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.

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.

Sex or Sportscenter?

My wife wanted two children. I wanted none. We compromised on two.

Yes, that is how married life is. Compromise takes on a new meaning.

We didn’t want to waste any time, so the procreation attempts began immediately. You know what is sexy? Sex. You know what is not sexy? Sex for the sake of creating a child. There’s another confession. I told you this blog would be full of them.

Suddenly, your loving wife becomes the General Patton of sexy time, telling you when, where and how you will do it. She barks out orders like Ty Pennington and his megaphone on Extreme Home Makeover. Remember, I am 44-years old at this time! Sometimes, a guy just wants to watch Sportscenter.

I realize this might be hard for some single men to understand. But believe me, when you are ordered to perform every night, sex can be a little like…work. And I don’t mean working at an amusement park. I mean working at a coal mine. Hard work. Bring-a-pickaxe-and-lunch-because-you-are-going-to-be-here-awhile kind of work.

But every month is like a roller coaster. You hear about the emotions women go through during “that time of the month.” But now, she is angry simply because she HAS that time of the month. So, not only does she experience those normal hormonal issues, she is mad at you because she is not pregnant.

I always thought I was a virile man. Don’t ask me why…I just figured a manly man like me had a lot of little menly men floating around in him. But after a few months without success, I began to doubt myself. I started to wonder if age had burned up my swimmers. I was searching my mind for what year I switched from briefs to boxers to give my guys a better chance. I started researching online how age affects reproduction capabilities. I even started opening those spam messages you get with subject lines claiming the ability to “MAKE YOU AS POTENT AS THE DUGGAR FAMILY.”

Any time she is a second late, it is reason for hope. Grab the pregnancy test! Whoever invented these things clearly didn’t account for older dads. Those lines are so faint, it is difficult for someone with fading eyesight to tell a negative from a positive. Not that I needed to. My wife was usually crying by the time she shoved it at me and was probably thinking, “Here husband, YOU failed again.” Another night without Sportscenter.

Brooke researched online and found that the “best” pregnancy tests were at the Dollar Store. I kid you not. So she goes to the Dollar Store to buy some tests. Guess what? They are all out. Apparently, every other hopeful mama-wannabe in Cincinnati read the same thing online.

So one day, after seven months of trying, Brooke is a little late. It’s three days before Christmas. She takes the test and it has a faint positive sign. With my eyesight, I can’t see it. I don’t trust it. I head off to work, telling Brooke we need to take half a dozen more tests. We’ll go to the Dollar Store when I come home.

I get home from work and Brooke has a Christmas present waiting for me. I am mad, because we weren’t doing Christmas presents this year in order to pay off our wedding and honeymoon. You know how that is…women are great at this. You agree on no presents, and they always manage to get you something, saying, “Well, I only spent a few dollars.” You open up something that she clearly spent three weeks researching online and visiting numerous stores all over greater Cincinnati to find. You, on the other hand, have nothing for her and feel like a giant Mel Gibson in your relationship.

So, I open my present while my mind races on whether I can fake a trip to the drug store and get some little knick-knack there and pretend like I’ve had it all long. Believe me, I have done this before. I slowly pull the wrapping off and see she is presenting me with a digital pregnancy test. My eyes can definitely read this positive sign. Yahtzee!

My swimmers reached their destination!  I am in the big leagues! I can watch Sportscenter again!

I walk around making muscles for a couple seconds, bellowing like a primate at my accomplishment. My wife and I kiss and celebrate. We are ecstatic. Then, the enormity of it all takes hold. I am going to be a dad. I am going to be responsible for another human being. Someone’s whole life will depend on me being a responsible adult.

I decide to open a bottle of wine, even though my wife now must avoid alcohol. Doesn’t matter. I guzzle the whole bottle.