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. 

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.

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.”

This Baby Business is Quite the Racket

My wife is a smart woman. Very smart.

When it came time to pick the stroller, she wanted me to come along. Now mind you, my wife took a friend with her when she did our wedding registry. She did the same when she registered for baby stuff.

She did this for two reasons. One, she knows I don’t give a damn. "Do you want knives with wooden handles or plastic handles?” Ah, just hand me one so I can plunge it into my heart and end the misery of wedding shopping.

Unless sporting equipment or big-screen televisions suddenly become appropriate wedding gifts, I don’t need to be there. I can live without having a say on the blender or punch bowl.

The second reason she didn’t take me is because she knew I would rain on her parade by telling her not to register for things we do not need. I am notorious for wearing, watching, listening to, sitting on and eating and drinking from something until it is absolutely not useful.

I have clothes from 1989 in my closet. I’ll be damned if I am going to throw away something that I can eventually wear if 1) it comes back in style and 2) I lose 100 pounds. My wife cringes every time she sees my colored jean shorts peaking out of the closet.

I have bed sheets from the 1970s. (Thanks, Mom!) They actually came in handy one Halloween when I dressed up like a Hare Krishna and wore the pale orange sheets.

I have pre-Jordan tennis shoes. Hell, they may be pre-Nike. I have a mammoth couch that I bought in 1994 that sits eight people comfortably...and my wife can’t stand it. I have 15 sets of dishware collected when others threw theirs out. I just tossed out my old VCR from 1988. I have plastic cups I got at beer parties during my days at Kent State.

The point is, unless something can’t be used anymore, I am going to keep using it and I won’t buy new until it breaks down.  So my wife knows if she takes me and tries to register for a can opener, I am going to point to the one I got at a garage sale the summer before going off to college and plead with her to take can opener off the registry. In other words, shopping with me is like sitting on a cold toilet seat. A miserable experience.

So, she took a friend for both the wedding and the baby shopping. We agreed whatever we registered for that was not purchased by someone else, we would purchase ourselves. Knowing this, I told her to only register for necessities and to be practical.

I don’t know if she followed my advice. She went, did her thing and I’ll see the results when I am forced to use something. I won’t even know the prices. Ignorance is bliss.

But I do know on one item – the stroller – she felt strongly I needed to be involved in the choosing. Once I saw the price, I knew why.  

If you asked pre-baby how much a good stroller would cost, I would say about $80. I don’t know why that price is in my head, but it seems reasonable to me.

You know what is not a good price for a stroller? $450!!!! But when my wife dragged me out to the baby store and I went through all the pros and cons of strollers with a kindly old gent they call “Mr. Stroller,” that is exactly the price of stroller we registered for.

My wife knows if she had come home and informed me she had just registered for a $450 stroller, World War III would have broken out. I bought my first car – a 1968 Dodge Monaco – for only $500! Yes, it was nearly 20 years old at the time, but it was big enough to fit 47 Sydneys comfortably, each with accompanying box of diapers.

Like I said, my wife was smart enough to know this was a purchase I needed to be in on personally.

Simply put, I had no idea. First, that is not even close to being a top-of-the-line price.  They had a stroller there that cost $1,200!!!!! I nearly had a heart attack and made Brooke a single mother when I saw that price tag.  I’m convinced it is just there to make people feel GOOD about buying a $450 stroller. I inquired of Mr. Stroller as to whom might be a typical purchaser of these plush buggies, and he said folks from New York City will occasionally pop down and buy one. Of course! You know Midwesterners are not that stupid.

What a racket this baby business is. I think I was in my 30s before someone clued me in that I was supposed to buy presents when my friends had babies. What the heck does a 35-year-old guy know about baby presents? They’ll get a Bengals T-shirt and like it. And while I am on the subject, what a racket the wedding business is. You have to take engagement photos AND wedding photos?

I predict eventually the human race will become extinct because people can no longer afford to marry and procreate.

So anyway, after I see that $450 is sort of the average price for a stroller, I am resigned to my fate. Mr. Stroller rolls through all the pros and cons – bottle holders! – and finally sells me on the fact this is actually a “travel system” and it turns into a car seat. So it is kind of a two-for-one deal. Right now, I am grasping for any solid reason to spend a car payment on something that can fit in one third of the trunk. I allow my wife to put it on the registry, but I feel extremely dirty when she does.

The good ending to this story is someone bought the stroller for us ---  thanks Mom and Dad Grover! -- and we will not have to buy it ourselves. But the moral of this story is that it is easier to sell someone on something if they do the research themselves.

Or maybe the moral is Mr. Stroller is making a killing on markups and the Ohio Attorney General should investigate his business practices.

Babies: Pooping Black Tar and Vomiting with the Force of a Firehose

More confessions: I’m afraid about many things when it comes to having this baby.

I admit it. I’m scared.

I’ll save the biggest thing that scares me until later. You’ll have to read until the end for that confession.

For now, let’s talk about sleepless nights, poopy diapers, projectile vomiting and accidentally killing my baby.

I’ll start with the obvious. I’m 45 years old. I don’t have a lot of energy. I need every second of sleep possible.

I’ve always been a light sleeper. I get about two hours of solid sleep, then I toss and turn for the rest of the night. If my dog so much as farts, it wakes me up.

Speaking of dogs, they contribute to my lack of sleep. The dog I raised, Vegas, is a handsome German Shepherd who is well-trained and will sleep silently in his bed until noon if I tell him to.

The dog Brooke raised, Murphy, is a Weimaraner who. …well, let’s just say Murphy is special. I’m being sincere here. Brooke is a special education teacher and she tells me about the kids in her class. One will suck on things to calm himself. Another will get so excited he runs around in circles. Many require constant touch.

Well, Murphy has a blanket he sucks to calm himself. And, he runs around like he is crazy every time you walk in the door. I could be gone 13 seconds to pick up the mail from the mailbox and when I get back he acts like I have been gone for three months. And don’t try to sit without him touching you. I have a wrap-around couch that could probably sit eight people. Yet, when I sit on it and the whole rest of the couch is empty, Murphy will attach himself to my hip.

What are the chances a special education teacher would end up with a special education dog? I call it divine intervention. Murphy needed an angel.

Anyway, Murphy likes to get up about 3:30 a.m. It used to be 5, then it was 4:30, then 4 and now 3:30 a.m. He wants to go out and, more importantly to him, he wants to eat.

Now Brooke can sleep through an ACDC concert. Seriously, someone could walk in and murder me while I am lying next to her and she wouldn’t even stir. So, when Murphy starts prancing around at 3:30 a.m., I have two options: tell him to go back to sleep or get up with him.

Neither works for me. If I tell him to go back to sleep, he basically wakes up every 15 minutes thereafter to see if he can rouse me. Since I am such a light sleeper, this means I never really get back to sleep. If I get up with him and let him out, I am then awake and can’t go back to sleep. It is a no-win situation.

I tell you all this because, who in my household do you think is going to get up with a crying baby? Me, or Miss Rip Van Winkle? I realize she will have to breastfeed, but believe me, if it’s not feeding time, she will be as unconscious as a hibernating bear.

Man is not meant to go on four hours of sleep a day. Especially 45-year-old men. I usually catch up on my sleep with weekend naps. I hope Sydney likes to nap.

Poopy diapers scare me, too. I don’t have a weak stomach. I once sat through an entire autopsy. I saw people get stabbed and shot during my days on the cop beat. I pick up Vegas and Special Ed poop every weekend.

But I read a book that said baby poop is like BLACK TAR for the first few weeks. Apparently, the amniotic fluid has that effect on excrement. Seeing something like that coming out of my sweet, innocent little daughter is going to scar me for life. Throw in projectile vomiting and I am going to feel like I am father to Linda Blair in the Exorcist.

I’ve heard the stories. You’re dressed for work, ready to head out the door and you pick up your little princess only to have her leak some noxious gel-like substance out of her diaper or spew the entire contents of her stomach on to your head with the force of a fire hose.

Oh joy.

Also, my wife has instilled the fear of Marilyn Manson in me over wiping my daughter correctly. Wipe down, not up! Make a mistake and you might kill your daughter!

That gets me to my fear of somehow doing something stupid that results in my daughter’s early demise.  Let’s say I survive the sleepless nights, Black Tar diapers and geyser-like eruptions.  How do I avoid accidentally killing her? What if I drop her? Sit on her? Drive over her?

What if Special Ed mistakes my swaddling daughter for the blanket he sucks on to calm himself?

This is a dangerous world. I am a clumsy guy. I am worried about not holding her head up right or feeding her food that chokes her or forgetting her in the backseat of my car while I’m involved in a 28-hour poker game.

I’m scared about being a dad.

But one thing scares me more than anything. I am 45 years old. That’s old to start this journey. My biggest fear is that somehow I will depart this world when my daughter is still young. I don’t want to put her through that. I don’t want an 8-year-old or 10-year-old or 12-year-old little Sydney to grow up without her daddy.

I want to finish this adventure and see her through to adulthood. I want to make sure she’s ok to stand on her own. I want to hold her hand until I know she’s got life figured out.

If I get to see her graduate college, travel the world, find the love of her life and have children…well, that’s gravy. But all I am really asking the good Lord for is the chance to be daddy to my little girl until she’s old enough not to need me anymore.

Who is eating for two?

Let me start out by saying this: I have gained more weight than my wife during this pregnancy.

She takes great pride in that. But really, isn’t that sort of like Carrot Top celebrating beating Russell Brand in a weightlifting contest? No one is really surprised.

The reasons are two-fold. One, I love to eat. In any nine months, I am going to gain a lot of weight anyway. Why would this period of time be any different?

Two, she has gestational diabetes. She can’t eat carbs!

Believe me, I am not celebrating my wife having GD. It sucks. She has to give herself a shot each night. She has bruises all over her thigh. I couldn’t do it. I am a wimp around needles. I leave the room when she does it.

As tough as that is, her diet may be tougher. What are pregnant women supposed to do? They are supposed to gain weight. It is healthy for the baby. But if you can’t eat carbs, how do you gain weight? It is quite the dilemma. Sometimes she is in tears after eating something that barely has any carbs and then seeing her blood sugar spike to dangerous levels.

Brooke can’t eat a lot to begin with, because she has a medicine ball resting on her stomach. So she has to snack all day. But now she can eat only meat, cheese and nuts. She has had more grilled chicken salads than Rachel Ray has made in her lifetime.

She craved fruit early on. Now that is a no-no because of the sugar.

The doctors say GD is just something that happens to some women and there is not much my wife could do about it. Hopefully, all will go well. But, in the end, she might be the only pregnant woman to ever lose weight during her pregnancy.

Eating healthy can do that to you. She was never one to pass up the hors d'œuvre plate pre-pregnancy. I think she was looking forward to nine months of carbohydrate bliss. Not so fast, sister!

I, on the other hand, can eat whatever I want. And that is pretty much what I have been doing for the past 45 years. I am a male Kirstie Alley.

Look, when we were young, food was a luxury in our house, not a given. I didn’t grow up in middle class America. I was looking up at middle class. Way up. If we had a pack of hot dogs and a box of macaroni and cheese, that was dinner.

Eight hot dogs come in a pack, right? Fastest one done gets seconds. Look out Kobyashi and Joey Chestnut, here I come!

I remember in sixth grade I had to keep a food journal. It coincided around either my brother or sister’s birthday and someone had bought us a huge cake, one of those sheet cakes. I had that for breakfast every morning, along with some Kool Aid. I wasn’t smart enough to note any different in my journal, so at some point my teacher pulls me aside and asks me whether I have enough food in the house. I wised up enough to give some kind of story that saved my mom from being reported to Children’s Services. 

Occasionally, when we hit rock bottom and really needed to stretch the paycheck, mom would cook a GIGANTIC pot of either potato soup or ham and bean soup. Picture a pot just a little smaller than a dumpster. We would eat nothing more than that for two weeks. I realize now what she was doing and love her for it. She did her best to provide for her kids and she was stretching what we had. But believe me, I grew to hate soup. I wouldn’t eat it in a restaurant until I got in my 40s. And you’ll never get me to touch potato or ham and bean.

So, when I got a chance to eat, I ATE. In my teens, I had a job as a traveling salesman, selling products made by the blind. Great gig. I was a helluva salesman. I could sell a comb to Vin Diesel. I could sell a snack to LeAnn Rimes. Made over $200 a week in the summer. No taxes. As a 13-year-old!

They would pick up the crew of teenagers in the morning, drive to town a few hours away, sell all day, then drive home when it got dark. I worked 14 hours a day, six days a week. But I had money. Paid for all my school clothes and anything else I needed.

And when you can afford to eat and are on the road and are a teen-ager, what do you eat? Fast food, baby.  Breakfast, lunch, dinner. With snacks in between. Believe me, we thought we were kings. Had no idea what we were doing to our bodies. I once bet Gerry Simons I could eat a cheeseburger in one bite. Pay up, Gerry…as soon as I am able to breathe again. And don’t get in the way of the Big Mac I am having for dessert.

My eating habits have followed me throughout my life. The foods you like when you are young, you like when you are old. Macaroni and cheese. Fried potatoes. Pizza. Burgers. Burritos. Wings. Show me a sports bar where I can have a plate of wings, some potato skins and six beers to wash it down and I’ll bring a blanket and pillow so I can get a good rest in between meals.

I have never been skinny, but only in the last ten years has it become ridiculous. In my 20s, I played basketball every day and softball three times a week.  I remained active in my early 30s, but somewhere around 35, I adopted a…sedentary lifestyle. That doesn’t go well with my eating habits.

Something’s gotta change. A diet is coming. A lifestyle change is coming. That’s what they call it, right? But it ain’t easy. Drug addicts and alcoholics who hop on the wagon never have to touch the stuff again. Try that with food. You gotta eat.

My wife says that breastfeeding can make women lose weight. Another point of proof that pregnancy is tougher on dads.

We always want our kids to have life better than us, right? Sydney may not ever get the chance to eat at McDonald’s. I’ll treat her like Marv Marinovich treated his son, Todd, while trying to make him a pro quarterback. That kid went to birthday parties and had to bring his own slice of HEALTHY cake.  Now, he’s a drug addict. Go figure.

Seriously, Sydney’s plate is going to be filled with broccoli and kale and carrots and other food only Nicole Richie could love. She won’t even know what a pizza looks like.

That way, when I eat all the food she can’t finish, at least it will be HEALTHY food.

Strippers Are Daughters Too

My first attempt at naming our daughter did not go over well.  

I was at my in-laws' house drinking beer with my brother-in-law in the basement. Lucky for me, her family likes to drink beer. They live in Wisconsin, after all. You know how it is going to the in-laws. You have to be on your best behavior; you can never relax. Beer makes the time go by a little easier.

So her brother keeps talking about this friend who might be coming over. After about 12 beers and hearing the name a few times, I sprint upstairs and announce to Brooke and her mom that I have found the perfect name for our daughter.

“Blair has a friend with the name Sequin. I think that would be a great name for the baby.”

Silence.

My wife looks at me with that “How did I ever let this person impregnate me?” look.

Her mom looks at me with that “I KNEW this guy was not the right guy for my daughter” look.

“We will NOT name our daughter that,” Brooke says. “She will not be a stripper.”

“Blair doesn’t have a friend named Sequin,” her mom advises. “He has a friend named Seekman.”

In my drunkenness, I had apparently mistaken this guy’s last name for Sequin. My wife takes my beer from me and says it would be a good idea for me to stay upstairs with her for awhile.

Thus began my quest to name our daughter. I want something unusual and pretty. I don’t want her to be one of six Emmas or Madisons in her class.

Sequins are pretty and that name is unusual. She’d be the only girl in the school with that name.

But nooo, my wife, who has never been to a strip club in her life, thinks it sounds like a stripper name. She thought the same of some of my other choices, such as Tiffany and Layla.

Look, babies aren’t pre-destined by their names. You name a boy Mason, he isn’t necessarily going to lay bricks for a living. Jordans aren’t all going to play basketball. LeBrons…well, yeah, he’ll probably be a jerk and crap all over his hometown.

My point is, you can’t rule a name out because someone has chosen it as her stage name as she shakes her ta-tas to pay her way through college.

But that is what we do. My wife is a teacher. The name of ANY bad or obnoxious student she has ever encountered was immediately ruled out. I ruled out the names of stalker women from my past. Some of you are probably reading this post right now. THE COURT ORDER IS STILL IN  EFFECT!

Picking a name is more a process of elimination than anything.

I wanted our kid to have a BR name. Brian, Brooke and…? Moreover, both Brooke and I now have the same middle and last initials. We could all be BGG.

Brooke doesn’t like it. “You are boxing me in. Then we’d have to name our next child like that, too.”

And that’s a problem because…? Alliteration is clearly not a priority for her.

Brooke liked names that seemed old fashioned to me, like Annabelle and Clara. I liked hip names, like Roxy and Diamond and Sapphire and Kardashian.

You know, I probably haven’t been to a strip club in 15 years. I swear on my grandma’s grave.

In the end, we decided on a middle name first. Grace. Very classy. Never met a Grace I didn’t like.

First names were narrowed down to a few favorites. Claire, Chloe, Rosalee, Cecilly, Adrienne, Sydney. I didn’t really like Adrienne. I just let me wife put it on the list because, by this point, she was very short-tempered with me. When she gets upset and wants me to do something, she plays the labor card. “Do you know how hard it is going to be to push this baby out? It is the equivalent of you trying to pass a bowling ball.” OUUUCH.

I don’t know Brooke’s reasoning behind picking Sydney, but I had sound thinking behind mine. I was a huge fan of the television show Alias and fell in love with Jennifer Garner. She played an international spy named Sydney. In my mind, “Sydney” is associated with a super-hot chick who dresses in costumes to take down bad men and make the world around her a better place.

Sort of like a stripper.

 

My Wife Says My Posts are too Long

When we took out eight-hour birthing class, we watched a movie that informed us how mothers-to-be will often go on manic cleaning and cooking sprees to prepare the "nest" for the baby's arrival.

I'm still waiting.

The Big Scare

Sometimes, life isn’t funny. Sometimes, life knocks you on your ass.

I almost lost my little girl before I even got to meet her.

We had waited 12 weeks to tell people because we knew the possibility for miscarriage is strongest in the first 12 weeks. Plus, Brooke’s mom had a history of miscarriages.

But, by 17 weeks, we were pretty sure we were good to go.

Then we found out our daughter had a higher than normal chance of being afflicted with the genetic disorder Trisomy 18.

Trisomy 18 is a third copy of genetic material from chromosome 18, instead of the usual two copies. The syndrome has a very low rate of survival, resulting from heart abnormalities, kidney malformations and other internal organ disorders. Most children die in the womb. According to Wikipedia, only about 10 percent of babies live to be age 1. I don’t think any live to be adults.

Essentially, the doctors told us they would highly recommend termination if the test came back positive. They stressed that Trisomy18 pregnancies are not “viable.”

Let me tell you, hearing those words hurt. I tried my hardest to hold those tears back and be strong for my wife, but they streamed down my cheeks. Even worse, I knew how much this hurt Brooke. My heart absolutely ached for her.

The feeling of helplessness is overwhelming. We have to wait a few days to take the test and then a week for the final results. How do I comfort my wife? She is so anxious she can barely function. I move from pessimist to optimist in these situations. When it is life or death, I’m always going to have faith.

I’m not going to get into the odds we faced, the discussions we had or what we ultimately would have done. I preach tolerance in my life and letting people live by their own decisions, free of my judgment. I’m not in a position to influence anyone, nor do I want to. You might do something different than us. And that’s ok.

I was at work when I got the call. I had asked that they call me and not my wife. I knew the phone number and had been looking for it, so I walked out of a meeting when the call came. I held my breath when she told me the good news.

That might have been the best call I ever made to my wife. Being able to deliver that good news was a blessing to me. I finally could do something to soothe her pain.

I even had a little fun. I told her they also discovered they had made a mistake and we were having a boy. She fell for it. When I told her the truth, she wasn’t even mad.

Nothing could break our mood. Sydney Grace was going to be alright.

Parental Advisory: Dirty Words Below

I know I am posting a lot. But I am trying to catch you up on the past eight months. Soon, I will have nothing more to say, or I will be too busy with the kid, and I will only post when something important happens. Do they have wi-fi in the delivery room?

One of the themes of this pregnancy has been “Brian isn’t excited enough.”

This mostly comes from my wife, but a few other people, too. It seems that since I don’t jump around every day like a Price is Right contestant, I am not really excited about being a dad.

As I’ve gotten older, excitement seems to be an emotion I experience less and less. Anger: Yeah, I can go Kanye West on someone in a minute. My grandma once tried to get me to switch from alcohol to water at a wedding where I had a little too much. The words “F-You and grandma” should never be used in the same sentence.

Sympathy/sadness: I cry at Hallmark commercials. The other night, I watched Marley and Me and bawled like John Boehner.

Excitement? Yeah, every now and then. When I got married. When I win a huge pot in poker. When my wife makes meatloaf. 

I’m excited about having a daughter. But that excitement is tempered with thoughts of sleepless nights, training bras, fending off lustful boys and paying for college. People call me a pessimist. I call me a realist. I always look at all sides of an issue.

Anyway, because I haven’t pinned the ultrasound picture to my chest and strapped myself to the fountain on Fountain Square, my wife feels I might not be excited enough. She even said that I should be more like my brother.

Now let me tell you about my brother. His name is Richard. But for the sake of this blog, we will call him Little Dick. This is his name because our dad was also named Richard and everyone called him Big Dick. They did this because he was a big guy, like me, and because he grew up in a time when it was commonplace to call people named Richard by the nickname Dick. He was well known, and it was not uncommon for us to go places around my hometown of Massillon, Ohio and hear people yell “Big Dick!” Like they used to do with Norm on Cheers. It made for some weird looks from the ladies

How could this have ever been acceptable? As far as I know, dick has been a slang term for penis forever. So how was it ever acceptable for Dick to be a good name for a young boy? Do you think the first Richard to ever be called Dick was just a big-time jerk and everywhere he went people called him that and it stuck, causing every Richard thereafter to bear that burden?

Can you imagine preparing for your son’s baptism and telling people, “This is Christopher, but we call him Cock.” The only person smiling would be the Catholic priest. How about introducing your daughter to the teacher as Tina “Tits” McGee? What were people thinking?

So Little Dick (If you ever see him, call him that. He likes it.) had a son about three years ago. Great kid named Landon. But before Landon comes along, my brother reads every parenting magazine you can imagine. He checks out books by the ton. He is super dad. Every conversation he has is about his son. “Little Dick, do you have any aspirin? I have a headache.” “Brian, did you know a newborn baby's head accounts for about one-quarter of its entire weight?”

After the kid is born, it gets worse. One day I visit him and I am sitting on his living room couch. I decide to count the pictures of his son just within my eyesight. 75. People think I am lying when I tell this story. I swear on my grandma’s grave. (Yes, the same grandma who tried to cut me off!)

That 75 number takes on some significance because, at Christmas, Landon also got 75 presents. My brother was buying three pairs of Nikes in three different sizes so his son could rock a color-coordinated outfit and have room to grow at all times.

He is a tremendous dad, but to say he is obsessed is an understatement. So, when my wife says, “You should be more like your brother,” I know what she means. I counter with, “You should be more like Megan  Fox. Or Jennifer Garner. Or Penelope Cruz. Or that Nasty Nikki in that Prince song.”

Ok, I really don’t do that. I might be 45, but I am not ready for dentures.

I haven’t glanced at one parenting magazine. If something goes wrong with my kid, I can Google it. Kid turns green? Punch “baby is turning green” into Google and I will have every answer I need. Most likely, someone rubbed cheap copper all over her or she rolled around in daddy’s secret stash of “parsley.”

I’m not going to match my brother. The truth is, I can only be me. I am EXCITED about my daughter. Price as Right EXCITED!!!! But I will approach her like I do everything else in life…by examining all angles, weighing pros and cons and planning for a successful outcome.

That works with kids, right?   

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.

How the hell did I get here?

How the hell did I get here?

I’m pretty sure I can pinpoint the day it was time to throw in the towel. I’d lived my adult life like a perpetual college student. I drank too much, ate too much, gambled too much, spent too much. I traveled the world on credit cards. I saw the Olympics in Barcelona in ’92 while I traveled through Europe. I spent a summer living on a beach near San Diego. I partied in Boston, New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, Phoenix, New Orleans, San Francisco and all major cities in between. I lost my paycheck several times over on trips to Vegas and Monte Carlo. The pizza delivery boys knew me by name. Hell, they knew my dog’s name! I’d had a few long-term relationships, several short-term relationships and many one-night relationships. My only exercise was lifting the beer glass to my lips. In other words, life was good.

But that kind of living takes a toll. I certainly feel older than 45. I’m bald, but I shave my head, so you really don’t know how much. I’m fat, and believe me, there’s really no hiding that. I’d always lived my life with the belief I’d be dead by 40, and when that age came and passed, I suddenly found myself as confused as Sarah Palin on the SAT test.

Then one day, I am talking to my bank teller. She’s in her early 20s. Now, I have always had success with bank tellers. My first job out of college, I dated three tellers from the same bank. Not at the same time, but I am pretty sure #2 knew I had dated #1 and #3 knew I had dated #s 1 and 2. Yeah, I got it like that.

Or had it like that. I was not trying to date this new teller because I already had a girlfriend. But I felt our conversation was flirty. I felt strong because, even in my 40s, even though I looked a little like Shrek, this 22-year-old beauty was digging my game. I was charming her with my wit and self-confidence. I walked out of the bank with my head held high and my ego as inflated as today’s unemployment ratse. I hopped in my car, flipped the radio from the oldie’s station to a little “Apple-bottom jeans, boots with the fur…” and fired up the engine. I took a quick glance in the mirror to start backing up and stopped dead in instant horror. There, staring back at me from the mirror, was a booger hanging out of my left nostril! No small speck. A big booger.

Quickly, it flashed over me. This hadn’t just happened, blown down from deep within its cavern as I hopped in the Honda Pilot. This had been there awhile. I had just conducted a whole bank transaction with a visible booger. This girl wasn’t buying my game. She was trying to keep herself from either laughing or running away in grossed-out terror. I’d finally rolled craps with a bank teller.

I dwelled on it in horror for a few minutes. My ego deflated, I chose to move on with my day. I was on an important mission. Having recently learned the price of a good bra – seriously, how can they charge that much for something that isn’t even visible to most people?  --  I had decided my girlfriend deserved a few for her birthday. I was off to Victoria’s Secret to get a gift card. If she decided to use it on something sexy for me, all the better. I needed it after the booger incident.

So I zip into Victoria’s Secret humbled by my booger experience, but not defeated because I was about to visit the Land of Lingerie. Seconds inside the door, a lithe young lass who appears to be about 20 greets me with a smile and willing attitude. We exchange pleasantries and I explain what I am looking for – all the while my head swivels to catch all the sights. She tells me about store specials. I crack a few jokes. She laughs. I quickly glance in a mirror to ensure my nose is clean. Wheeew. I’m rocking a regular nose.

We talk more as she readies my gift card. My confidence has come back. I actually believe this young lady is enthralled by my charm and wit. I can’t wait to tell my buddies about this. Then, as she takes my money and hands me the gift card, she cheerily utters one of the most horrific sentences to ever hit my ears. “I wish MY dad would buy ME something like this.”

Yes, you read right. This woman thought I was buying this gift card for my daughter. I looked so old to her, there was no chance I was buying something sexy for my girlfriend. My manhood immediately shattered like Charlie Sheen’s mental health. I crawled out of the store a beaten man.

It was that day that I knew my frat boy life must end. Already in love with my girlfriend, proposing was easier now that I knew women were more concerned I’d have a heart attack than steal their heart. Quite honestly, we’d been together more than three years and were going that way anyway. I’m always amazed someone with such a good heart would put up with an idiot like me. I was determined not to let her go and now proposing would be that much easier. Within a few months we were living together and my pool table was replaced by a dining room table. Less than a year later, I took the gamble of my life and asked her to marry me. A wonderful wedding and European honeymoon later and we were staring at a plus sign on a home pregnancy test. At the age of 44, a guy whose whole adult life had been spent like a child was now about to have a child of his own.

How the hell did I get here? That’s how.