realize it is tough for a pregnant woman to get comfortable. You’re blown up like a beach ball. A soccer match is going on in your stomach. You make more trips to the bathroom than two teen-age girls on their first double date. 

It puts us men in a precarious situation. We walk on eggshells hoping not to suffer your hormonal wrath.

A recent night with my wife ended with me climbing in bed BEFORE her. This was apparently a Biblical sin I was not fully aware of.

“Don’t you even care about me? Are you only concerned about getting in bed?”

Well honey, that is usually what we do at midnight when we want to go to sleep.

“I have to wash my face and brush my teeth and all you care about is getting in bed. You better not be asleep before I get in bed. ”

Ummm, OK.

What do I do in this situation? These scenarios come up frequently in a marriage. Men know the best thing to do is keep the mouth shut. Even breathing loud could set her off. Ultimately, you resort to saying only, “I love you honey” and hoping that is enough to calm the situation before it turns into an MMA fight.

Once in bed, she complained about the covers, the temperature, how much space she had…

“Why do you have more than half the bed?”

Well honey, my butt cheeks are actually hanging off my edge of the bed.

“It is so hot in here. How can anyone sleep in this temperature?”

Honey, it is the same temperature it was four hours ago when you complained loudly that it was TOO COLD.

“I can’t sleep in sheets that are wet.”

Honey, the sheets are not wet. How could they be wet?

“They are clammy. I cannot sleep with wet sheets.”

Honey, it is impossible for the sheets to be wet. There hasn’t been any water in the bed.

“I KNOW THE SHEETS ARE NOT WET. Can’t you understand my skin is clammy and it makes the bed feel wet? Why can’t you understand how I feel?”

I love you honey.

“You better not fall asleep before me.”