The Whatever.

     "Whatever" has become this generation's anthem. The one thing they can't seem to get enough of is quitting. That one compound word can mean so much from, "hey, it doesn't really matter to me, I don't want to fight about it, and I value our friendship more than being right" to "You're such a complete idiot, you'll never understand it, so I'm done wasting my breath on you and your useless brain". It use to mean, "Either option is amiable", but somewhere in the eighties it picked up a sense of bourgeois arrogance.
     But now, I see children "whatever"-ing their parents. Right out in the open, blatantly giving the verbal equivalent of the finger. That's not to be unexpected, kids have always been somewhat rebellious, it's how they figure out who they are and where the boundaries are. What I don't understand is the parents that nonchalantly accept these "whatevers" from their kids. As if there is no harm in what they say and attitude is completely kosher.
     Yet, I know one of my weaknesses is the ability to pick battles. Don't get me wrong, I pick battles all the time, I just pick too many of them. And I sometimes pick stupid ones and there's a stubborn streak that doesn't want to quit. But that's part of parenting, isn't it? I mean, marriage, parenting, friendship, relationships, work-relationships, any relationship at all, if it's to be productive and withstand the test of time, must have an element of compromise. Without it, there is too much rigidity and it will shatter if too much pressure is applied. So, maybe I should embrace the Whatever mentality a little more. Maybe I should come to understand it as actively choosing to not choose this thing right here as my battle, and just letting bygones be bygones. Still don't know how well I'm going to handle a backhanded "whatever" from my kid, but we'll see how it goes...

The City.

     Catie's from Ohio, I'm from Kansas, but we live in San Diego now. We both work in education and it's extremely important that our children get great educations. I'm all for home schooling, she thinks public school is critical for developing social skills. I think public school is critical for developing knife fighting skills, but that's neither here nor there.
     Where ever our kids go to school, it will be in the same place they live. Makes sense, I know. But the issue is the above picture. Not sure if you can tell, but that's a hypodermic needle laying at the base of the tree. I took that shot while I was walking the dog this morning. And someone else shot up with that shortly before I walked the dog this morning.
     This is where I'm supposed to raise my children?

     When I was young and in a store with more breakable things than non-breakable things, my father use to tell me to put my hands in my pocket and keep them there. I still do it, just out of habit. If I have to raise kids in the city, I might have a constant "keep your hands in your pockets" rule. There's just too many needles out there. On the other hand, I walked many a dog down many a street in Kansas and I can say I never once saw a needle.

The Sunday.

     One day out of the year is set aside to acknowledge fathers everywhere. Father's day was last Sunday. While I'm not technically a father , I still missed it completely. Completely. Didn't even know it was father's day. That's why I wanted this post to show up today. It's been exactly one week since father's day, and no one is even thinking about it. One week after Christmas the tree's are still up, children are playing with still-new-toys, men are cursing baby Jesus as they tempt death taking down lights, and a woman cries as ornaments are being put away. Stereotypical? Sure. But it's true. It's the way I remember it.
     Well, it's one week after father's day and? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Perhaps that's how it should be. Maybe men are the unsung hero's of the home. Like the guy who plays the organ at the ballpark. Everyone hears him, no one sees him. We have our roles to play, and that's different in every family, but no one can play them like we can. And who could ask for anything more? Except a nice tie from the kids one Sunday out of the year...

The Sonogram.

     Did you know the first sonogram is going to be...invasive? That's the only way I know how to describe it. Something called a wand is used. When you hear wand, go ahead and think Harry Potter. But as the baby grows and the lining around the uterus is stretched thinner, they'll be able to do it through the skin and it's a lot less invasive. If you get a good obstetrician, they might throw you a few extra sonograms. If they do, you'll be able to see your baby's (or babies, if you're lucky enough to have multiples) bones develop. Actually, when they're born, it's mostly just cartilage, but bones none the less.
     I'm lucky enough to be having Dark Helmet. The sonogram clearly showed my child's head to be about 90% of its total body weight. I'm having Dark Helmet.

The Genes.

     We're sitting around, eating dinner, and watching friends. It's the one where Ross's exwife announces she's getting married to her partner. Ross is unsure how to deal with this and mild hilarity ensues. This was when my wife looked at me and asked, "How mad would you be if you found out I was only with you so I could have a child?"
     I said, "There's no way. It's not like you'd be with me for the gene pool! My dad has Parkinson's, there's Alzheimer's, and heart problems...no way would you have picked me!"
     ...Long pause...Then Catie asks:
"Do you want to finish the rest of my salad?"
     Thanks for thinking about me, Honey...

The Stay-at-Homies.

     If your parents were baby boomers, they were in an interesting position. Because most of their parents were either in the great depression or heard stories about it, there was a mentality of saving instead of spending. Well, when our parents grew up, they had enough disposable income to buy all the stuff their parents never let them get. Even in this economy it's still going on. The muscle cars are being bought by men in their forties and fifties because it reminds them of what they always wanted when they were young or of what they had when they were young. Either way, it was about their youth and who they were back then. In fact, the words "midlife crisis" weren't even used until the early 70's. That's because they didn't happen. There's no way to have a midlife crisis if you can't afford it!
     There was some good that came out of this rediscovery/reappreciation of youth. Men began telling their children how important their youth was. They lavished stories of excitement and adventure on them in the hopes their children would appreciate what their parents had tried to beat out of them.
      I think it's called the Peter Pan syndrome, when a guy tries everything possible to maintain his youth. As if they want an Animal House lifestyle to continue after they have children. One of my friends, in denial of his new state of fatherhood, went out and played flip-cup the day his son was brought home from the hospital. That's right. He got drunk the night his son was brought home.
     There is a part of me that wouldn't mind maintaining a frat house with kids. I can imagine a guy with his hat backwards, wearing a toga, drinking the brewsky, and sporting a fashionable Baby Bjorn backpack. Now get about half a dozen of these bro's to play poker together on a Saturday night. Part of me wants this, and the other part thinks it might be pathetic. When you have kids, you're supposed to be grown up, right? How do grownups act again?

The Fatherade.

     There's a line in Fight Club where Tyler & Jack are talking about how they were raised and the expectations their parents had for them. Mainly the idea that they should have been married by now. Then Tyler (Brad Pitt) says; "[We're] a generation of men raised by women. I'm wondering if another woman is the answer we really need." Please, let it be understood that I am in no way a misogynist. The part I agree with is that the answer may not be in adding more women to the equation. Instead, we should be adding more men; adding more fathers.
     Someone has made a distinction between the "father" and "dad". As if father means sperm donor and dad means having an active relationship in raising their children. I think the distinction is arbitrary. If you are a man who has children, you are a father, a dad, a role model, and part of a family. Even absence can set an example.
     It is in this spirit that my posts will be branching out. Fathers need help in more ways than just parenting. There is a concept in human resources management that applies here. It is the belief that if an IT employee wants to take banjo lessons, the company should pay for the lessons. The reasoning goes like this: Banjo lessons = happier employee: happier employee = better productivity: better productivity = higher sales. Therefore, the lessons will pay for themselves. The lessons should be considered an investment in the company. Not to mention that taking care of your employees will increase retention which decreases hiring and retraining costs. It just makes sense.
     Same applies here, men are better fathers when they are happier in other areas of their life. A good day at work means a happy man. A happy man is more patient and loving. A loving and patient father makes for a good family. It's that logic that is broadening the content of this blog. Not every post will be directly related to fathering, but they will be related to creating better fathers. Here's to the happiness of men!

The Google.

     Does anyone realize that our grandparents were born before cars existed, our parents were born before microwaves or computers existed, and we were born before cellphones or Google existed? Kindle's will make textbooks a thing of the past, and who knows what's going to happen to paper? I've always tried to keep up with technology & consider myself to be geek sheik. But I doubt I'll be able to help my kids with their sixth grade math homework. Anybody else worried about this? I wonder if my kids will go to Google's school of technology, or Yahoo's kinder-care. I'm oddly comfortable with the idea...

The Bill.

     Catie takes care of all the bills. She's good at it. She has an organizational mindset that imbues her with a near mystical ability to know where all our money is at the same time. It's pretty intimidating. Another thing that she's way better at than me are directions. I get lost walking to the mailbox. When GPS systems came out I was too excited. Finally, I'd never be lost! I could make it from the end of the driveway back to the door. Catie never needs a GPS, has one in her car, never uses it.
     On our way to the fourth obstetrician's appointment, it dawned on me, I have no idea where we're supposed to go when labor hits. Even if I did, I'm not sure I'd make it. Yes, I have a GPS, but I'm not all that great at following what the voice in the box says. Usually, it's not a big deal. I make a wrong turn and I'm guided back toward an alternate path or the best way to turn around. But my wife going into labor is not a normality. It pretty much requires a direct route.
     Her car is a two door and not real comfortable. Probably not a good car for the hospital trip. Also, it'll probably be too cramped on the way back from the hospital. The other option is my BMW. It's fast, a four door, with GPS and leather seats. That is, if it hasn't turned into a minivan by then. It seems terrible, even as I write it, but I really don't want water breaking in my car. It's gross.
     So, this gets back to "the bills" issue. She pays the bills, takes care of the food, helps keep the house clean, and she's the primary bread winner. I'm no good on my own! I just hope I'll be able to step up when it's time to get to the hospital. If she's laid up a few days, hopefully I'll be able to take care of the bills, the house, and the shopping. If not, we're going to eat a lot of macaroni & cheese.

The Nothing.

     "The Nothing" in The Neverending Story was a lack of imagination. At least, as far as I can figure. Now I'm starting to think it's possible "The Nothing" describes what pregnant women can do.
     It started when we first found out Catie was pregnant. We were so excited and wanted to go out and celebrate. So we went out and opened a bottle of champagne, only to realize she couldn't have any. Then we went to my parents house where she couldn't get in the hot tub. We wanted to go to the ocean and ride a beach cruiser down the boardwalk, but she couldn't. She was going to run with her cross-country kids, but she can't run anymore. Every drug commercial we hear on TV advises against their product "if you're pregnant or nursing". Even pain killers, like Advil or Aspirin are a no go. Tylenol is okay, but that's about it. She can't sleep through the night because she has to pee every thirty minutes. And if she's as luck as her mom was, she won't even be able to get out of bed for the last four months of her pregnancy. Not to mention crack cocaine, that's right out! Even caffeine is out. That means no soda, no coffee. For her, that meant withdrawal. No sugar? That meant no sweets. I'm still waiting on that one to happen. Not only is she supposed to stop the sweets and everything else listed above, she's supposed to start taking things we'd never heard of.
     Folic Acid, iron, and calcium are the key elements in prenatal vitamins. Calcium is there because the baby will take from the mother's bones, hair, and nails. By the way, they'll probably never be the same. What was once lustrous, shiny, gorgeous, curly, bouncy hair can become flat, dull, limp, lifeless strands of frustration. But trust me on this one, her hair will always look beautiful. One of my friends told me how frustrated she had become at being able to do nothing. She was around 8 months pregnant and hadn't seen her feet, much less been able to tie her shoes, four about three months. She felt fat, nothing fit, and she was down to a handful of maternity outfits she'd worn a thousand times. She finally had an opportunity to go out for an evening and was taking time making the only thing she could reach look good: her hair. That was when her husband made a near deadly mistake. He asked her what was taking so long.
     It's the only thing she can reach. Let her work on her hair as long as she wants. It's the only thing she has control over. She can take all the time she wants.

The Slice.

     The life my father led when I was young must have been pretty pathetic. I have deduced this from how upset he got over one slice of pizza. It was after school and I was hungry so the fridge was my friend and everything in it was up for grabs. Including the leftover pizza that I ate with a vengeance. I went on with my day, did some homework, watched TV. My dad came home after a 16 hour day and went straight to the fridge to get the leftover pizza. Now this is the part really clued me in on how cruddy his life must have been at that point: The best part of his day was going to be leftover pizza.
     Dad came into my room and asked if I ate his food. I fessed-up, but it was a bad idea. He got upset and said he had been looking forward to that pizza all day! Why didn't I ask before I ate it? I thought that man was going to kill me where I stood...because of pizza.
     Some of my more honest friends tell me they aren't ready to have kids because they're still too selfish. They want to go out when they want, party when they want, and have leftovers when they want. I never thought much about that before we got pregnant, now I am. I'm almost thirty years old, so it shouldn't be that big of a deal. Usually, our going "out" consists of a restaurant, maybe a movie, and home before 10:00. Catie and I both work, we're in graduate programs, and we have a very demanding dog to take care of. We'll make time for the baby, without question. But still, am I going to see the light of day ever again? Will there be a point in my life where all I want is to go home and eat leftover pizza but my kid ate it and didn't even ask? Am I going to start writing my name on all my food, post scripted with threats of immanent death upon unwrapping?
     With the joy of childbirth, there might be a hint of regret. Hopefully the twinges of selfishness will dissipate the instant I hold that brand new life in my hands. I won't want to see another movie because I've got entertainment at home! But there's also a part of me that fears losing myself in their life. When they leave, will I just be this empty shell of a former parent? I've seen it happen and it is not pretty.
     So here's to the last slice. Here's to an empty fridge where a full one stood last night. Here's to looking forward to sleep more than sex. And here's to raising the needs of my family high above my own. Because I know, somewhere in my gut, that it will all be worth it in the end.

The Purpose.

     If you're not aware of the this, you've been living under a rock, I'm surprised you're on this blog, and I'm going to reward your readership: You can watch TV on your computer for free. You don't even have to forward emails or fill out credit card offers. Just go to Fox.com, CBS.com, ABC.com, NBC.com, USANetwork.com, or "whatever company".com that produces your shows. Even better, most of you will be able to hook your laptops up to your giant living room flat screen LCD TV and watch your favorite shows with minimal commercial interruption, and usually in HD. You're welcome. And like so many things on this blog, you may be asking what this has to do with being a father. Good question.
     Catie wanted to hook up her computer so we could watch the last three episodes of "Pushing Daisies" (Which now is an ironic name). Usually, I'm in charge of this. Not because I'm a guy, but because she doesn't know how to do it. As I'm sure I've said, my wife is brilliant. How she has so much trouble matching colors and plugging in wires, I'll never know. Then she warned me, "This is the only reason I keep you around. Well this and your sperm, and I don't need that anymore. You sure you want me to learn how to do this?"
     There was a point in time when men worked long, grueling, terrible jobs to bring home minimal income to women who worked twice as hard but complained about it half as much. Right now, my wife earns twice my wage, works three times harder, and then she takes care of me. Then it dawns on me, she could totally figure this out. The electronics, the computer problems, setting the clock on the microwave, these things are well within reach of her mental abilities. So why does she ask me to do it? Maybe it's because she want's me to know I'm important. Maybe not important in general, but to her specifically. I love that. And I can't wait for my kid to experience it. I just hope she hasn't wasted all her patience on me...

The Frustration.

     God didn't create Hell, the DMV did. Somehow, the slip of paper with the registration number for my car got lost. Yes I got it, I knew it was important, and I know there's no way to replace the number if it gets lost, but it got lost anyway. So two hours into butt numbing, mind destroying, patience testing waiting, B231 has yet to pop up on the screen, announcing my freedom. In the middle of all this, a mother and child find their way to the seat next to mine. Not only did he sit next to me, he sat real close to me, too close. It was inside my personal space bubble. Well, it was like this:
     Have you ever been standing in line, usually at the movie theater's snack area, and some doofus behind you is standing so close you can tell when they breathe? Personally, it creeps me out and I try to "accidentally" step backward and find a toe. In the flip-flop land of San Diego (both shoes & politicians, but in this case, the shoes) that usually get's the point across, I get my personal space back, and hopefully no one gets tazed or maced. Everyone's happy. Except for my wife. Who keeps telling me that one day I'm going to get tazed or maced for literally stepping on people's toes.
     There are just certain things that annoy me to no end; one of which is the invasion of personal space by complete strangers who never got an invite. People who kick the back of my seat: not okay with that. People who pass gas in the middle of class because they drink too much coffee in the morning and then they blame it on the heavy-set guy next to them: I'm okay with that, but it still shouldn't be done... It would be natural for me to get hacked off at the kid, in the purgatory known as the DMV, touching me and getting all up in my business.
     But the weirdest thing happened. I just thought it was cute. It wasn't like there was an initial sense of frustration that had to be repressed, or a desire to throttle him that I had to channel into humor, I was genuinely charmed. And this has been a pattern for the last few months. Babies and children doing things that would normally warrant a scornful look on my part are now affirmations of their innocence and youth.
     I've worked with kids of all ages in classroom settings and I don't let them get away with much. They know I'm strict, but they also learn I'm fair and will listen to their side of the story. I earn their respect because I respect them. This does NOT mean I think everything they do is cute, it just means I respect them enough to give them an opportunity to sink their own ship; which they usually do. But I never thought the stuff they pulled was cute. That is, until my wife got pregnant.
     Maybe there is some innate mechanism in my psychology that turns up patience chemicals when a baby is coming. If not, we'd probably have to have a lot of children because we might start eating our young. My dad told me that after he had kids he was able to hear the phone ring while he was in the shower. Or he knew when one of us was getting into something because he heard the cellophane unwrapping three blocks down. As if he suddenly lost one ability, and all the remaining ones were heightened. Is it possible for a father's sense of frustration to be dulled, and the efficacy of attentive abilities is increased? I really hope that's true. For that matter, so does my kid.

The Cards.

     It's probably a safe assumption that anyone reading this blog has their own computer. If that's true, you've played solitaire. Guaranteed. You've all played it at work while you were on break. You were on break, right? It's on my cell, so I've been known to play while in the bathroom. Probably why my legs go numb...but I digress.
     Bet you didn't know the odds of winning at standard Klondike Solitaire (not Vegas style) is between 82 and 91.5%. Eighty percent of the time, researchers could tell if a game was going to be winnable in under 4 seconds. Four seconds. The chances of getting dealt a game of KS in which no cards can be moved anywhere is 0.025%. I swear I've had that hand three times in a row. If you want to read the Oregon State research report, here's the link.
     You may be wondering what solitaire has to do with raising a kid, having babies, or being a dad. And for those of you not wondering that, you should be. Well, most of you have heard the Nature vs Nurture argument about what makes us; us. Are we slaves to our genes, or is it possible to overcome predispositions through discipline, medication, self flagellation, or the exorcism of demons?
     While genetics play a role (nature), that can't be everything. If it was, there would be no such thing as responsibility or human agency. You can't send someone to jail if their gene's made them do it. That's what the insanity plea is all about! And it's just as unfair to expect a person with diminished mental capacity to come up with the theory of relativity all on their own. Better yet, it's like blaming my father for his own Parkinson's. So where's the middle ground? At what point am I no longer pushing my child to be their best and instead I'm asking them to overcome something genetically set? How much of my kids personality is just ingrained, and how much is just learned bratty behavior?
     This is where solitaire comes back. Even though the majority of games played are winnable, the majority of games I play aren't won. Nature may have dealt my cards (genetics), but I get to play the hand (nurture). One thing I will do, is teach my kid how to play a hand. Because, in the end, that might be all we really have. That's all we can be held accountable for. Did we do what we could with what we had? If my kid does all they can and fails fantastically, I'll should still hold my head up high and shout to the world, "THAT'S MY KID!!!!!!!!!"

The Hooter.

     Hooter Hiders. Not making this stuff up. Don't even think I could.
     Turns out, hooter hiders are miniature privacy screens that allow women to nurse or pump or whatever in the comfort of rush hour traffic. Don't get me wrong, I'm not real big on the idea of every Rando getting to see my wife's sweater bunnies, but I kind of have a feeling this thing would last about three uses and then end up like the Diaper Genie.
     For those of you that don't know, the Diaper Genie is this magical contraption that is supposed to have the power of eliminating gross diaper smell, being more sanitary, and a bunch of other reasons that justify spending around 80 bucks on what is ultimately a trashcan for poop. My sister had one. Loved it. For around fifteen days. Three kids later, she's got a big cardboard box in the corner of the room with piles of diapers just begging for the next trash day.
     If I've heard correctly, babies go through about four changes of clothes per hour. More if it's a day when they're sick, scared, nervous, or happen to be eating. If that's the case, and it seems real possible to me, then how many diapers are we talking about? Ten, twenty, more? How many loads of doody in one week? Tell ya what: anyone out there want to buy me a Diaper Genie, Hooter Hider, or Flibbity Clarkstenfine, go ahead. Because, as near as I can tell, most of these fancy products can be replaced with a folded cardboard box. Would you pay 80 dollars for a cardboard box? If so, I have some fantastic boxes in the garage I'd love to show you; some even have a broken in look!

The Shower.

     According to a study quoted in a book only "10 percent of all pregnant couples were not having sex...after about the third month. By the ninth month, the number of abstaining couples had risen to 33 percent." However, in this same study, "about 40 percent of all the couples surveyed were still having and enjoying sex into the ninth month" (Nelson, 2004, p. 133). Forty percent were still having sex. That seems a little high, doesn't it?
     Maybe it's the tides, the gravitational effect of the moon, the powerful surging hormones, or just some cruel joke or irony, but sinking up schedules, opportunities, and desires seems to be just this side of impossible. Forty percent. Ha! that means 60 percent aren't having sex. Well, I guess to be precise, at least 60 percent aren't "enjoying" sex. They might be having it, but it's not gonna be fun! That has to be just the perfect mind set to get into bed with: "Hey, I gotta knock this out before I go to sleep, you mind?" I wonder if it's one of those things that falls on the chore list. Am I alone on this one?

P.S. There was some confusion on the relationship between the blog title and content. The picture was supposed to help clear that up: it's a cold shower...

     Nelson, K. (2004). The everything father-to-be book: A survival guide for men. Adams Media: Avon, MA.

The Marks.

     Earth Mama Angel Baby Stretch Oil.     I'm not kidding. There is a product designed for stretch marks and it is called Earth Mama Angel Baby Stretch Oil. Just knowing there is a product called Earth Mama Angel Baby Stretch Oil tells me stretch marks are going to be a potential...occurrence. Not necessarily a problem, but an occurrence. Catie has informed me that she, apparently, is getting stretch marks. The kid isn't even here yet and she's mad at it. Yet, if she rubs some voodoo cream on these stretch marks she can prevent her body turning into a detailed road map of the Aegean/Izmir region (pictured above).
     This is not necessarily a bad thing. This is an opportunity for me to slather some kind of oil all over my wife and make her feel better about herself and the pregnancy at the same time. Sounds pretty good to me. But, it does raise the fairly touchy subject of stretch marks. Peter Griffin made me laugh out loud when he told Bonnie that she must have been hot before her body went all fun-house mirror. The laughing happened before my brush with pregnancy. Now, I'm surprised Peter wasn't killed off in that episode, never to be heard from again.
     I asked my wife if there was a way for a man to broach the topic of stretch marks with a woman if she hadn't brought it up first. She didn't really answer, but the look she gave me pretty much clued me in. And no; there is no way for a man to broach the topic of stretch marks with a woman if she hasn't brought it up first. There just isn't. Even if you tried to go out and buy a bottle of Mercury Daddy Hades Child Stretcher Oil and left it on her nightstand, you'd just come home to a crying mess of a woman, in a curled fetal position, rocking in the throws of some hormonal attack, wondering if she'll ever be sexy again.
     It's just not worth it.

The Food.

     There is absolutely no reason for me to go out and buy one of those sympathy pregnancy bellies for men. Just no reason. Partially because the concept itself is pretty idiotic, but also because my gut is growing faster than my wife's belly. She is eating all the time, so I'm eating all the time. It's nuts. Thing is, when she has the kid she'll instantly lose like 15 to 20 pounds. I can make my way around the block for the next ten weeks straight and drop 15 to 20 ounces. It's just not fair.
     The statement about it not being fair is probably enraging to certain women. I don't know how many times I've heard a woman blame the current state of her body on children. Not even her own children, just children in general. But I can't say I blame them. Certain articles insinuate that eating can be caused by stress and the released hormones (cortisol) increases the amount of fat stored. That's a one-two punch OF the gut.
     The cool part about my gut, is that she still loves me. Her love for me is definitely in spite of my gut and not because of it, but it's still nice to know she loves me regardless. There is an upcoming movie where John Krasinski, doing a terrible job at consoling his wife, says, "I love you no matter how big you get...even if it take months for you to lose all this weight". It was poorly executed, but the sentiment is there. Personally, I can't wait until my wife's belly explodes into a massive ball with the power to make complete strangers pat it. It's gonna be great!

The Transformer.

     Just the concept of Transformers was mind blowing to me. My five year old brain just could fully wrap itself around the concept of a toy that was multiple things in one. Until I finally got one. I had the Transformer that became a microscope, one played tapes, I even had Optimus Prime and the ENTIRE trailer that went along with it. Feel free to buy it for me if you want. The link probably won't last forever, but right now it's going for the scant price of 5,000. That's right Mom! You sold five grand worth of toy for around, oh 25 cents. I hope you're happy.
     Truth of the matter is, it wouldn't have mattered much. Mine wouldn't have been in the package anymore, the left over stickers would be hanging on for dear life, there might be a He-Man sword lodged permanently in one of Optimus' legs. I played the stuffing out of my toys. Loved 'em. Between you and me, I still took baths with toys when I was in junior high. But don't tell anyone.
     Catie and I jokingly bicker about the kid being a boy or a girl. We don't know yet and my mouth just defaults to saying "him" because I don't enjoy calling it, "it". Just seems a little dehumanizing. But I digress. One of the reasons I want to have a boy is because of the toys. While this culture as a whole has somewhat embraced the nerdery of the world (thank you Seth Green, Bill Gates, and Steve Jobs; in that order), there is still a little bit of shamed attached. While I can honestly say I love sports, I can just as honestly say the only reason I got into them was to offset my love of computers. Is that wrong?
     If we have a boy, I'll be able to play with the toys, too! Is that so wrong? Is it so terrible to buy two of everything, one for show and one for play? If my mother bought two Optimus Prime's, keeping one in the box, I'd have roughly five grand to start my kids college fund. Plus, there would no longer be any shame in watching UP three times in the theaters. I could be like, "Oh, it's for the kid..." Yet there is a light at the end of the tunnel. There really is. Turns out, I'm going to have another crack at this whole Transformers thing. And I'm not just talking about toys here, no sir. I'm talking about the real thing.
    Turns out, if you have a baby, your BMW 528i can turn into a minivan. Unlike Transformers, it only happens one way, though. But still, Transformer...

The Talk.

     When it comes time for "the talk", I'm just going to show them a website. Not just any website, a specific website. You're curious aren't you. Well, if you're curious enough, the video is at the bottom. I'm not sure if it's family friendly or not. Still trying to figure that one out.
     If that doesn't work, I'm just going to send them to Catie.

The Disappointment.

     There is a sinking sensation that disappointment is going to be inevitable in the process of raising my child. Either with my skills as a parent or with my child; or both. Either way, disappointment is just a fact of life and it's certain to exist in the relationship between my child, their mother, my wife, and myself as a husband and a father. If you notice, I've listed myself and my wife twice. It's because we're fulfilling multiple roles in our new family. But the disappointment here is going to be different.
     If something upsetting happens between my wife or I, we talk about it. We fight really, really well. That's one of the reasons I fell in love with her. There are things we will not do while fighting. Mistakes are still made in the heat of battle, but apologies are sincere and the mistakes are coming less and less often. When Catie is disappointed in me, she tells me. I (after much work) am getting better at not being immediately defensive, thinking about what she's saying, and trying to understand what happened and how it can be fixed. It's not (always) about who's right or who's wrong. More often than not, it's about us understanding what happened, where the disappointment came from.
     I've had several friends who were either in relationships or got married to someone who was a complete idiot. The first few times this happened I made the mistake of telling them how much of an idiot I thought the other person was. This immediately drove a wedge between us. No matter how right I was, love is blind, stupid, and drunk. After I thought I learned from this mistake, I sat by as my other friends made similar mistakes, married the idiot, and are still suffering. Now it's like trying to help an animal stuck in a trap: they'll bite the very person trying to save them. The tactics that work with my wife just don't work with friends.
     But with my kid, it's going to be different. No matter what happens they will always be my child. No matter how disappointed I am, nothing can or will change that. So what can I do when they're doing something stupid, blind, or drunk? Especially drunk. I once told my mother I'd rather fail on my own than succeed because of her. Sounds harsh, I know, but at the time it was true. I want my kid to own their successes, but I also want to protect them from the drunk mistakes. I have no idea how I'm going to do this and still allow them to be who they are and learn from their mistakes. I'm afraid that part of being a parent is about sitting by and watching as your child endangers themselves or makes mistakes.

The Sleeper.

     Pregnant women are supposed to eat for two. It makes complete sense. They are growing another life form in their bodies, and like any other parasite it needs to get nutrients from its host. I gotta figure, though, that most of that growing stuff is actually done by the baby, right? So why does that make the soon to be mother so tired? And from what I can tell, it doesn't stop after the baby is born.
     Every once in awhile, on my street, I'll see one of those overly ambitious corporate types running with her children, up hill, pushing an overloaded big-wheeled stroller. I have even seen a pregnant woman running a stroller with kid in it. But that seems to be the exception and certainly not the rule. More than either of those I have seen mothers, disheveled and on the verge of a conniption fit, just trying to corral the unadulterated nuclear energy which apparently exists at the core of every child.
     At the same time, there is something very comforting about a future mother sleeping. I wonder if it's anything like what the disciples felt when Christ was passed-out on the boat when the mother of all storms was hammering away on some shoddy fishing boat. Christ was asleep because he knew he could handle whatever this storm could throw. The disciples were on high alert because they had no idea what to do other than bail water and hope for the availability of a change of pants.
     Maybe that's why she can sleep so soundly. Down deep, she knows what will happen after this kid is born, and she's got it all under control. My job, other than not losing my mind is, is to run support and wake her up when things get out of control. But even Jesus yelled at the disciples when they woke him up. Maybe I should just let her sleep and keep bailing water...

The Name.

     What's in a name? Apparently everything. If I named my kid Apple, my kid is going to hate me for the rest of their lives. Being that "the rest of their lives" is supposed to outlast the rest of my life, I should put some extra care into their name. I could always go the Angelina Jolie route and pick from Maddox, Pax, Zahara, or Shiloh Nouvel. But that would probably put me back in the whole, "I hate you, I wish I'd never been born" frame of reference with my kid.
     The Native Americans use to give their kids temporary names at birth. Then, when they were old enough, they chose their own name. One that clearly stated who they thought they were. In traditional Chinese culture people will change their names when something truly significant happens in their lives. I like this concept. But I wonder how adjusted I would be if my parents had allowed me to name myself. People would look twice at a resume submitted by Sir He-Man Mega Ultra Optimus Prime Luke Sywalker Croy.
     To me, letting your child pick their own name is like waiting to circumcise a boy until he's old enough to make the decision. By that point, the decision has already been made. I also worked with a guy who thought he was going to have a girl, but turned out the were wrong. Since they had no name, they were tossing ideas around and he asked his five year old what he thought they should name the new baby. His immediate response was: "Muck". They jokingly called the newborn Muck until they settled on a name. If you asked me now I couldn't tell you that kid's real name. I only know him as Muck. Considering he has a five inch Mohawk at the age of 6, it pretty much suits him just fine. But I have to ask myself, what came first; the Mohawk or the name?
     My grandfather gave me a plaque when I was about five. I have no idea where it is anymore, but I still remember what it said: It takes a lifetime to build a name, and only a moment to destroy it. I don't think I fully understood all that when I was five. Besides, who's going to lay that much pressure on a five year old? But names are important. Family names remind us of where we came from and what we're leaving. First names remind everyone else of what we do now. I still don't know if the name informs the child or if the child informs the name, but I do think there's a correlation. Ultimately, our name is what we make of it. I just hope I'm making a good one for my child. One they will wear proudly. One they will proudly pass to their children. But in the mean time, all I have to worry about is finding a name better than Muck.

The Humility.

***This is authored by T.C. Porter***

With humility I enter my first posting to this site. Humility, because (shucks) one of the other contributors to this blog is a "Dr." The other has his pictures plastered all over this site. And who am I to shed insights?

My only qualification is having been through one and eight-ninths pregnancies before. (Our second is due July 10.) During that time I have finally been endowed with one thing that nothing else could force upon me. Humility.

That's really the one thing you need. It's not about you, fellas. And whatever your dilemma, you're not pregnant! God has a way of sucking the self righteousness out of a man once and for all. I realize many men will not get this, and that's their loss. It is a truly wonderful thing to see your wife as the queen, as someone to serve, selflessly; as one who is carrying a burden you will never carry, and so the least you can do is drop everything now and pick up that dessert she is craving even though it is three in the morning and the nearest open grocer is a 30 minute drive.

So when I say "humility" I am inferring humble servanthood. This is something I come upon religiously, as well, for I found Jesus to be a servant worth mimicking. You might not agree on that note. But I would be curious how fatherhood would work without this principle of utter humility, and reverence for her vocation of pregnancy. The narcissism so prevalent might seem amusing on Two and a Half Men. But not with a pregnant woman who is nice enough to carry your child.

The Eating.

     Me: "Hey, are you hungry?"
     Her: "Did you actually just ask a pregnant woman if she's hungry? Idiot."

     When I lived in Alaska, we worked 10, 12, 14, and on one occasion, 20 hour days. If there were fish to be processed, no one slept. Men weren't sure how long the fish would run or how much money they would make. It made a difference because in Alaska, there are only 2 year round jobs. In the entire state. So you take what you get during season and make it last all year.
     The long hours meant we burnt lots of calories which meant we we hungry all the time. Unfortunately, red meat in Alaska is on short supply. Hamburger Helper became Salmon Helper. Salmon was in everything, our clothes, our food, our hair. I have yet to get the smell out of my nose. Most of the time I could see it coming, but the time I didn't was pretty awful.
     We marched in the mess hall, ready to eat our body's weight in whatever was being offered, and as we neared the end of the line we saw the most glorious thing ever: Hamburgers. Big, thick, and awesome.
     Men were piling three and four patties on their plates, not even bothering with the extra filler of buns or lettuce. MEAT! We had to have it, our bodies craved it! I still remember the smell and the way the juices ran out the side of those five inch circles of fried heaven. And then I bit down.
     There was a good reason those patties were so thick. They were stuffed with salmon.
     We couldn't escape the stuff! I lost the majority of my appetite right then and there. Most of the guys did. Except for one guy. Josh.
     Josh, sitting at the table, knees more than shoulder width apart, elbows flared, shoveling bits of beef and salmon towards his face with an urgency no one else could muster. In fact, the way he was sitting looked like a crab had grown to human size, learned to sit upright, and could use utensils. By himself he took up enough room for three and a half people. So the next day, when he wasn't eating with quite as much gusto, I asked about his particular eating style. Without missing a beat, he said in all seriousness; "I have a very aggressive eating style..." He then resumed the shoveling.
     What does all this have to do with me asking my wife if she's hungry? Well, I have noticed her creating a distinctly "aggressive" eating style all her own. In addition, I seem to have developed an acute fear of reaching toward her plate. I fear for the safety of my hands.
     But as we've already established, there is a parasite growing in my wife. While it is an extremely cute parasite, it's still a parasite. She is giving up nutrients for this little kid to the extent that it could steal the shine from her hair, the calcium from her bones, and even her perfect body.

This kid had better be worth it...

The Toilet.

     For men, the most sacred room in the house has got to be the bathroom. It is generally the one place where men can sit unmolested for a full 15 minutes before people begin asking questions. While the seat is uncomfortable, the room is disproportionately small, and it's the only place where there is even the slightest possibility of actually using the post-911 impulse purchased gas mask, the bathroom is our sanctuary. But now, my wife is pregnant, and my early morning ritual of reading and releasing has been interrupted. Possibly forever.
     Apparently, when the toilet is "growing a beard", it's just too dirty to receive vomit. Lately I've been cleaning the toilet much more often. And the "me" time that was once unlimited has dwindled to tiny, stolen moments. I love those moments, I really do.
     Guys: Pay attention here. If you want to score points and make a woman happy, clean the toilet without her asking. No need to brag about it either. The amount of time her head will spend in or around the commode pretty much ensures she'll see it. You'll look like a hero for doing something she was going to ask (make) you do anyway. Sounds like a good deal to me.

The Poop.

     I think it started with the dog in this picture: Fluffy. As Catie and I take turns walking him, we update each other on his..."status". What happened during the walk, what didn't. It's just our way of communicating when he needs to be walked again, if he's eating enough, etc. Then, somewhere along the way, we started talking openly about the dog's poop. Not an ounce of shame involved. It was like, "Hey, this sure is some nice weather. Work was interesting. The dog took a huge poo." Without even blinking we discuss disgusting things.
     I wonder if it's going to be like this with our child. "Hi Honey, welcome home, the baby poo'd huge, how was your day?" I really want some comments on this post. There has GOT to be some fantastic poo stories out there. Stories at work, play, or on the road. Let me know how you dealt with the clean up and/or the embarrassment. PLEASE! I want to hear yours. If you post anonymously, I'll assume you don't want credit for them in the eventual book.
     And just in case we needed any more proof that women are better than us, here's a nice little video to prove it.

The Money.

     Money never really mattered to me. When most people say that it's because they don't want to look greedy or too capitalistic. With me, it's actually true. I just don't understand money and I'm pretty sure Alan Greenspan is some kind of space alien. One of the problems is I just never understood it, or kept track of it.
     Luckily, Catie is a phenom when it comes to money, keeping track of it, and letting me know if I can spend it. I actually asked her if money was something she could help me with. She said yes. Since getting married I just listen to her and everything has worked out really well. I haven't had to think of it much. Then the pregnancy happened.
     While this may seem completely unrelated, hang with me for a moment and all will become clear.
     
     Leaving work I slowly go over the speed bump leaving the parking lot. There is this loud bang as my car bottoms out. Then my car starts making a terrible sound, like the muffler's busted. Long story short, turns out I busted an engine mount. Seriously, I busted an engine mount going over a speed bump. You may be asking yourself, "Self, why is he talking about a busted engine mount on a blog about pregnancy?" Well, I'm glad you asked.
     Turns out, the way I know I never really thought about money, is because now I am. Before I even knew the repair cost, I started thinking about the price of college in 18 years. I hope it's not going to be like this forever. I hope my child will be able to earn money by the time they're 12. That's long enough, right?

The Blogroll.

     This post contains links to products or services that Catie and I actually like or use. If you would like your link listed, please contact me via email. Thank you.

Earth Mama Angel Baby -- If you're a hippie or just like stuff that works, this is a great site. The products are a little pricey, but it's worth it. Catie uses their stretch mark oil & it's fantastic. None of their products are tested on animals and they are all natural, all vegan.

Baby Loss Comfort -- It's tragic, but it happens. Especially if you have a friend who has lost a child and you have no idea what to do, start here. They have a way of tactfully dealing with loss that escapes me.

DaddyBlogger.com -- If you're in a divorce, this is a pretty good resource. I don't want to say that courts automatically give custody to mothers, but it happens the most often. This is a resource for men who may be going through a divorce and need a little help. GREAT links on here.

Stay At Home Dad -- This is a blog about a father who stays at home with his child who has Autistic Spectrum Disorder. This is a window into insight I just don't have. He gets pretty honest and says some powerful stuff. For anyone who works with or has a child with Autism, I'd recommend this blog.

SmarterMoms is a blog created by my sister. It has some great, practical, and uber-organized suggestions for moms. If you're new to the game or just want to improve your skills, check this site out. She should have a book coming out soon.

The Anniversary.

     This post, while showing up on the 1st of June, is actually being written on the 29th of May. Why the delay, you ask? What a wonderful question. Well, it's because the 29th was my four year wedding anniversary and I totally forgot. Almost.
     My wife and I were planning on going on a cruise in July and we also planned to celebrate our anniversary there. This worked very well in my favor. Yet, I couldn't help but feel a little (a TON) guilty. I should have remembered sooner, I should have picked some flowers, picked a card, picked up around the house. I'm not sure what else I could have picked to make it wonderful, but I have an idea. During July, I am going to show this woman how wonderful she is to me, how wonderful she will be to our child, and how wonderful we'll be together in the future. I saw a shirt that said: "Lord, help me be the man my dog thinks I am". My shirt would say, "Lord, help me be the man my wife thinks I am".
     
     
By the way, I've added our wedding date in my calendar. I should be okay next year...probably.