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. 

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.

Pee Breaks Every Half Hour

Consider this a possible Last Will and Testament.

Tomorrow, I am taking an 8-hour trip with my pregnant wife.

Brooke is in a beach wedding on the shores of Lake Michigan in northern Michigan. A ritzy little town called Bay Harbor. Madonna has a home there.

Brooke committed to being a bridesmaid before she got pregnant. Morgan is a recent friend, but Brooke likes her a lot. So, despite being 8 months along, she really wants to go. As do I – northern Michigan in the summer on the beach is one of the most beautiful places in this country. But we are worried about any complications occurring, such as, I don’t know, maybe the baby coming early.

The doctors have begrudgingly said it is ok. They’d like us to stay here, but feel the trip is doable.

Brooke has mapped out every hospital along the way. I’m a little more nonchalant about it. As I have said before, I think I can probably deliver this baby on my own in the back seat of my Honda Pilot, so I am not so worried. But even if the amniotic fluid hits the fan, Ms. Nasty told us the average time between serious contractions and delivery is 18 to 20 hours. I could get her back here, take an eight-hour nap, grab some McDonald’s and still be in the delivery room to greet Sydney as she plops into the doctor’s hands.

My worries are more practical. My wife has gestational diabetes. What if she forgets her medicine? Or we have no way of refrigerating the insulin? What if she faints into the sand because her blood sugar is too low? She’s carrying a medicine ball of a belly….what if she can’t stand up for the ceremony? What do I wear to a beach wedding? What if the reception doesn’t have free alcohol?

Of course, my main concern is the 8 hours in the car each way. Pregnant women -- for good reason – are not the most pleasant people in the world. They can’t sit comfortably, they have hormones raging through their body, they can’t sleep at night and, in my wife’s case, they can’t eat anything. Now, throw in a 16-hour road trip that will require a bathroom break every half hour and you are sitting on a powder keg. Water breaking? Hell, I am more worried about my facial bones breaking from my wife’s right hook.

I’ve told you before, my wife is a saint. But I am not sure I can survive this. Lucky for me, I am a quiet, easy-going guy who goes with the flow and does everything he can to make his wife comfortable. If I was one of those Type A-husbands full of sarcasm who either gets easily frustrated or likes to make a joke out of everything, I might be in trouble.

Pray for me.

I am the Professor of Nipple Confusion

We went to another child class this week. "Happiest Baby on the Block. "

Zzzzzzzzzzzzz. Three hours I’ll never get back.

The highlight of the class happens before it even starts. All the couples are waiting and this last couple scrambles in, searching for a seat. The wife is a pretty good-looking woman. The husband is a pretty ugly man. I mean really ugly.

I look at Brooke. I know she is thinking the same thing. She’s too respectful to say anything.

“That guy is doing pretty good for himself,” I whisper. “He probably makes good money.”

She retorts: “I bet a lot of people say that about you.”

Touche.

The woman teaching the class came off as kind of a New Age baby guru. She said she teaches a “hypno-birth” class. I assume that involves hypnotizing mom so the birth goes smoothly. I’d rather have an epidural.

She said this class would be based on treating the baby’s first three months like she was still in the womb. She said a year in the womb would be better than nine months for the baby and we, as parents, need to make sure she lives her life as closely as possible to what it was like in the womb.

O…K. Although, I CAN understand why the baby might like three more months in there. Every morning, I want three more hours of sleep. I imagine the feeling is similar.

She talked about different techniques for dealing with children, not putting your baby on a schedule, ALWAYS responding to your baby when she cries and that there is no possible way to “spoil” a baby.

Yeah, right.

She’s probably the kind of mom who allows her children to run around the restaurant screaming when people are trying to eat. Wouldn’t want to hurt their little feelings.

I remember reading the same thing about puppies. “They’re too young to understand, so don’t try to train them until they are a year old.” Well, at about six months, my Vegas decided to eat the baseboard while I was at work. When I got home, he got the whipping of his life. Guess what? No more baseboard eating.

To this day, eight years later, I can walk near that spot on the baseboard and say, “Did you do that?” and he will lower his head and sulk to a corner out of my eyesight. Too young? I don’t think so.

My plan is to have my child sleeping through the night at about three weeks, potty trained before she is 2 and enrolled in early college classes by 9.

But my wife believes the baby peas and carrots Miss New Age is dishing out. She insists we will respond EVERY time the baby cries. But she once insisted we’d always eat dinner on the dining room table – the same one that now serves as her scrapbooking center while I eat my meatloaf on the couch during another King of Queens re-run.

Miss New Age also said a baby is really supposed to cry only about 30 minutes a day.

Miss New Age also said a baby is really supposed to cry only about 30 minutes a day.

Miss New Age also said a baby is really supposed to cry only about 30 minutes a day.

Maybe if you say it enough it will actually come true.  

She speaks in a monotone voice – with little interruption -- for the whole three hours. She tells us there is no such thing as colic, but then hands out a sheet with “Reasons for Colic.” Go figure.

She says a child’s cry has been proven in studies to be similar to an electric shock for parents. Good thing I am old and hard of hearing. Good luck, Brooke.

She did have some information that I found interesting. Apparently, babies like to fart. She said some of those grunts and faces they make are just them having fun cutting the cheese. Or, they are simultaneously using their stomach and anus muscles – a difficult thing for them – as they learn to poop.

Finally, Miss New Age was roping the dads into the conversation.

She did tell us that the babies actually taste and grow to like the foods the mom eats because it flows to them in the breastfeeding process. Moms have to beware of things like caffeine. I think Brooke had visions of kicking her Starbucks habit back into high gear, but those grand triple-cafe lattes will have to wait.

Good thing I am not doing the breastfeeding. Quarterly sales for the Cincinnati offices of Chipotle and Snappy Tomato Pizza would hit rock bottom if I had to cut out junk food. Or, I could just risk it and Sydney would develop an addiction to cheeseburgers before she was out of size S diapers.

Do diapers come in S, M and L?

During the class, we learned about a Dr. Karp from UCLA and his method for calming crying babies. I can’t remember all the details, but it involved wrapping your kid up in a blanket like one of those mini-hot dog appetizers you get at a party. Miss New Age said this gave the baby the security it felt in the womb.

She showed a film of this Dr. Harvey Karp in action. I swear, this guy was a child whisperer. He would take these crying, screaming kids, wrap them tight in a blanket, hold them in his arm and whisper “shhhhhh” at them for a few seconds and they would grow as happy and content as Paris Hilton in a Prada store.

This guy was amazing. But I couldn’t help wondering if this was like one of those advertisements where they show you a huge, juicy burger with colorful garnishes but when you show up to eat it you find a dry burger, about half the size, with wilted lettuce. How many babies DID NOT stop crying and never made the movie?

The class also dealt with things like nipple confusion and sleep deprivation, which Miss New Age accurately pointed out is a form of torture in many countries.

She’s really selling this whole parenthood thing.

Nipple confusion is the ONE THING I knew more about than Brooke going into this pregnancy. I had read a sliver of information on it in some humor book on pregnancy. Turns out the book was not that humorous, but it gave me a leg up on Brooke when it came to the complexity of various nipples.  

Don’t think I don’t lord this over her whenever I can.

Brooke: “Honey, we’ll have to introduce food to Sydney slowly and one at a time so we can determine food allergies.”

Me: “Sure honey, but the real key is that we don’t get her confused about your nipple, the bottle and the pacifier. This could cause her to not feed properly and she will slowly starve to death without us knowing it. Good thing I am around to tell you these things or our baby would never make it out of diapers.”

Brooke is never amused when I do this. Nor does she really appreciate my knowledge of nipple confusion.

In the end, this was another one of those classes I am not sure had great value. I think I am going to sink and swim on my own when it comes to this baby thing. Good thing I am a couch potato. Everything I really need to know about babies I am pretty sure I learned watching TV.

I Hope to Never be the Subject of a Lifetime Movie

There really was no drama surrounding the decision to learn the gender of our child. Brooke wanted to know. I wanted to know. Done.

I know some people like the surprise of it all. My friend Fred was like that. Then he hit the jackpot, having a boy first and girl next. I’d love that. Two kids, both genders, and done. Sign me up for the vasectomy.

I, on the other hand, am lazy. I don’t want to have to rush around picking a name, buying the right clothes, choosing colors for the nursery, etc. on the day after he/she pops out. I gotta believe I will be busy enough with a newborn. God gave me nine months to wait for this child, I might as well use them productively. Knowing the gender helps me with that.

Now, a lot of people do ask you, “What are you hoping for?” Is there really a good answer to this? If I say boy and it turns out to be a girl, I am surrounded by glances of pity, like Maria Shriver gets any time she shows herself in public these days. By the way, how does something like THAT happen? That must have been one hell of a big house.

Anyway, I don’t want your pity. And I don’t want my daughter to hear some day in her teens that I wanted a boy. With the fragile nature of teen-agers, something like that could push her over the edge and I’d become the subject of a Lifetime television movie as I search the streets of Las Vegas looking for my hooker/drug addict daughter.

So I always answered with the cliché, “I just want a healthy child.” It is cliché, but true.  If you are a parent, you know this.

But this blog is about confessions, and, the truth is, I probably 51% wanted a boy. (Book my ticket to Las Vegas). I’m not sexist. I will love my daughter as much as I would have loved my son. And this is not about ego. I’ve met my biological father once since my mom and dad divorced when I was six months old, so there is no burning desire to carry on the name of a man whose only contribution to my life is the uni-brow I have to pluck every day.  

No, I wanted a son because I only know a lot about a few things. And one thing I know a lot about is being a boy and man.

I pause here to point out that I do know a little about a lot of things. I swear I could win at Jeopardy. As far back as college, my roommates and I would drink beer and keep score as we answered Jeopardy questions. To this day, I often watch with my wife and every time I answer a question before her and the TV contestants, I simply say, “Ssssssmoked.” This grates on her nerves. The other night, through clenched teeth, she told me, “I think it is time for you to go upstairs,” and we were only five minutes into the game. I was killing that night.

But, quite honestly, I could win Jeopardy only if it was a good day for “my” categories. Give me Presidents, Sports, Newspapers, Television Shows of the 80s and Pop Culture Icons and I clean up. If I’m staring up at Shakespeare, 18^th Century Artists, Muskrat Anatomy and Life on the Euphrates, forget about it.

But I know what it is like to be a male. Therefore, I would be able to relate better to a boy. I know sports and playing “army” and picking up chicks and losing your hair. I know nothing about tea parties, talking on the phone all day, having a million pillows on your bed and, for god sakes, menstrual cramps.

Not that I am stereotyping. My daughter might become the best high school basketball player in the Cincinnati area – boy or girl. She might skip ballet class for trips to the Reds game. She might shun tea parties for playing army. I am just going by the percentages here. Chances are, she will eventually drag me to a concert to see the latest version of New Kids on the Block.

So there you have it. Confession number three. I wanted to a boy. But I got a girl. And, quite honestly, I couldn’t be more excited. When I heard those words, my heart melted. Once you know, your pre-conceived notions go right out the window. You start dreaming about the possibilities, not the limitations.

I’m having a girl. And I could not be happier.

Holy Cow, You Just Crapped Yourself!

We went to an 8-hour birthing class Saturday. We chose the 8-hour version rather than parcel it up into several classes. I hated to give up a Saturday because my Saturdays are usually so full of naps and TV, but I’m willing to sacrifice for my baby!

They tell you to show up with two pillows and a blanket. I immediately pull out the biggest, thickest comforter I can find. I figure I am going to be on the floor all day and I want to be comfortable. My wife says no. We’re taking a thin little throw we have hanging over the couch. I feel my knees and back start to ache.

As we walk in from the hospital parking lot, we see other people carrying two pillows. I say  to them, “Looks like we are going to the same place.” If I have to spend eight hours in a class, I should at least make friends. They smile and walk the other way. Not to a different place…they just choose to take a different route to the same place. So much for friends.

The first hour is about nutrition. They want to show the moms how to eat right in their third trimester. They talk a lot about portion sizes. A good serving of hamburger is the size of your palm. Not your hand. Your PALM. I think even a McDonald’s hamburger is bigger than your palm, and I am pretty sure I could eat 12 of them in one sitting.

All the while, my wife is glaring at me. This room is filled with 20-something men with pretty hard bodies. I am 20 years older than the youngest guys! I do get lucky and spy one guy who looks like the Michelin Man. I, on the other hand, look like a fat Pillsbury Dough Boy. I know what my wife is thinking.

When I finally say, about 20 minutes into it, “this is really boring,” she snaps, “You should be paying attention to this!” I respond, “Honey, it is not that I don’t know how to eat and what to eat, it is that I don’t follow the rules. I’m not learning anything new here. I just like a meal that is bigger than the size of a quarter.”

The next part is two nurses telling you what the birthing experience is going to be like. This takes up the rest of your day. A nice lady with a quiet voice starts out explaining what you are going to learn and talking about how she is a “doula” and she coaches women through delivery. I immediately turn to my wife and say, “How much do you think a doula costs?” She says, “Absolutely not. That is YOUR job.”

The second nurse gets up and the first thing she says is, “I’m the nasty one. I’m just plain old nasty.” Now immediately the Prince song about Nikki goes running through my head...I knew a girl named Nikki, I guess you could say she was a sex fiend. Met her in a hotel lobby… Not sure why that song is associated with the word nasty in my mind, but, in all honesty, nasty is not a bad thing with me.

Well, to the nurse, and probably every woman in the room – there might have been a few guys thinking like me – “nasty” meant we were going to hear and see some pretty gross things the rest of the day. And we did. We saw a baby being born. Not the beautiful experience they make it out to be if it is not YOUR kid. Then a placenta being passed. Guys, this looks like a fully-engorged cow udder emerging from your wife’s most private parts. Very sexy.

And we learn how she might poop herself during delivery. Ms. Nasty tells us that it is up to us guys to totally ignore this so the wife doesn’t even know it happened. In other words, don’t say something like, “God, it stinks in here.” Or, as I’d be more likely to say, “Holy cow, you just crapped yourself.” Got it, Ms. Nasty.

Most of the class was about breathing and massaging and how you are supposed to spend hours helping your wife. But then they show you the room with a television in it. Talk about mixed messages.

They tell you that when contractions are one minute long and five minutes apart, you’ll want to call your doctor. Some docs will have you come in then, others will tell you to wait about an hour and call back. Call back in an hour? Are you kidding me? I told my wife if our doc was one who said call back, we would be calling back from the parking lot of the hospital. I want to be THERE when this baby starts to come out.

The men primarily remained silent all day. I was brave enough to ask one question. “What is the average time between when contractions are one minute long and five minutes apart and delivery?” Ms. Nasty takes that one, with a devilish smile. “About 18 to 20 hours on average.”

Oh joy.

All in all, I learned little in the class that I didn’t know from watching a gazillion hours of television. I’m pretty confident I could deliver this baby in the backseat of my Honda Pilot – while I am driving. And maybe even eating a sandwich.