Spoiler Alert: It Wasn't a Velociraptor

So it's been about eight weeks since my last post.  A lot has gone on since mid-November.  Namely, Thanksgiving, my birthday, the mistaken prophecy of the Mayans, and, in efforts to not bury the lead, our daughter was born.

Much to my chagrin, she was not a velociraptor.  But she's rather cute, so I think we'll keep her.

For those not familiar with the interweb reference:



What actually was the result of labor after 9 months of a rather difficult pregnancy was far less dangerous but much, much more adorable:

Not a velociraptor

Em gave birth at the Birthing Center in Bryn Mawr -- a midwifery practice where they only do natural birth.  In other words: no epidurals.

For the males of the species who may be reading this, those two words may have little impact for you.  For anyone who has witnessed a natural birth and/or delivered a baby under those circumstances, I'm quite certain you clenched your nether-regions just now.

The recounting of the story from my shoddy second-hand perspective is a sorry substitute from getting it straight from the source, but seeing as whatever hormonal cocktail the body releases in the mother's endocrine system post-delivery seems to have a total amnesiac effect on the mother regarding what she just went through, I'll have to do my best.

Em started laboring around 3:00 PM on Friday the 21st.  At least, that's when she told me that she was feeling pretty regular contractions.  You have to realize that I'd been hovering over her for the past two weeks and every time she'd wince, I was ready to load us all into the car.  

The contractions were steadily increasing in duration and intensity, but she took the midwives advice and tried to distract herself with other activities until they became too intense to ignore.  

She actually cooked herself some pancakes and vacuumed a bit before she had to sit down.  We played video games until she had to put the controller down and hold her belly.  She called the midwife and described the pain and they told her to go take a shower and give them a call in another hour.  Hopefully by that point the contractions would be closer together and lasting for a longer period of time.

At 10:00 PM (seven hours after the "pre-labor" contractions had started) we got in the car and headed for the Birth Center.  Ruby (our noble basset hound) was under the watchful care of two of our friends and the cats were well stocked with food and drink, so there was nothing to focus on aside from getting this baby out.

But first, we stopped at Wawa.

Now, before anyone strings me up for being an insensitive bastard husband, the Birth Center tells you to bring a "victory" meal with you so that when labor is over, Mom can get something to eat.  The entire pregnancy Em's been craving an Italian hoagie.  And as pregnant women are supposed to avoid cold lunch meats, it's been off the menu for the past 9 months.  

It being after 10:00 PM, the only place I could think of to stop for one was Wawa.  So, while Em was writhing in her seat, I went in an picked up a Shorti.

If our baby is going to be born and raised in Delco, she might as well get used to it early.

Mission accomplished, we made it the rest of the way to the Birth Center.  The nurse on duty opened the door for us and led us to the green suite.

At this point the midwife came in to assess the situation.  Em was still under the impression that she wasn't really going to give birth yet and that they might send us back home, but after checking under the hood, it looked like we were in business -- she was 3 centimeters along and this was going to happen.

Now, as of this point Em's been awake for about 13 hours.  She tried to nap at home but the contractions kept her awake.  Already tired, she's in for another 18 hours of labor.

By 2:00 AM, the contractions were right on top of each other, but she was no where near fully dilated, so the midwife gave her something to help her sleep.  We dozed until 6:00 AM and within a few minutes of waking back up, the contractions started back up again.  The next nine hours were the part of the movie that they'd montage so that the summary of contractions, back rubs and bath tub soaks could be compiled into a pithy 3 minute segment while "Disco Inferno" played in the background.

Would that the same could have been said of that time.  By the end of it, Em was totally exhausted and we all were the worse for wear.  The Shorti has been consumed hours ago.  But by 3:30 things were in order for Em to start pushing.  

It's not like movies make it out to be.  There's definitely an intensity and some primal noises that happen -- but maybe everyone's birth experience is different.  By the time Em was ready to push, she was so exhausted that she was falling asleep between each contraction.  She would push for a minute, sleep for a minute or two and then right back at it.

I won't go into the more gory details for the most squeamish of readers out there but I will let you know this -- helping in the delivery is (as the midwifes are fond of saying) an "earthy" process.  There will be all manner of amniotic business going down.  But when you are the one to actually help pull your baby into this world, the whole thing makes instant sense. 

And for the tough guys out there -- don't think you won't cry.  The minute you see your little one safely in the arms of your baby's mama, Niagara Falls, Frankie Angel...

Pro Tip: when grabbing your baby for the first time please note that he or she will be as difficult to grab as a greased pig.  Seriously.  The midwife told me to help grab her and I couldn't get a good grip.  I suggest a good under the armpits maneuver if you can manage it.

I can't sing the praises of our midwife / nurse team.  They were a dynamic duo and the perfect pairing for what Em needed to get her through the process.  Our midwife was a spritely, pixie type with a Skrillex haircut.

(Not our midwife.  Skrillex)

Our RN was a wonderful Delco raised girl who had a great sense of humor and a no-nonsense attitude.  When Em thought she'd never get through the process, Jen was there to set her straight.  And given the super-human strength a woman seems to develop mid-delivery, the fact that Jen repeatedly encouraged Em to squeeze her hand along with mine through the contractions, was a testament to both her steadfastness and her tolerance for pain.

So, by 4:44 our baby girl, Lily Noel, was born.  Em was elated.  I thought for certain that she'd fall asleep instantly, but she started holding court.  She didn't stop talking for half an hour while the midwife delivered the placenta and made sure everything was all right.  There was a joy in her eyes unlike anything I've ever seen on anyone's face.  And when you see this little person who looks a whole lot like the best of the two of you, it's hard to believe that everything you went through actually happened at all.

By the end of the night we'd made all the calls and let everyone know Lily was born -- all 9 lbs. 14 ounces of her.  And then it was just the three of us.  At the Birth Center you have to stay a minimum of four hours and a maximum of twelve.  As Lily was born at 4:44 PM and Em's labor had been long and exhausting, they wanted us to stay the night there to keep an eye on both Mama and baby.  

Em's appetite was back after having not eaten anything in almost 24 hours, so I made another Wawa run.  

It took everything within my power to not announce to anyone who would listen that I was a new dad.  Being the closest Wawa to the Birthing Center, I'm sure I wouldn't be the first to do so, but I hardly think the guy assembling a series of Shortis behind the counter would have been impressed.

But I was on top of the world.  I couldn't be happier that the Mayans were mistaken.

I'll Sleep When I'm Dead...

A lot of famous poets had a good deal to say about sleep:

But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep. 

 -Robert Frost

Death, so call'd, is a thing which makes men weep,
And yet a third of life is pass'd in sleep. 

-Lord Byron 

But I subscribe to the wisdom of the late Warren William Zevron.  Who wrote this song, just so you have some basis for his amazingness:

Apparently you have to watch "Werewolves of London" directly on YouTube, but I assure you, it is well worth the 3 minutes and 17 seconds it will cost you.  Because the song might be the most perfect song ever created by mankind.

Zevron said, "I'll sleep when I'm dead."

Why such morose subject matter this posting, you ask?  I'll tell you. 

Three random encounters with peripheral neighbors, acquaintences and a random person at the grocery store, all offered up the same advice:

Enjoy your sleep now.  Enjoy.  Your.  Sleep.

It's a strange piece of advice to offer up to a couple.  Don't get me wrong -- I fully understand that babies will keep you up and don't abide by our schedules.  But I can think of so many other things I'd rather do than sleep.

Here is a list of just some of them:

• Bake a cake.
• Eat a cake.
• Play video games.
• Watch a scary movie.
• Watch a lot of scary movies.
• Read a book.
• Write a book.
• Draw.
• Paint.
• Hike a mountain.
• Swim in a lake.
• Run a race.
• Go on a date.
• Go on multiple dates.
• Go on multiple dates where cake might be consumed.
• Eat a cake.

See?  Plenty of variety here.  Why then are we so obsessed with catching our REMs?  Not to be confused with the following:

Because, frankly, Michael Stipe doesn't look that fast.

Of all the things to long for once the baby is here, is sleep really the number 1 priority?  All the things you could miss and sleep is what you tell others to make sure they go out and attain?

In full disclosure -- I've never been much of one for sleep.  While I'm sure most family will remember me as a late sleeper, it's mostly because I'd stay up into the wee hours of the morning reading or writing or playing video games.

When one doesn't actually fall asleep until close to 3 or 4 in the morning, 9 or 10 o'clock can hardly be seen as "sleeping in." 

At one point it got so bad that I only really saw a few hours of sunlight in the winter.  I'd fall asleep just before dawn and wake up in the afternoon.  

Furthermore, I don't fully believe that whole "you'll never sleep again" mantra.  There's some evidence to the contrary:

1. Not every parent I know looks like this:

Babies!  Babies have made us this way...

2. If it was as bad as people describe it, no one would have multiple children:

The Duggars.  Yes, those are all siblings.

3.  Okay.  There is no 3.  But 1 and 2 should illustrate the point.

I'm grateful for the advice.  Don't get me wrong.  Well wishes with a tacked-on heads-up is much appreciated.  I just don't get why that's the solitary piece of advice people deem the most important.

I'm thankful that my years of being a night owl are finally going to pay off.  The past 30ish years of my existence have just been training for the weeks, months and years ahead.   As luck would have it, I married an early bird.  So while she and the baby catch the worm, I can catch my ZZZs.  Or, at least, what little I need.  As long as I am not busy baking a cake.

Because that is the advice I will impart on the fathers that come after me.  

"Bake your cakes now!  Bake all the ones you can.  You won't have time for that stuff once the baby gets here."

Totally unsolicited baking advice from a stranger.  It's a good thing.

Rock-a-bye Baby

I've heard people refer to sleeping soundly as "sleeping like a baby."  This has got to be one of the most egregious misuses of a simile in our language today.  Unless they actually mean that they woke up every two hours, messed in their pants and threw up a little on themselves, the simile is inaccurate.

How odd are the sing-song lullabies we use to coax children to sleep?  The "Itsy-bitsy Spider" is particularly scary in my mind as what ungodly arachnid can survive drowning!?!?

Growing up I can remember my Grandmother singing "Rock-a-bye Baby" to me ... but it also could have been an episode of The Andy Griffith Show, so don't quote me on it.

Being a former English major, I figured it was high time to deconstruct the go-to lullaby to each of its lines and analyze what is really going on there.

Figure 1.1

"Rock-a-bye baby..." so far so good.  Baby is partaking in a nonsensical activity which we understand to be taking place in a cradle.

Figure 1.2

"...in the treetop./"  So, already we're in trouble.  Why anyone would place a child in a cradle in a tree is beyond me, but this is hardly a soothing scenario.  Wikipedia offers up that this may have something to do with a Native-American tradition of rocking babies to sleep in birch bark cradles that were hung from trees.  Even if this is true, it seems a far cry from a safe activity.

Figure 1.2

"When the wind blows, the cradle will rock./"  You ain't just whistling Dixie.    Generally, wind + object intended to move = movement.  So, in short -- while not an overwhelmingly amazing insight, this portion of the verse does prove important for future plot twists.

Figure 1.3

"When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall./" This seems like a rapid escalation in the course of the action.  One might assume a parent would be apt to place his or her child on a rather strong branch of a tree (were one to place a child in a tree in the first place) and so this wind must be rather on the strong side.  According to the Beaufort Scale, we're looking at a wind speed of somewhere between 62-74 mph.  And that's for "twigs and small branches" to be blown off the tree.  Someone is a derelict parent here.  I'm assuming somewhere around 50 mph one would probably remove the child from a tree.

Figure 1.4

"And down will come baby, cradle and all."  Well, at this point things really could hardly get worse.  One assumes that baby lacks the powers of levitation, thus the inevitable force of gravity will presumably pull all three elements-- bough, baby and cradle, downwards.  In fact, unless said tree were positioned directly above an alligator infested pond the situation could hardly get any worse.

This whole scenario is far from relaxing.  I don't care how soothing your voice is -- this is scary as all hell.  Thus, I posit another explanation to the purpose of this so-called nursery rhyme: to instill crippling fear in the child to encourage obedience.  

Hypothesis: babies cry for a variety of reasons, and by scaring them into submission, one may hope to curtail unnecessary crying by the implicit threat conveyed by the lullaby.  

What could be worse than being put in a tree that inevitably will break and cause grievous bodily harm and emotional distress?  I sure as hell would act right if my parents threatened to throw me out of a tree.

         

   

The Home Stretch

It's hard to believe that the 7th month is already upon us.

In the first trimester it was like we were continually headed uphill -- 12 weeks seemed like it would never come and we were continually itching to tell everyone that we were pregnant.  But time moved like molasses in winter and we were constantly finding creative ways to explain Em's continual aversion to foods.  She was sick non-stop.  I had to stop wearing cologne altogether and switch to the blandest deodorant that I could find.  She slept somewhat like a house cat and we would see each other for about an hour every day.  I would grill outside (weather permitting) and then eat by myself.

I had more than my fair share of hotdogs and baked beans for those three months.

Almost like a switch got flipped in her insides, the second trimester started and I got my wife back.  She was hungry without as much nausea, so I could cook in the house again.  She could stay awake past 8:30, so we could actually hang out when we got home from work.  We started actually doing stuff on weekends again and got to get out of the house and see friends again for more than an hour or two at a time.

Now we're in the home stretch and it's like an all new ball game.

If you've never experienced "nesting" firsthand or as a partner or spouse, let me describe it like this.

Everything you always ignored as being slightly annoying around the house becomes the most obnoxious and nagging thing ever.  Some women, apparently, only experience nesting in the last days or weeks before delivery.  Some have it plague them continuously throughout the pregnancy.  For us, it's been the most intense since we came into the last trimester.

And I say "us," because I have the same twitchy feeling whenever I'm being idle.  It hasn't been sympathy pains or hunger -- but this nesting thing makes me neurotic and feel the need to make sure everything is ready for this baby to come home.

Now, I know babies won't notice all the niceties around the house when they get home.  They want a warm, soft bed, plenty of eats, and a clean diaper.

I think it's possibly one of the more awesome aspects of biological design that one gets so ecstatic and eager for the child to get here.  I feel like I'm ready for her to show up tomorrow (but totally don't -- because your bookcase isn't built yet) and I'm ready to start the next phase of our life together as a motley trio.

It's going to be strange being the only guy in a house of all female creatures.

...

So, this was not my funniest post.  Given the circumstances, I'd like to leave you with a moment of zen:

I could watch that all day.

TV and the Families We Meet There

As a kid, I loved television.

...

Correction: I love television.  Currently.  Have loved it.  Will continue to love it.

I watch a lot of crap TV.  This volume of less-than-stellar television viewing hit a hell of a spike when Em was in her first trimester.  When asked what it was like from my perspective, I described it as being rather similar to living with a cat:

• She wanted to sleep.  Constantly.  Like 15 hours a day.  And then another 10 at night.  So 25 hours a day.  Which was difficult.
• She was hungry.  But nauseous too.  So if the food I made wasn't exactly what she was looking for, she pushed it around with her nose and then walked away.  (Not entirely true.  She probably used her fork.  But my memory is a bit foggy.)
• She occasionally wanted to hang out.  But it was usually short-lived and if I didn't pay attention, I'd probably miss it.

Altogether, during those first 3 months, I pretty much had to make my own fun.  Thankfully, with over 100 channels and a less-than-discerning television palate, I was easily entertained.

Recently, I found out that Netflix has released the series "Dinosaurs" in its entirety on streaming.

For those of you who don't remember and/or were born sometime after 1994, here's a reminder:

Lacking more than 60,000,000 years of evolution. and
still, more civilized than Jersey Shore.

And for those of you playing along at home, here's a mind blowing factoid:

She really has aged quite gracefully.

Okay...so the last two are pretty obvious, but that first one threw me for a loop.

Point being (I really do have one, folks.  Hang in there.  I'm getting to it.)

Growing up, I watched a bunch of these TV families and felt very weird about being in the situation that I was:

Look at the way they both eye Marsha.  It's like the other 5 don't exist.

Try not to think about Jello, RIGHT NOW.

The redhead in the lower right makes two appearances in this blog.

T.G.I.F. gave you a reason to stay home on a Friday night in 1989.

Not pictured here: Pamela Anderson as the
reoccurring character of the "tool girl."
Yes, sometimes the jokes just write themselves.

I could have been Pugsley's stunt double growing up.

Not gonna lie.  If there was ever a TV family who I
wanted to adopt me, ti was the Munsters. If only
to live on Mockingbird Lane and have a dragon
who lived under the staircase.

Okay...I know what you're thinking...I'm too young to have watched many of these shows the first time they were on the air.  But syndication is a marvelous thing.  And I loved me some old TV shows.

But I felt weird about one thing...all these kids lived with their mom and their dad.  At the same time.  There was one show I watched where that wasn't the case:

Yes.  Mom-mom's stunt double makes her second appearance
in the blog.

But Opie's mom was dead.  So that didn't count.  

Even this insane house was intact:

Like nails on a chalkboard, people. Angry, screetchy, nails.

And they made me want to take up drinking at the ripe old age of 7.  Seriously.  Have you tried watching an episode of Roseanne sober?  It's painful.

So who, might you ask, was my beacon of hope?  My analogue for normalcy?  My, "hey -- my life is kind of like that"?

Whoa!

Yup.  Blossom.  And I had to wait until 1990 for something to watch that even began to resemble my existence.  Her mom was still alive but didn't live in the same house as her. Also, this may have laid the groundwork for my affinity for ill-fitted hats.  But that seems to be a bit unrelated.  Also, also -- my dad still rocks Mr. Russo's haircut to this day.

Don't be jealous, ladies.

But Blossom was still removed from what I knew growing up.  I was the eldest of 2 at that point (my youngest 2 siblings didn't even exist yet) and I had no idea what it was like to live with a sister.  And I would never know what it was like to be a younger sibling.

But we look for commonalities in our stories.  Some kind of truth that compels us to feel for that character.

Which is why HBO's Oz ran for 7 seasons.

But you get what I'm driving at (hopefully.  Unless you are just here for the pictures.  In which case I'm going to disappoint for the rest of the post) and the point remains, that sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name and where they're always glad you came.  You want to be where you can see, troubles are all the same.  You want to go where...

Damnit.  I'm thinking of

NORM!

Anyway.  I guess there is no show to make you feel normal.  Or that other people are going through the same stuff you are.  At least not in the exact same way.  All of our individual childhoods are unique -- even in the same household.

I just hope our daughter grows up to think of me as one of these:

Always dapper and on time for dinner.

And not so much as one of these:

What the man lacks in class, he makes up for in personality.

Despite my blog about killing your television to save your child's brain, I'm sure our daughter will discover TV soon enough and start looking for characters and situations common to her life.  Which is great, because it gives me every opportunity to start breaking out all my Cosby sweaters.  And possibly a Blossom-esque bucket hat or two.

When we last left our heroes...

I suppose to appreciate the continuation of Tuesday's post, you need a bit of back story.

Em has wanted a glider chair (it's like a rocker and a la-z-boy had a baby) ever since finding out she was pregnant.  They are amazingly comfortable and there are an unbelievable number of variations on the theme.  She's sat in more than she can probably count and finally found the perfect one at the big box store.

Sadly, the color was heinous, so she continued the search.  

After several weeks of hunting, she still liked the one at the original store.  It was not too big and not too small, not too hard and not too soft and there were no bears sitting in it.

Anyone else notice how dapper Papa Bear dresses?

So, when we registered we figured we could ask about different fabric options.  Unfortunately, when we got to the furniture desk and found it unmanned, we figured it wasn't worth the extra headache of trying to sit down with someone to hash it out after having wandered around the store for so long.  

If you have never been around a pregnant woman for an extended period of time, here's a pro-tip: Don't keep them waiting.  Think about how unpleasant it would be if, at random, someone continually kicked you in the bladder.  And punched you in the stomach.  From the inside.  While you were always hungry, but your stomach is upset and you are slightly nauseous.

Yes, doesn't the joy of pregnancy just seem all the more magical?

Add to this fact that it is summer, horrifically hot and humid, we're back in the same store we spent the better part of two and a half hours in the day before, and you can begin to get a sense of the frame of mind we were in returning to the furniture department.  To register for a single item.  One.  Lousy.  Chair.  

Like heaven for your butt.

When we got home after the first excursion, we were under the impression, based on the info from Geoff, that the chair pictured above could be custom ordered online.  When we got online, the only version of the chair you could find online was the ugly one already in the store.

Not wanting to take the trip and risk another Geoff encounter, I tried calling another location of the same store.  Maybe the help would be a bit more competent at this one, or at the very least, not make me want to run screaming into oncoming traffic.

But no -- this location didn't have any fabric swatches.  If you wanted to see fabric swatches, you had to go to another location.

And the only other location local to us was...yes, you guessed it...the one where Geoff works.

Geoff 2: When Gliders Attack

We approached the furniture counter and were hanging around looking for help when Geoff began to approach.  I was beginning to think that Geoff was the only employee who worked at the location.  As I prepared myself for the inevitable onslaught of misinformation, a small miracle occurred!  Geoff was intercepted by another couple and we would have to find another person to help us.

When I pressed the buzzer for help, you can imagine my surprise was when another employee came over to help.  And this guy was the manager!  Sweet!  At last, someone who knew what he was talking about and would not make us feel like idiots for failing to have every aspect of our unborn child's next 18 years fully mapped out.

The manager was an older gentleman, with white hair and a nice smile.  He was exceptionally pleasant and kind of reminded me of this guy:

Bleep Van Bleep

And really, who could be mad at Dick Van Dyke?

You'd be surprised.  Especially when Dick Van Dyke's doppelganger has the patience of a member of the Spanish Inquisition.

Bet you weren't expecting that.

Every version of the chair Em pointed at would be keyed into the computer by evil-Dick-Van-Dyke and then he'd turn to us and say, "sorry, but that version has been discontinued."  This happened 12 times.  Out of 24 fabric swatches.  I then offered up that it might be a good idea if he could tell us which swatches were in stock and we could just pick from them.

But he didn't think that was terribly efficient.  So we played the swatch game for a few more minutes.  We'd pick it out and he'd tell us it was unavailable.

I was about to go play in traffic when Em noticed that the image of the chair above the swatches we were looking at didn't match the chair she had pointed to in the first place.  Please keep in mind, this is 45 minutes after sitting down with evil-Dick-Van-Dyke.

And then Evil-D.-V.-D. realized we were looking at the wrong chair altogether.

Finally, after much gnashing of teeth and beating of chest, it was done.  The chair was on the registry.  And our registry was complete.  Mission accomplished.

Geoff didn't even say goodbye as we passed him on the way out.

Oh, and from the "you can't make this s#!t up department"-- 

When I went to the store's website just now to get the picture of the chair that caused this much agita , they actually have all the different versions of the chair on their website: ALL THE NEWCO GLIDERS

Amazing.

Registering for Baby Stuff: The Geoff Chronicles

I've done a registry before.  Usually the second time you do something, it's generally easier and you know what to expect.  Sadly, on this occasion, I was wrong.

It looks so innocent, doesn't it?

We walked into the superstore with high hopes.  We had gone early (10 minutes after opening) and the parking lot was reasonably empty.  Family members had been asking when we were going to get around to it for a while -- and rightfully so.  Baby G (as we have affectionately taken to calling her) is going to be the first niece to all of our siblings, and the first grandchild to all of our parents.

We wanted to register for gender appropriate stuff (not that I don't love yellow and green) so we waited until the ultrasound (remember me puking rainbows?) and thus we were off and running.

If you have never been to a baby superstore (and for the record I have now been to 4 varieties) they have a very similar layout.  For anyone looking for sound advice and a printable map, here is one you can take with you:

Diagram 1

If you are pregnant and showing, they are on you like white on rice.  The manic store associate pounced and we were in chairs within seconds being handed all sorts of materials for the occasion.  Primarily they were lists of things you absolutely can't live without if you have a baby in your house.

You know, things like infrared tracking cameras that broadcast your baby's every move to any television in the house and strollers that cost more than two months rent.  Necessities.  

Now, what you have to know is that we went in with a game plan.  Em (my wife...heretofore referred to as "my wife") knew the majority of what we were looking for (she's the researcher. And the planner. And the organized one) but we had a few outstanding questions.  As the maniacal baby registry lady made me want to run screaming for the door (refer to diagram 1). I asked if there was anyone on the floor who could help us as we walked around if we had any questions.

There was.  For purposes of this blog we shall refer to him as "Geoff".

Diagram 2 ("Geoff")

He kind of looked like every male friend I ever had in high school.  Except Geoff      (name changed to protect the innocent) was clearly in his 30's.  And thought it was "ridiculous" that we didn't know what brand of stroller/car seat we wanted.  He inspired absolutely no confidence in me that he had any actual experience raising children, but he was heinously condescending.  Between the "harumphs" and "pishaws" he manages to eek out some semblance of human conversation.

In the end, we picked the stroller that folded up the easiest and was capable of being used for a jogging stroller.  Geoff approved.

We stumbled into the breast pump section.  I'm not even going to begin to step into those waters, but suffice it to say, there are way more options than you ever thought imaginable.  And all of them are crazy expensive.

The only thing in that section more expensive than the pumps themselves was apparently liquid gold:

Clearly mislabeled.  This has to contain gold. 

Em has every intention of breastfeeding, so we're (hopefully) ducking a bullet here.  But I'm sure I've got an internal organ or two I could spare in case we need to buy this stuff.

We ambled into the diaper section.  You have no idea, unless you have actually raised a rugrat, how many options/varieties/variations there are in the diaper section.  Suffice it to say, there's more than you imagined.  And they don't come cheap.  We're trying cloth diapers as inspired by this post over at younghouselove, but there was only one option.  And it didn't have any snaps.  So we moved on.  Undaunted.

By the time we finally moseyed over to the furniture section, we were burnt.  An hour had passed since we got there.  Em was tired and hungry and I was over this.

And apparently, so too was the furniture associate.  Who was nowhere to be found.  So we trudged on.  We worked our way through the isle of discounted goods, all of which were affordable and none of which were allowed to be added to the registry as they all were being discontinued.

Finally we made it to the fun part -- toys and books and movies and awesome things that...no baby needs whatsoever.  Not yet at least.  So I registered for a few books and remembered that it'll be a while before Baby G has any interest in a dinosaur play set.  

So I might look somewhat ridiculous playing with this by myself. But I think its awesomeness is self-evident

But, determined, more than ever, to see this thing through, we returned our registry gun to the manic registry associate and she loaded it into the system.  When I asked about furniture help (now 2 hours since our initial arrival) she said she would get somebody.  Guess who she called to the desk?

The now infamous "Geoff"

I saw him approach and asked if we could add additional items online.  Even if they were special order.  And furniture.

Geoff insisted we could.

I got home.  Looked for furniture options.  There were no special order options online.

Guess who greeted us at the furniture counter the very next day when we wanted to place our special order furniture:

Yup.  Geoff again.

To be continued...

Babyglow -- yet another product you didn't even know you needed

And here from the annals of Things-People-Don't-Need-But-Clearly-Have-More-Money-Than-Me-And-Can-Afford-To-Buy, comes the Babyglow:
Babyglow - Temperature Color Changing Bodysuit

Nothing sells me on a concept like an upset wee one.

Essentially this onesie changes from pink (or blue) to white whenever the baby's body temp gets above 98.6°  and then drops back to the normal color as body temp decreases.

The main problem I see with this is the fact that your body temperature can fluctuate by a degree or more throughout the day and depending on your hormonal levels this can totally throw your body out of whack.  Don't believe me?  

SCIENCE!

At any rate, even if this thing does allow for normal body temp changes, it still begs the question -- who has this kind of money to burn?!?! At $39.99 each, these things don't come cheaply.  And if you are buying them straight through from 3 months through 18 months, that's a lot of rather expensive onesies.

I love most ThinkGeek products (and their product descriptions always deliver on the funnies) but I just can't justify this purchase.

Besides -- I'm sure there are plenty of dads from my generation with a Hypercolor tees in the backs of their closets.  Swaddle that baby up and party like it's 1991.

Needless to say, I disapprove of this shirt.

It'll be cheaper, more colorful and you'll finally have an answer when your wife asks you why you keep all this stupid shirts that you never wear.

A Rose by Any Other Name

Names.  Oh, Lord, the names.  Next to the decision of whether or not to have a kid in the first place it seems like one of the most important decisions one has to tackle in those months between peeing on a stick and the arrival of your little one.

Now that we know we're having a girl, the field of names has been halved, but I'm still struggling with pinning down a finalist.

Part of my problem is my innate ability to come up with horrible nicknames for said name which will inevitably be the way our child will suffer through the majority of elementary school on into post-grad.

The following exchange lifted from the amazing socio-economic, hard-hitting documentary of suburban America, The Simpsons, is a classic example of what I'm inclined to do.  In Season 3, Episode 12: I Married Marge, Homer and Marge have the following exchange:


Marge: Homer, if the baby's a boy, what do you think about the name Larry?
Homer: Marge, we can't do that. All the kids will call him Larry Fairy.
M: How about Louie?
H: They'll call him Screwy Louie.
M: Bob?
H: Slob.
M: Luke?
H: Puke.
M: Marcus?
H: Mucus.
M: What about Bart?
H: Hmm, let's see. Bart, Cart, Dart, E-art... nope, can't see any problem with that.

Truly, these are parental role models.

Every name my wife brings up, I have a stupid nickname that ruins it.

Rather than ruin names for anyone in the process of picking and/or having already picked and applied to his or her offspring, suffice it to say that I am not a fun person to pick names out with as a rule.

I like old-school names.  I know some of them are weird and, don't worry, my wife isn't going to allow me to saddle our baby girl with something like Edna, Edith, Mabel, Hazel, Blanche, Sophia, Rose, or Dorothy.

Okay, so I may have been thinking
of The Golden Girls

But there is something funny to me about the idea of a kindergarten lousy with Ediths and Ednas and the like.  Although, what will probably be even funnier is in 60 years when they are populated with a bunch of Brittanies and Ambers and Tiffanies.  

Adding insult to injury are these lists of the most popular baby names of the year.  Every time I think we've narrowed the field (Sophia was a front-runner for a while) I see it crop up on a list of most popular baby names of the year, such as:

HuffingtonPost

BabyCenter --> (my wife's name is #1)

USA_Today --> (Sophia is #1 from 2011)

Parenting.com --> (Isabella...another former contender is #1)

SSA.gov --> (Heck...even Social Security confirms it)

But if you go the other extreme and try and intentionally be different, you run into other problems.

It's a thin line between "unique" and "weird."  There have been studies that show having too unique a name can mess with a kid's self esteem and perception.  But I always liked having a name that no one else I knew had...

(Brief aside...my name on my birth certificate is Nathaniel Brendan.  Which isn't too shabby.  But unless you are going to berate little children into pronouncing "Na-than-yul" repeatedly, it will, without a doubt, become truncated.  Which it did.  Almost immediately upon stepping into Kindergarten.  Which was made most excellent by the arrival of this guy on the scene:

And people wonder why I'm
egotistical...it is right in the title

The other options I had were to allow other people to choose my nickname for me.  And while "Goodyear" and "Staypuft" were both charming and delightful [yes, I was really called those by children...no I'm not over it, thanks for asking] most people would shorten it to "Nathan" or the inevitable "Nat."  And while there have been plenty of great Nats -- okay, I can only think of Nat King Cole, but I'm sure there were more -- whenever I heard people call me Nat I always thought of this:

Gnat

And so I became Nate.  There was nothing fancy about the decision process.  It was monosyllabic, easy to write (you try writing 9 letters + 4 at the top of every paper you ever had to hand in and see how you like it) and it didn't remind me of a bug.  But I digress.)

...I can only imagine being one of the dozens of Michaels, Chrises or Johns who I now work with and wondering constantly if someone is trying to get my attention.

Once we do ultimately land on a name, we're going to be one of those obnoxious couples who aren't telling anyone until we introduce her to the world.  Primarily because everyone has an opinion on the subject and, as you can tell, I already have enough anxiety about the decision as it is.

I may just take on the clever approach of my very wise cousin, who, after each person asked if she had chosen a name yet, she told them--

"Oh, yes.  We're naming him after you."

This went over splendidly with my myriad of uncles and male cousins as she was having a boy.  But poor Aunt Bernadette just walked away confused.

Ultrasounds and Aftereffects: Or, We're Having a ...

Anything happens to my daughter, I have a .45 and a shovel, and I doubt anyone would miss you.  

-Sir Laurence Olivier 

Okay, so the above quote actually came from Clueless in 1995, but attributing them to Sir Laurence gives it a bit more gravitas.  When Dan Hedaya said those words 17 years ago I really never thought that I would find a use for them at any point in my life.

Then, came the ultrasound.

If you haven't pieced it together just yet, I'll give you a second.

...

...

We're having a girl.

First, let me say that I'm thrilled, stoked and otherwise elated to be having a girl.  In fact, when the ultrasound technician said that we were having a girl I was practically puking rainbows:

Artist's rendition of the aforementioned moment.

Amazing.  Literally the definition of awesome.  

At the hospital we went to for the prenatal imaging had a 4-D machine as well, so you could watch the baby as she (still weird to type s-h-e) moved around.  While I don't have actual footage of the dancing, it did look something like this:

He's gonna party like it's 1996.

But sans diaper.

In all honesty, the 4D stuff is a little creepy.  You aren't used to seeing anything like it.  Well, you might be, but it's generally reserved for health class videos and intro segments to the Look Who's Talking movies.

The more classic ultrasound pics are much cuter --

I'd type something witty, but I'm still puking rainbows.

It really wasn't until the car ride home that it hit me.  In the course of 45 minutes we went from a gender-neutral concept of what our baby might be to knowing she  is going to be a girl.  And my whole world is going to change.

I've been told that I can have a slight tendency to be a bit protective...

This is what I've been told I look like when witnessing someone hit on my wife:

Artist's rendering

Not to be confused with this:

He's not really that angry.

But I can only imagine what I'm going to be like around my little girl.  I do hope to never need to invoke those immortal words of Sir Laurence Olivier Dan Hedaya, but I have started researching my 2nd Amendment Rights.  So I'm sure that's a rational, even-tempered start to this whole thing.