Pick A Gender, Any Gender

With our families all now in the know about our bad deeds, we had two remaining tasks... and the first one was telling my oldest friend.  Matt and I met in 1992, and I'll leave it as saying that he and I could have our own separate blog for our misadventures over the years.  International trips, college apartment break-ins, chemical burns, and winning drinking games against our parents and their friends (hey, they challenged us).

The official royal portrait of Me and Matt.

All of Matt's friends definitely have a good chuckle at his expense when it comes to mingling: we all know each other, but we tease Matt that he doesn't like his "circles to mix".  So we all get together once or twice a year and joke about how if we stayed too long, the world might end.  At one of the most recent gatherings (before we announced our pregnancy), we were celebrating the impending birth of a friend's baby (this backstory is important, I promise).  Being the good friend that he is, Matt was excited about their pregnancy.

When it came time to tell Matt that I was adding a member to our team of depravity, We called him over for a beer on his way home from working downtown.  He arrived dutifully, joined us in the basement, and he and I popped open a good sarsaparilla ("Sioux City Sarsaparilla?" "Yeah, that's a good one.")  After a few moments Jan, in a far more suave fashion than when she informed me that she was pregnant, casually tossed Matt a bib that we had purchased, embroidered to read, "My uncle is hot AND single".  His reaction?  He said, "thank you," put it in his coat pocket, and started telling a story about work.  Jan and I looked at each other, incredulous.  She then gestured toward his coat pocket again, saying "You didn't like the bib we bought you?"  His response: "Um, I said thank you.  ...wait.  ...you're... are you pregnant?"  We had to take a moment to clarify that we had bought him the bib in order to inform him that we were pregnant, and not (as he had originally surmised) to celebrate the pregnancy of our aforementioned friends.  "I was like, 'why would they buy me a bib to celebrate someone else's pregnancy?'" he queried.  Thus began the jumping up and down, and Matt's now famous secondary reaction to our good news, in the form of his generous (?) offer: "You guys, I will TOTALLY videotape the birth for you!"

Click here to see what happened when we told Matt, mobile users.

 
So now that it seemed that all the key players were finally involved, it was time to pick a gender for our little peapod.  ...relax, friends and family: I have a clear understanding of how this actually works.  I was at the time, though, making my fair share of guesses and jokes.  Of course, I went over the top; and I had no clue of the psychological impact it would have on my poor wife.  I had always joked that, as Luca Brasi from The Godfather had hoped, my "first child would be a masculine child."  This was not an issue years before we were pregnant, but I and a number of friends kept the gag alive well after Jan had a bun in the oven... and it terrified her.  At one point there was also a premise that I would cast out any female offspring into a rocky quagmire with only their infant wits and strength to protect them, and if they returned, then they were worthy of our last name.  (Yeah, we DEFINITELY took it too far.)

I hope that any men out there planning on getting their ladies knocked up are afforded the great pleasure of watching the girls try to figure out what the gender of their unborn child is.  It's really quite hilarious.  Again, everyone will have their opinions on which method of detection is the best.  "Oh, you're carrying high; that means it's a girl with 6 toes on her left foot," "So you burped twice last week after you put on a green shirt?  It's a boy for sure," and even "My sister's cousin's best friend's neighbor's nephew's warden was pregnant, and she also had brown hair.  So you're having a girl."  You thought all of those "different position" stories were ludicrous?  You ain't seen nothing yet.

My personal favorite method of gender detection though came to us via our Latina friends from Miami.  Two different families taught Jan how to use her necklace and some serious voodoo (a.k.a., The Confirmation Bias) to gaze into the future.

"Wanna know da sex of yah bebe, Jan?  Call me now!"

She was instructed to remove her necklace and hold it so that the pendant dangled betwixt her thumb and forefinger.  Once it stopped moving, she was to dip it three times down into that finger-gap, and after the third dip, hold it over her open palm and note the pattern of it's movement.  If it turned in a circle, she was having a boy; if it swung back and forth, she was having a girl.  If it spun around the chain and got twisted... I don't know, hermaphrodite?

So here's the kicker: not only was this method to be employed to detect the gender of your child, but also how many children you were going to have.  Apparently, after noting the movement of the necklace, you can "reset" it by dipping it three more times and noting the next pattern (this was the gender of your second child, and so forth).  You keep doing this until the necklace stops moving following the dip; this is understood to mean that you are having no more children.  ...so this is what it's come to: my wife, the Ph.D. student, the education program coordinator, the center of my universe and keeper of our checkbook, sitting in the living room dipping her necklace into her hand and every four-to-six seconds, yelling, "OOOOOO, IT'S MAKING A CIRCLE!!!"  She insists that every time she did this, the necklace-that-knows-all told her that we were having four children: two boys, a girl, and another boy.  Ok then.  When I asked for something, ANYTHING, scientific to help me out, her response was as follows: "...well, I did it to the dog, and she's spayed.  The necklace said she wasn't having any puppies!  SO THERE!"

No, Jan.  No, no, no.

Personally, there were too many holes in this mystical-necklace-theory.  The friends who taught it to her swore by it (and to their credit, it has been reportedly accurate for their families; although again, confirmation bias).  Even though it held just about as much scientific water, for the sake of parsimony, I was inclined to listen to our local pho proprietor: "Oh, you're having a girl.  The baby will be born in the year of the horse.  That's a girl for sure."

Soon enough, it was time for the ultrasound to employ actual science (oh, the horror!) to tell us what the gender actually was.  Ever the scientists, we wanted to be sure, so we organized our own double-blind study using two different ultrasound places: one found privately, the other recommended by the doctor.  Being the poor students that we were, Jan found a Living Social coupon for the first ultrasound, where we would get a 2D and a 3D ultrasound (which really kinda creep me out; I can't get the thought of my child as a solid yellow Simpson's character out of my head!) as well as a DVD full of videos and photos for a very reasonable price.

Driving to the appointment, Jan was visibly nervous, asking me over and over again what I thought it would be and asking me if I would really be upset if it was a girl.  Now I knew for sure that I had let the gag go on for too long.  I tried to assure her that I shared the philosophy of fictional US President Jed Bartlett: "When you're going to be a parent, you hope for 10 fingers and 10 toes."  She was not to be soothed though.

Having done my research, I pride myself in my ability to read an ultrasound.  Depending on the baby's actual position, I was looking for what I was affectionately referring to as "a hot dog or a hamburger" (which I find to be a fairly PG way of describing the shapes one is seeking as data on the ultrasound screen).  As the technician gooped up my wife's belly and started to wave her proverbial magic wand, we strained to see the screen.  It appeared to me quickly, and thank goodness the lights were out, because SOMEONE got a tear in my eye as I was overcome with a wave of happiness as I saw a patty and two sesame seed buns, right there between her grainy, fuzzy, tiny little legs.

It became clear when the technician started typing it onto the screen.

I was thrilled.  Absolutely excited.  I honestly didn't care if it was a boy, a girl, or a lizard, as long as it was ours, was happy, and was healthy.  All signs pointed to me getting my wish.  Jan, however, seemed concerned when I turned to celebrate with her.  This poor woman, the victim of my witticisms, glanced at me with a guilty look on her face and said, "Are you sure this is ok?" like we have the option for some kind of return if it wasn't, or something.  No dear, see that tiny little sliver of a thing all the way down there beneath me?  That's the moon.  That's how far over it I am right now.

We were perfectly content just calling people and sharing the good news, but weeks prior, Matt had literally begged us to surprise him with a gender reveal at our annual joint Thanksgiving.  He could not be convinced otherwise, despite my vehement protestation and assurance that a gender reveal just for him would be cheesy.  He insisted.

That's when Jan looked back onto previous Thanksgivings and ways in which Matt and I have pranked each other: via the now-defunct social artifact that is "icing" (click the link if you're unfamiliar).  Previous icings have included Matt hiding a bottle inside a scotch box, and my personal favorite, me hiding one inside our turkey so Matt would encounter the bottle as he was stuffing the bird.  So Jan, a prankster in her own right, recorded the gender onto a piece of cardboard, taped it onto the bottom of a 24oz bottle of Smirnoff Ice, and wrapped it for presentation to Matt.  When it came time for his gender reveal, he was presented with a small gift, and we were all treated to what we now affectionately refer to as "Baby's First Icing":

(Again, mobile users, click here to see Matt chug it down.)

What a good sport, huh?  So that's the story of how "B_A" became "BGA", how I accidentally made my wife insane with some poorly-timed gender jokes, and how between Jan, Camden, and BGA, I finally had an embarrassment of riches: living in a house with three females, unsure of which one I love the most.
 

Yes, Friends, 1 Plus 1 CAN Equal 3.

I'm not sure to what extent my observations and opinions differ from those of the average parent-to-be (or average person, for that matter) as an individual with training in the social sciences.  I can only guess that a number of people are experiencing the same things that I am, and maybe I'm just adding a twist on how I perceive them.

  

To that end, there is a wonderful gift that each pregnant couple is given from the universe, and that is the gift of telling friends and family that you are pregnant.  In a recent post I discussed the trauma of telling our immediate families, but the fun has extended to the experiences that we've had telling our friends, associates, acquaintances, etc., and gauging their reactions.

I did note in the months leading up to us being pregnant that it felt as if we were perpetually surrounded by pregnant women.  For real.  We tried to justify it to ourselves that we were only being hypersensitive to it because we were seriously contemplating starting our family, but even considering that perspective, they were everywhere.  On the streets, at work, at school, taking public transit, on social media.  There was no escaping them.  I guess we know what bored people did when they lost power after Hurricane Sandy...?

I guess I'm Buzz and Jan is Woody?

So there we were, saturating the market with another child.  As I discussed in a previous post, there are categories of people.  Observational research again lends itself to the categorization of their reactions.  Obviously, there will always be outliers, but by and large, Jan and I have found (to our amusement) that people in similar places in their lives have reacted in the same way to the news of our progeny.  Getting the easy ones out of the way first, although we haven't encountered any nuns yet during this pregnancy, I'd imagine they would be excited and not in the least bit jealous or curious (except perhaps for Sister Encarnación from "Nacho Libre"; she always seemed a little too interested in Jack Black and the Niños).

  

Wavering on her vows, perhaps... and after seeing a sweater like that, who wouldn't be?

  

Then of course, I just have to get this joke out of the way before I can proceed any further:

  

Exactly what Justin Bieber would say if we told him we were pregnant.

...Moving on.  This leaves my other four categories: men and women, further dichotomized by "currently parenting," and "not currently parenting".  If/when you are expecting a child, please let me offer the following advice: if you have "current moms" in your social circle, TELL THEM BEFORE THE NON-PARENTS.  There is a bit of a risk-reward element to telling other parents that you're pregnant, but I think it will pay off in your favor.  It seems that it is a rite of passage for new moms to attempt to scare the ever-loving crap out of moms-to-be.  I assume that upon delivering BGA and having signed the birth certificate, Jan will be given the password to a secret website that is full of pregnancy horror stories that she will be required to memorize and subsequently tell to other expectant mothers.  "Did you know that after they insert the boiling hot, mercury-tipped razor blade robot into your uterus, your baby will break off it's robot arm and carve it's own way out?  That's what happened to my friend Sharon, and now she can't eat dairy anymore."  You know, stuff like that.  (...AND SERIOUSLY, new moms: is there some sort of ineffective batch of epidurals being distributed out there?  I've never heard of so many people telling "my epidural didn't work" stories in my entire life.)  Once all that is over with though, and you have a wife's-fist-sized indent in your bicep, new moms are quick to dispel ridiculous rumors about pregnancy (e.g., "no, if you want your baby to have a healthy birth you don't actually have to dig a birthing trough in the backyard and deliver onto a pile of evergreen needles that have been blessed by an Incan mystic").  They will also offer you ton of their pregnancy/infant stuff, and as long as you're not so proud that you need to buy all new outfits for your child to throw up on before they grow completely out of it, you should absolutely take whatever they're giving.  Pay it forward, baby style.

  

  

  (To find out what a new mother might tell you, mobile users, click here.)

The new fathers are almost as helpful as the new mothers.  ...ALMOST.  They all say congratulations, smile, and shake your hand in an almost-too-strong way, like you just hit a game-winning home run at the exact moment they made the perfect "that's what she said" joke to you.  (The sexual undertone is obligatory, it's how men cope in this situation.)  On the surface they seem like they're willing to give up all the stuff that their wives are offering, but if you really look deep, you'll realize that what you're seeing is a man who is simply nodding and doing whatever it is that his wife tells him to.  This is how men are conditioned to behave during pregnancy; it comes with 9 months of you-did-this-to-me glances and a hundred resounding choruses of "stop whatever you're doing and rub my back" (literally, what I had to pause typing that last sentence to do.)  He's probably not even disagreeing with his wife at all, but it is fairly clear that his decision-making abilities are at the very least on temporary suspension.  It's as if they're welcoming you to a club of people with whom you can commiserate.  Of course they're happy for you, but it seems as if they're also happy for them; it's a new person for their team.  One less guy who talks about partying until dawn and reports his sexual conquests, and one more who brags about his fastest diaper changes and no longer owns a single pair of jeans without a tiiiiiiiiiiny little puke stain on them.  All in all, though, it's a welcoming support group.  You can pick these guys out in social gatherings, even without their wives: they're the ones who sip beers like they've never actually savored alcohol before in their lives.

  

From my perspective, watching my wife tell her non-pregnant and/or single friends was the most painfully awkward thing to do.  She'll contact friends with whom she hasn't spoken recently and arrange either a "long overdue" phone chat or, in her more daring endeavors, a meeting and meal.  The phone call will begin with shrieking, why-haven't-we-talked-in-forever-and-oh-my-God-did-you-hear-about-Sharon-she-got-so-fat pleasantries, but eventually, the friend on the other line will unwittingly ask Jan what's new.  She'll take a deep breath, lean forward, and announce that she is now woman+fetus.  .....awkward silence.  All of the friends will eventually say congratulations, but I know that the muffled, fumbling sound in the background is the girl on the other end rooting quickly through a liquor cabinet, hurriedly pouring a vodka-and-whatever down her gullet as if to say "OH, THANK GOD I CAN DO THIS."

  

...all the single ladies.

  

At least the telephonically informed have the ability to make up an excuse and end the phone call ("Oh, I have to go; my neighbor's cat just treed a Salvadorian drug mule").  The ones who my wife is daring enough to inform in person have no excuse for egress.  You can actually see the stepwise thought process occurring behind their eyes as Jan tells them of the seed she is harboring:

1. WHAT.
2. Didn't she see that video in health class??
3. Seriously... WHAT.
4. Do they serve alcohol here?  Did I bring alcohol with me?
5. Did I take my birth control this morning?  ...just the one?  Better take another right now.
6. Is it too late to go bungee jumping, like, right now?

It's about as awkward as telling my single and my committed (but childless) male friends that we're expecting.  Their reactions all go back to that sex-ed video we got every year since we learned to look down in the shower, intimating that pregnancy is a bad thing.  Mercifully, the men tend to be more blunt and terse than the fairer sex.  I have definitely had conversations that went like this:

Me: "Hey, Jan's pregnant."

Guy: "Really?"

Me: "Yes."

Guy: "...like, on purpose?"

  

The outliers I mentioned earlier tend to be somewhat regional: our friends from the south, by and large, apparently just assumed that I was sterile, since we didn't graduate college having already birthed enough kids to field a basketball team.  Thankfully though, all of our friends (despite their initial reactions) have been excited for the both of us, and we are blessed with an incredible support system of all 4/6 types of people we have in our lives.  If you know of any, we are always on the lookout to add a few nuns to our network for the sake of variety, but please: keep your Biebers to yourself.

  

...It's Science.

There are days when I am absolutely amazed at the things that a pregnant woman can do.  Seriously.  This world is crawling with all manner of people: people you may dislike, with whom you may disagree, or people may get in your way.  All of that means just about nothing, though, when you're talking about a pregnant woman.  They're doing something that no man can ever do**: growing another human being inside of them.  This is not the makings of one of those "give up your bus seat" rants (although seriously, give up your bus seat.  Their backs HURT.)  It just serves to say that as long as they're doing pregnancy right, I'm amazed.

  **The exception that proves the rule.

When I say "doing pregnancy right", I'm not trying to be political.  I'm talking about the big no-nos, like not being able to kick the heroin habit for 9 months.  Those people need serious help.  ...all other pregnant women, though: in awe, and honestly, a little jealous.  You should be too.

When you're pregnant (and I suppose depending on how you conceptualize it, the couple is pregnant, not just the woman), I've learned that the shift in hormones in the female partner causes some very strange science to take place.  Essentially what happens is (and again, this is science; don't question it) the embryo causes the woman's uterus to shift, then invert infinitely upon itself.  At this point, the uterus actually repositions onto another plane and alters its relationship with both space and time, becoming a black hole inside of what you thought was your normal, loving wife.  (Doctors know about this and lie to you.  That's why health insurance costs so much.)  Your wife's head becomes the event horizon, into which food and rational thought go in, but never come out.

...pregnant.

Simultaneously, your wife's body begins to react to the massive hormonal changes taking place.  Every tear, yelp, scream, cough, laugh, etc., that manages to escape her body actually disperses into the atmosphere in your home, and like radon gas, will significantly alter your existence with prolonged exposure.  These dispersed molecules will land on your skin and magnetize; because of this magnetization, both of you will begin to attract, in a large and unstoppable quantity... THE OPINIONS OF OTHERS.

  ...got someone pregnant.

I have found, through extensive observational research, that all human beings can be classified into six distinct and independent categories:

1. Women who have already begun to breed.
2. Women who have not yet begun to breed.
3. Men who have been successful fertilizers.
4. Men who have not been successful fertilizers (depending on the perspective, they're the successful ones.)
5. Nuns.
6. Justin Bieber.

All of these individuals contribute to the social system in their own way, and there is some movement among the ranks.  Women who have not yet begun to breed can quite easily jump into the other column; men obviously can as well.  Conversely, the nuns are pretty much set where they are, and I think we can all agree that we will do our part to make sure that Justin Bieber stays stationary as well.  There does appear to be a rite of passage that is associated with modifying one's position though... and hence, the opinion-magnet.

  

As a bit of a social scientist, I actually find it quite interesting to hear people's varying opinions on how to raise their children.  As I intimated earlier, I will pretty much get behind anyone's personal philosophy so long as it is supported by medical science.  I can definitely respect the various factors that play into the decisions that people make.  Cloth diapers versus disposable?  Hey, if you don't mind scooping poop and throwing stained fabric into your washing machine, go for it.  Making your own organic food versus buying the jars?  If you've got the time to process a week's worth of peas into mush, more power to you.  Bottle-feeding versus breast-feeding?  ...you know what, I don't have boobs, so I'm not going to even make a joke here.  I've even heard of people making their own cough drops for their children.  I don't exactly have a lot of faith in my skills as a home chemist, so I'll probably reach for the Ricola, but again: if you're safe, I'm not going to debate you.

  

I think part of the reason that new parents feel so overwhelmed is the fact that they're being bombarded with information from every possible angle almost all of the time.  To me, being pregnant with your first child is a lot like going to your first week of school in first grade (no, not kindergarten.  That's fun.)  You put on your little empty backpack and most likely a note pinned to your chest identifying your room number and teacher, and you enter the school looking around for any clue of where to go and what to do.  This signifies to all of the 5th graders (err, people who already have kids) that you are the fresh meat.  They'll fill your head with all sorts of stuff: why your teacher will be the worst, that this school doesn't believe in recess, that you don't need to learn multiplication tables but you do need to learn cursive... all of it.  So, you wander through the first couple of days not really knowing anyone, and if you do recognize one of the older kids that maybe lives in your neighborhood, they'll be hanging out with their "school friends", because you're on their turf now.

  

Definitely a first-time parent.

  

Don't believe me?  Go into any baby product store, stand 20 feet from the entrance, and look at the faces of the people walking in.  You will notice the experience and military precision of those with a brood in tow ("We're here for a box of diapers and a forehead thermometer!  In, out; 30 seconds!  Move!  Move!"), and the naïveté of the newly impregnated ("...What is this?!?  Does it go inside the baby??  Honey, do we need this?  ...What the heck is a breast pad?").  

  

I remember a lot about my childhood.  I didn't exactly walk uphill both ways in 3 feet of snow to a one room schoolhouse every day, but I also didn't grow up in front of an iPad either.  You know how I learned about electricity?  I put shiny things into an electrical socket.  Learn by doing, my friends; learn by doing.  ...and it wasn't that my parents were inattentive.  I just wanted to know what was behind all those plastic covers on the electrical outlets.  My point is, I'm pretty sure my parents were not given an entire aisle dedicated solely to different digital thermometers for bathwater.

  

They're on there for a reason, Tim.

  

I'm very torn about the people that work in these stores.  It seems to me that they are all well-intentioned, and they are certainly all very polite and put up with more crap than a sewage plant.  I just don't know how much stock I can put into the opinion of a 16-year-old part-timer when I ask the all important, fact gathering questions that I have been trained to ask: "Does it work?  Is it worth it?  ...Is there a cheaper model?"  I fear that their role, when it boils down to it, is the same as in any other store.  That role is salesman.

  

I lost my faith in the baby product business on an exploratory trip to one such store early on in our pregnancy, as we began looking at the wide variety of items that we may actually need to buy.  There will most assuredly be an entire post dedicated to this at a later date, but there was definitely one item that did it for me.  At the risk of a lawsuit, I will not mention their product by name... but I will link a video of someone using it below.  WARNING: engage your gag reflex.

  

The girl working in the store insisted that I would need a way to clear the mucous from my baby's nose.  I agreed.  When I asked for a bulb syringe though, she looked at me like I had an arm growing out of my butt.  She directed me instead to [product I will not use], and informed me that it was what everyone was now using (NOTE: essentially, "what all the cool kids are doing."  Baby store peer pressure, man.)  Has anyone ever changed the water in a large fishtank, or perhaps siphoned gas out of a friend's/stranger's car?  Ok.  Imagine that instead of a fishtank or car, you have... YOUR BABY'S FACE.  That's right.  Instead of using a simple device like our parents, our grandparents, and every medical provider on this earth, someone decided to market what is essentially the weirdest CrazyStraw ever, with one end in your kid's face-hole and the other end in your mouth.  You literally suck out their boogers.  Don't believe me?  Here's one very brave young dad with his disbelieving friend working the camera:

(Mobile readers, click here... if you dare.)

  

I'm sorry, BGA.  I love you, but no.  Not happening.  I was of course assured by the young sales associate that there was a package of filters available to go into the mouthpiece... they were available in boxes of 45, and I should probably stock up, since I would need at least TWO of these devices.  You know, one for the home and one for the diaper bag.  "Lady," I said, "No offense, but I will need exactly ZERO of these contraptions.  ...because I am not sucking boogers out of my daughter's face with my mouth."  Again, BGA, if you read this years from now, I apologize that I am being so uncompromising on this.  Show me the error of my ways, and come suck the snot out of my face when I get too old to blow my own nose.  ...yeah, didn't think so.

  

So all kidding aside, most of you reading this are getting it linked through social media, and obviously (hopefully) know that although I have a great deal of fun at the expense of my wife, I really do love her dearly, and my japes and jokes are all out of affection.  As we speak, I am standing in our bedroom typing this, because she has actually managed to fall asleep, and I'm not dumb enough to go anywhere near her if she's actually resting, lest I wake her.  She really is a trooper, and continues to blow me away with how well she is handling all of this.  I can't even begin to imagine what this whole process is doing to her, emotionally, mentally, and physically; after all, it can't be easy to grow a black hole.

   

He Knows What I Did Last Summer

Now that everything was confirmed and we had actual, photographic evidence of the bean now growing inside my wife's proverbial wet paper towel (you guys went to 1st grade, right?), we had to keep this information under wraps, and calmly plan our controlled release.  As I have previously mentioned, secret-keeping is not one of Jan's stronger skills.  Despite her being able to rationally discuss the reasons why we wanted to wait before telling everyone, I essentially had to take her phone away from her in order to keep her from hiring a skywriter and taking out a full-page newspaper ad.  ...there was also a little bit of a mental chess match going on between the two of us: I would keep her mind off of trying to call people by bringing up all of the positive ways in which her life will change over the next nine months.  These included being able to eat whatever she wants, not having to bend over and pick up Camden's poop in the backyard (yeah, like she was doing that anyway), and her personal favorite, finally getting to use the "expectant mother" parking spaces in the front rows of parking lots.

She and I agreed that it would be prudent for us to tell our parents first.  This quickly became one of those moments that was easier said than done for me.  As I would assume the majority of husbands out there can understand, there is a bit of an unspoken pact that exists between a man and his father-in-law: no matter how many times you've been fishing together, or had too much bourbon, or argued over your favorite football team (he has seriously got to be kidding with those Cowboys), or even taken a road trip and passed out on the same deflated air mattress on the dirty floor of your college friend's apartment, you do not, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, talk about the <ahem> "biblical elements" of your marriage to his daughter.  ...at least, not without protective padding and a new pair of running shoes.

What I was expecting to get from Jan's father.

Just thinking about how to go through with this made me flash back to the time that I picked up Jan for our first official date.  We were seniors in high school, and despite having actually known each other since we were in the same kindergarten class, had only been "together" for around a week or so.  We had worked together all summer, and after the start of (I kid you not) band camp, decided that we should go out.  This, of course, meant in a high-school sense, where everyone knew you were "going out", but you hadn't necessarily gone on a date yet.  Reflecting back on this it all sounds unbelievably trivial and silly, but believe me when I tell you that my wife remembers every single one of these days and reminds me of them annually.  Anyway, we decided to actually go out on a date.  I washed my car, bought flowers, and dressed appropriately enough for 2001 (I'm positive it was a pair of jeans and a sweater, not like a "Nelly" t-shirt or anything).  As I approached Jan's front door, I was replaying all that she had told me previously about her father, and how he was a high school football player, loved sports, played golf, and worked a physical job for a living.  I was unbelievably self-aware that my letter jacket, that I was most assuredly wearing, was earned for band and also bore a pin from the high school theater department; that my time spent on the football field was exclusively as a marching band member; and that I couldn't even consider myself good at putt-putt.  It was the most tense 87 seconds of my life.  I could feel him sizing me up from his corner of the sofa in their living room, and although pleasantries were exchanged, I sensed that behind his eyes, he was wishing he had a shotgun to clean at that very moment.  Again, our relationship is fantastic now; but I'm sure he'll smile if he reads this, knowing that he did his job as the father of a daughter causing me to almost defecate on myself right there in his living room.  My intentions were honestly pure all those years ago, but now... well, now there's actual proof that Jan and I, at least one time... well, you know.  This is all I kept hearing in my head:

(Mobile readers, click here.)

Before I get too far ahead of myself, allow me to point out a few things, and introduce a few more players.  A few years ago, Jan and I moved back to our hometown (more or less), where her parents were still living.  My parents, who for all the years we were growing up lived literally 1 mile away (seriously, how cute are we?!?), retired and relocated to a warmer, southern coastal state.  So there is a physical disconnect between us and our two sets of parents, and Jan and I always have in mind how to best balance between the two families... it's not perfect, as one family is obviously a lot closer than the other (25 minutes versus 10.5 hours), but we always have everyone in mind.  So when it came time to announce that we were now establishing biological fitness for our parents, we had to coordinate a time when we could tell everyone at as close to the same time as possible.

<<PLEASE NOTE: henceforth, I shall be referring to Jan's parents as MGM and MGF (Maternal Grandmother, Maternal Grandfather) and my own as PGM and PGF.  The rationale here is that it not only respects their anonymity over the internet, but also helps to keep from confusing everyone, as they each have their own individual ideas of what they would like to be called by our daughter that don't necessarily match with the choice of their respective partners.>>

We were able to find a time that PGM/PGF would be visiting for the weekend, and my brother would come down from where he was living, 3 hours away, so we could all get together and celebrate our birthdays (occurring right around that time).  We anticipated their arrival on a Saturday morning, so we decided to visit with MGM/MGF on Friday night.  Perfect.  Jan and I came home from work, I mustered up my courage, and as we were climbing into the car and Jan called her mother to confirm our impending meeting, she glanced toward me with a surprised scowl.

"...he WHAT?!?  ...why??  But he never... yes, we're still coming.  Ugh, okay.  Goodbye, mother."
 
MGF leads a fantastically predictable existence.  Up before the sun, he makes his morning coffee, dresses for work, watches 15 minutes of SportsCenter as he feeds the dogs, curses about getting old, and leaves the house before there's even a hint of natural light on the horizon.  He works unbelievably hard all day, is home by 3:30pm, in his chair by 3:32pm, and is more often than not accompanied by a well-deserved Coors Light.  He feeds the dogs between 7-8pm, and on weeknights, is asleep by 9:30.  That's it.  I know where this man is.  I can find him in a pinch.  So, why oh why, on today of all days, would he decide to be spontaneous and drive 2 states away after work to go to a high school football game with his brother and a childhood buddy?

The plan was already in place.  We had no room for error, as my parents were on their way; we'd have to think on the fly.  Jan and I are often suckers for romanticizing moments, as if at times we wanted to live our own TV show or romantic comedy.  Perhaps that's why we're always laughing so much, because we have learned to enjoy when even our best laid plans blow up in our face and we have to roll with it.  So, here we go again.

We arrive to find MGM puttering around the kitchen.  Jan and I bite our lips, swallow hard, and dive into... the most awkward 5 minutes of small talk ever known to humankind.  The weather.  Business at MGM's work.  Car tires.  Anything to avoid what we had done to Jan's abdomen.  Finally, we exchanged a glance and almost sheepishly presented a small, shoddily-wrapped rectangle, telling MGM that we bought her something at Kohl's.  ...she picked it up and put it down on the counter.  Jan giggled slyly, and implored her to open it.  The only thing that kept running through my mind was how to detect if someone is having a stroke; at what point do I ask her to raise her arms and speak a simple sentence?  She eventually unwrapped a small frame into which we had inserted an ultrasound photo; as I looked around to see if there was a nearby chair (and perhaps a team of nurses), she coolly walked to the other side of the room and produced a small wooden cutout, presumably purchased at the same store, that perfectly summed up her reaction:

Sometimes, spoken words aren't necessary.

Well, crap.  She wins.  We then learn that Jan's sister is expected imminently, so at the behest of MGM, we arrange the picture on the dining room table and sit, waiting to see just how long it takes Jan's sister to notice.  Eventually, she bounds through the door, and relieved that her 2-hour trip is over, tosses casual greetings around the room as she hurriedly makes her way to the bathroom.  We sit, laughing to ourselves, about the fact that she has already walked past the table twice.  She soon emerges, and engages all of us in conversation about what would be for dinner.  ...FIVE MINUTES PASS before she finally looks down, notices a distinct black-and-white shape in a photo frame, and exclaims, "Who's having a baby?!?"  It is explained that we are, and as her excitement takes hold of her thoughts, she flings herself into the arms of her older sister and queries, "What type of baby is it?!?"

After clarifying that she of course was curious as to the gender (not knowing how far along we were at the time), all eyes fell upon me, and I was unanimously, albeit silently, selected to inform MGF.  We sat around the table as I slowly dialed his cell phone.  "Put it on speaker," Jan insisted.  ...voicemail.  I tried again; voicemail.  It was as if he knew, and he was toying with me.  Finally, he called back.  By this point, my stomach was doing flips, and I decided to just spit it out.  After yelling 30 seconds worth of questions about the football game into the phone (he was, of course, in a crowd making egress from the stadium), I eventually blurted out, "well, it's too bad you're not here to see the first picture of your grandchild."  A pregnant pause seized the line.  "...do what?"  he replied.  Before I had the opportunity to repeat myself, he yelled, "It's really loud here, and I can't hear you.  I'll have to call you back."  ARE YOU KIDDING ME.  YOU WANT ME TO DO THIS AGAIN??  Moments later, the phone rang; my wife, her sister, and MGM can barely control their mocking laughter as I start to repeat myself.  Mercifully, MGF interrupts, "Yeah man, I heard you the first time.  I was just messing with you."  Well played, sir.  He congratulated us heartily, and Jan and I subsequently prepared to depart, in anticipation of doing this all over again tomorrow.

Juxtaposed to the events surrounding telling Jan's parents, PGM/PGF were at least a bit more coordinated (to begin with, they were in the same state as each other).  I forced myself to exercise that morning in order to calm my nerves, and Jan calmed hers with Oreos.  They arrived right on schedule, and as they do with most visits, began bringing things into the house.  Items they spotted on recent excursions that they thought we might like, things from my childhood that they had been storing that I had requested, and even on this occasion, their sewing machine (more on this in subsequent posts).  Between Camden announcing their presence with the trumpeting song of her people, the outer door to our house slamming, and my parents communicating from the inside of the house to the outside with nothing but the power of the human voice, it was definitely a sensory experience.
 
PGM eventually burst onto our second floor with a lovely bouquet of flowers that she had brought for Jan.  Great!  I can quickly come up with some witticism using these flowers and rip off the band-aid right now!  ...where's PGF?  Oh, he's in the bathroom.  Soon, he emerged, and I again composed myself, preparing again to announce our good news, but now PGM is nowhere to be seen.  Seriously, you guys; SENSE THE MOMENT.
 
Eventually, they both are within reaching distance, and I look to my wife for guidance.  With a single gaze that seemed to say, "now or never," without regard for what people were doing, holding, or even for where they were standing, I decided to simply yell o'er top of the current conversation, "So, you really brought those flowers for Jan and not for your grandchild?"  I cast a glance around the room; my mother, frozen in her tracks, manages to spit out a whispered, "wh-- what?" with a tone of did-I-just-hear-that-right-oh-my-gosh-you-had-better-not-be-joking.  ...she then grabbed the back of the couch for stabilization, and for the second time in two days, I had to think back on emergency medical training:

(Again, mobile readers, click here.)

I was unsure of what would happen next.  Surely, their reactions would be positive...?  I looked down at Jan, who was wearing a face of amusement.  This gave me the confidence to look back over to my mother, now stable under her own power, who smiled, and while fighting back tears of joy, proclaimed "I'm going to be a grandmother!"  As she rushed forward to hug Jan, I turned to catch my father, who has always seemed to know just what to say.  Even under duress this time, he didn't disappoint; making sure that we all knew he was at least still young at heart, he jumped on the heels of my mother's statement by exclaiming, "...and I'm going to be MARRIED to a grandmother!"

We all had a good laugh as Jan presented them with a framed photo identical to the one she gave to her parents.  We sat around that afternoon answering all of the standard questions about how far along Jan was, how she was feeling (subsequent post, readers; fear not!), and if we had plans yet regarding where we were going to deliver.  We met my brother out at a restaurant that evening for a celebratory dinner; upon his arrival, I took pleasure in announcing to him at the dinner table that he was going to be an uncle.  He did a bit of a double-take, and making absolutely certain that he understood, asked "Just to be clear, you guys aren't getting a second dog, right?"  We had another round of hearty laughter as he surmised that he now had ample bait with which to "pick up chicks" in social settings (fat chance, bro).  Jan and I collapsed back into our chairs, happy but exhausted after having just run an emotional marathon.

Now..... who to tell next??

Stranger In A Strange Land

There comes a time in every man's life where he must, for the sake of his family, venture into uncharted territory.  Into a place where his wits, education, instincts, and skills are no longer of any use to him, and he must wander into the great unknown.  This, of course, is the first time you have an appointment to be seen at the office of your wife's OB/GYN.

  

I wasn't feeling particularly confident about myself that morning.  I had an appointment with a medical professional who would confirm that I had in fact knocked up my wife, which from a man's perspective, is beat into our minds as the figurative "Game Over" since we first saw that video of a fish swimming toward the DeathStar in 5th grade health class.  Beyond this, I was going to sit in a room full of women with "what are you doing here" eyes and have my wife justify my lack of a full-time job and relative career uncertainty.  Swell.

  

I tried to put my best foot forward, and decided to at least not look like a total schmo.  I threw on a pair of khakis, button-up shirt, and brown leather shoes, figuring that this was the appropriate level of business-casual.  I descended the stairs to the jeers and laughter of my wife, part-furious with why I was "so dressed up".  I tried to explain to her that I was simply trying to look professional, at which point she reminded me that for the majority of our appointment, she would be wearing paper from the waist down.

  

To say that I stood out upon entering the office is an understatement.  Amidst the pastel couches and wallpaper festooned with framed advertisements for myriad forms of birth control and medications for various, non-dinner-table-conversation afflictions, I stood stoic, beside my wife.  I suddenly felt the sting of a dozen you-did-this-to-her glares land upon me, and for the first time in my life, had the fleeting wish that I could transform into an old copy of Highlights magazine.

  

When we were finally shown to an exam room, I had grown excited.  My wife was learning to appreciate the building's HVAC system from beneath her blanket of deli paper, and I explored as much of the room as I could while still following my wife's explicit instructions, "stay at the top of the exam table, you idiot."  Things I learned:

1. The Welch Allyn exam spotlight can be turned on by simply holding your hand near it, and no actual touch of the power button is required (definitely sanitary).
2. The Mirena IUD demo applicator in the plastic uterus display is basically a small crane game, and one cannot help but play with it.
3. Speculums make great puppets, but your wife will not appreciate the show... even if you use all your good voices, and alliteratively name the protagonist "Specky".
4. Your wife's "smacking distance" is shortened significantly if she is without underpants.

    

I have never considered myself a real math person, but have had relative success figuring things out over the years with applicable calculations.  That being said, when the doctor broke out the charts and wheels associated with calculating Jan's "LMP" (ladies, you know), she might as well have pulled out an abacus and done calculus in Mandarin.  It struck me that the date by which we will calculate the trajectory of our next year, the all-important "Due Date" is based upon my wife's recollection of a routine incident that last happened over 2 months ago.  ...meanwhile, I couldn't remember what time I woke up that morning.  What kind of exact science is this?!?

  

We were relieved to discuss our mercifully uneventful family history for heritable and obstetrically-linked medical problems, and were thrilled when we were able to cajole our doctor into giving us a same-day referral for an ultrasound.  We raced down the road to the ultrasound clinic, which was an adventure in and of itself.  It was located on the ground floor of an apartment complex, and staffed, essentially, by the extras from every early 90s Harrison-Ford-versus-The-Soviet-Union film.  They had the technology though, and what it all boiled down to was two full grown adults, one of whom was experiencing the joy and comfort of an <ahem> "internal" ultrasound... reduced to tears.  We heard the tiniest, strongest little heartbeat, and as Oksana was able to show us on the screen, we were having: a kidney bean.  ...and it was the most beautiful kidney bean either of us had ever seen.

  

The best cry I've ever had over a bean.

     

    

What One Woman Will Do for an Animal Style Burger & Fries

Once the bliss of the first few hours wears off (the bliss is accompanied by multiple trips to the drugstore for additional pregnancy tests, just to be sure), a number of decisions need to be made.  Not the big decisions, like names, color schemes, colleges, etc., but the smaller decisions.  Decisions like, “When do I have to start wearing pregnancy underwear?” “How are we announcing this?”, “Do we REALLY have to tell our parents?” and “Do I HAVE TO deliver this baby?”

It can be difficult to make rational decisions with one’s head so high in the clouds.  All we wanted to do was get on the phone with our friends who had been imploring us to start our family and hear them share in our excitement.  Being the scientifically-minded and superstitious folks that we are though, we decided that the more people we called to announce our pregnancy, the more people we’d have to call if anything (knock-on-wood) were to go wrong.  So we made what we thought was the appropriate decision and scheduled a confirmatory doctor’s appointment with Jan’s OB/GYN, determined that we should wait until the end of the first trimester to announce everything, and sat down to wait.  It must be the feeling that television game-show winners experience, knowing that they’ve won a large sum of money but can’t legally tell anyone until the show airs.

 

Our decision to hold off on announcing, however prudent, was not without issues.  As previously mentioned, Jan works in an administrative capacity in a local school system.  She works in special education, and coordinates the delivery of instruction to students with a variety of physical and emotional concerns (including medical issues and explosive behavioral problems).  She had to navigate a number of problems during our first trimester, ranging from not being able to help physically stabilize children having serious physical outbursts to having to manage the report of a student in her school with a diagnosed case of Tuberculosis.  She reported almost daily incidents of coworkers throwing serious shade (am I still young enough to say that?) as she cautiously and inexplicably retreated from tantruming children with actual muscle definition.

  

Beyond the gauntlet of public schools, in January the two of us had registered to run the Disneyland Half Marathon at the end of August.  Well, crap.  My wife, who I’m sure was experiencing the normal amount of first-time-mom paranoia, was now going to fly across the country and engage in an endurance running event.  …at her own pace, but still.  We decided that we would play our announcement by ear with the four friends we were meeting, but embraced the fact that at some point, it was bound to come out.  Especially since we would put “pregnant” on the back of her bib as a “current medical condition”.  Within minutes of arrival at Disneyland, we met up with two great college friends at Trader Sam’s Enchanted Tiki Bar, who were waiting for us with a four-person, high-octane drink.  So, the cat was out of the bag pretty quickly.  

Sorry, Jan.

  

This was the first time that it was pointed out to me (by my loving wife) that I had found myself a designated driver for the next 8.5 months.  Suddenly, I felt compelled to meet all of our friends at bars.  We met up with two other great friends the next morning; to their credit, all four friends were incredibly excited and amazingly supportive as all six of us gradually willed our way across the finish line during a freak heat-wave in Anaheim.  5 hours of touristy walking the day before, 3 miles of roundtrip walking to and from the race, plus the 13.1 actual race miles… all before we walked around the park for half of a day.  We were 6 weeks into this pregnancy, and already I was floored by my wife and what she was capable of doing.   I definitely felt bad that she was sidelined for her favorite ride, The Twilight Zone Tower of Terror, and was forced to promise to bring her back and sit with our child whilst she rode it as often as she wanted in the future.  For suffering through this trip, she definitely earned her fair share of In-N-Out Burger!

  

Oh, she earned it.

   

The Day That Flamingos and Urine Changed My Life

In order to clear up a few basic questions you may have, I can simply tell you that my wife Jan is on a perpetual quest to find a t-shirt that reads as follows:

YES, I'm pregnant.

YES, it was planned.

APRIL 26th.

NO, you may not touch.

---

Given that we are now 6 months pregnant, the first few posts will be retrospective in order to bring everyone up to date with some entertaining stories from trimesters 1 and 2.  So now, Sherman, set the WABAC Machine to August 2013...

We probably don't need to go ALL the way back to the beginning; I'm assuming I can skip this part:

 

(Mobile viewers, click HERE to view embedded video)

Jan is many things:  beautiful, intelligent, a fantastic baker, and an amazing partner.  One thing she is not, though, is a secret keeper.  On a weeknight after a day at work, I returned home and, with relative ease, was able to convince my wife that we should skip cooking at home and instead venture out to our favorite Pho restaurant.  Being a hot August day, while she used the bathroom I decided to change out of my now sweaty, post-public-transit-commute clothes.

As I mentioned, this child was not without careful consultation and planning.  A week prior to this incident, I had actually begged my wife to invest in cheaper home pregnancy tests, as I feared we would be bankrupted by urine at the rate which she was nervously going through them.  Unbeknownst to me (although perhaps suspected, given that she was in the bathroom for exactly 2 minutes), as I changed my clothing, she was having a staring contest with an immunoassay strip upon which she had micturated.  She had, as she later revealed to me, planned to romanticize the moment by gliding forth from the bathroom on gossamer wings, backlit by a heavenly glow and propelled by cooing doves; she then intended to indulge my love of clothing humor by presenting me with an ironic t-shirt reading "I [heart] my pregnant wife".
 

Camden and Jan, after the proudest pee of her life.

In her peaking excitement, though, her best-laid plans went right out the window.  She burst out of the bathroom door and leapt across the hallway into our bedroom with the forward momentum of an Olympic triple-jumper.  She found me largely disrobed from the waist down, mid-clothing change; I was "flamingoing" my way into a new pair of underpants (one foot down, one foot up) when she barreled towards me, shrieking, "ARRGFHGRHFGHF!!!!!" (which apparently translates loosely to, "My dearest?  We are now with child,") and threw a large piece of cloth into my face, temporarily obscuring my vision and almost upending me.  The dog, alerted to the disturbance of peace, sped into the room, dove between the two of us, and howled with excitement.

After covering myself and regaining my balance, I was able to unfurl the shirt, and we both collapsed into each other's arms, squealing and crying (um, totally her) with glee.

A good scientist always quadruple-checks their work... 

then does a Wolverine impression.

Those who have lived through these types of situations can tell you that in an instant, your entire perspective on life changes.  In the blink of an eye, priorities are realigned, and emotions swirl.  Did Jan get the pregnancy reveal that she had concocted?  Unless she actually dreamed of screaming incoherently at her temporarily blinded and half-naked husband, no.  You know what, though?  It was better.  It was a memory that we'll never forget, and it was the "less than perfect but fantastically hilarious" situation that is most of our life.

Welcome, and Introductions

Welcome one and all to my chronicling of this fantastic, stressful, magical, frustrating, and amazing journey upon which we have embarked: starting a family.  As I now write, my wife is 129 26 weeks pregnant with our first child.  Although over the course of this adventure we will be interacting with a number of individuals (friends, family, etc), I have listed below for the clarification of those not familiar with our family a brief character description of the principal players in this little drama.

CAST OF CHARACTERS
Jan - My beautiful wife; the reason I both wake in the morning and have a sprig of gray hair.  The vessel of our progeny, she works full-time in the public school system in an administrative capacity and attends school part-time in order to earn her second (terminal) graduate degree.

BGA - The current term of endearment we use in order to refer to our little bundle of joy; an acronym, it stands for "Baby Girl A" ('A' being the first letter of our last name; allowing us to preserve a respectable amount of internet anonymity).

Camden - Our sprightly, sassy 3.5-year-old shibador (shiba inu + labrador).  The only child we'll ever have that we can leave alone at home for a couple hours without having the cops called on us.  She seems to be aware that a change is coming, but probably not entirely sure to what degree.

Tim (myself) - Essentially, the sperm donor thus far.  Attending school full-time to earn my terminal graduate degree and working a few jobs part-time (academic and non-academic) in order to not give my loving wife a reason to run out the door into the waiting arms of... Bradley Cooper, from what I've heard.
 
As others make their entrances into our drama, I will introduce them accordingly.
 
DISCLAIMER
It is of note to the reader that Jan and I are in a real, true-life marriage; not a sitcom relationship.  Nothing is resolved in 23 minutes (plus commercial breaks).  We squabble, whine, fight, complain, and nitpick; most importantly though, we also talk, discuss, process, forgive, and love.  We've been married (as of this posting) for 6.5 years, and dated for 6 years before that.  Exactly one week into our marriage, we had a massive fight (over something so trivial that we can't even really remember anymore).  When it was over, we made a pact to ourselves that we would forever more after that be 100% upfront and honest with each other, and talk about absolutely everything, keeping no secrets and delivering no hidden messages.  This has since worked out unbelievably well for us, and our relationship couldn't be any stronger; however, our interaction style has been known to intimidate others before.  We use sarcasm, biting inflection, swears, and other linguistic tools to add a little excitement to our conversations; rest assured though, I would not be posting about ourselves on the internet if I didn't have full faith in our relationship and our (pending) family.
 
Additionally: this blog will be as real as possible.  As the husband of a pregnant woman, I struggle to count the number of meals in the past 6 months where we haven't discussed bathrooming or mucous.  Anyone with kids probably understands this.  Anyone without kids probably just thromited*.  This is a pregnancy blog.  Pregnancy is amazing.  ...but it ain't always beautiful.
 
*Thromit: my personal portmanteau of "throat + vomit".  A word I made up for when you get that vomit taste in the back of your mouth.
 
So if you're game, come join us on our adventure!  Please add your own notes or suggestions if you have an experience you would like us to hear, and feel free to share our story if you would like.  Welcome!