Survey says… (the gender post)

Today was the "anatomy ultrasound." For those of you who haven't had kids, had kids in the 1800s, or are having kids but haven't yet converted to preggotarinaism, that's when the ultrasound tech looks everything over, makes sure all the parts are where they should be, and (drumroll please) tells you the gender – assuming you want to find out.

We wanted to find out. We would have found out on day one if we could have.

In fact, until the other day, I couldn't imagine why anyone wouldn't want to find out. A friend from work, however, recently mentioned that if you didn't know the gender, it would give you something to look forward to during those final grizzly minutes (hours?) of labor.

Moms may or may not agree. As for the guys, I think a rough parallel would be dragging your naked hindquarters across broken glass on Christmas morning. Or something like that.

Anyway, for weeks now, BabyCar and I have gone back and forth about what we want. First it was a girl. Then it was a boy. Then, for quite a long time, we were both in complete agreement that we had no preference whatsoever. Seemed like a safe bet.

Only it wasn't that easy. As soon as the ultrasound tech plunked her little gadget on BabyCar's belly my stomach did a backflip.

It hit me like a ton of bricks. I have no damn idea what to do with a boy.

I don't know why. I don't know what makes me think I have any damn idea what to do with a girl, either. But at that moment, I just had this terrible panic that it was going to be a boy and that for some reason, that would be a bad thing.

Maybe it's because I always had girl dogs. Maybe it's because I throw a football like a sissy. For whatever reason, it just seemed natural to dote on a girl and scary to think about raising a boy.

So there I was, getting a little bit queasy and focusing all of my energy on convincing myself to be happy if it turns out to be a boy. I caught a fleeting glimpse of the rump area, and my worst fears were pretty much confirmed – but the ultrasound tech just kept on driving, looking around for the next organ on her checklist.

She showed us the four-chambered heart. She pointed out the kidneys and the stomach. We looked at little forearms and little fingers. We saw the brain, and the umbilical cord, and the spine.

Then the tech switched to the 3D mode, which never seems to reveal anything interesting but always manages to scare the hell out of me. Unborn babies in 3D look like chewed up gummy bears on a good day. On a bad day, they look like the stuff of nightmares – terrible little super-villains with skeleton fingers and menacing facial expressions.

After looking at 3D mode just long enough to ensure bad dreams, the tech switched back to the traditional view and prepared us for the moment of truth.

See this little protrusion sticking out between the legs? That's the umbilical cord. You're having a girl. You can see her little hamburger buns right there.

Hey lady, how about we not talk about my daughter's "hamburger buns." Thank you.

So I am ridiculously happy. I know that I would have been if it was a boy, too, but something about a girl just feels so completely right.

There is a beautiful little girl riding around in my BabyCar. And I can't wait to meet her.

Cough cough cough

Baby Car is sick. Not pregnant sick. Just sick sick.

I feel for her. She's got a nasty chest cold and pretty much anything that a normal person would take to feel better will turn our baby into a little prenatal acid head.

So she is pretty much stuck being miserable until further notice. We've got a semi-formal event to attend tomorrow night, but it looks like the stylish black maternity dress we picked out for the occasion is going to stay on its hanger – unless my early stage old guy gut prohibits be from getting into my suit, in which case I'll wear that damn thing myself.

I'll also have to find another date, which means I'll probably start a buzz around town that I walked out on my pregnant wife. Awesome.

So right now she is taking a shower and I have instructions to go check on her every ten minutes to make sure she hasn't fallen asleep in the tub or coughed up a lung or anything.

On the plus side, on Monday we get to go back to the obstemagician to find out what we're having (I hope it's a baby!). Once we have the gender figured out, we get to do cool stuff like nail down a name and pick out paint colors and stuff.

We're stoked.

But does he show up for career day?

Pregnant women have weird cravings. I've known that since I was old enough to watch sit-coms.

What I didn't know was that once I finally had my very own pregnant woman that the closest grocery store to my house would be the shadiest Wal-Mart east of Compton. So there I was, parking the car at the far corner of the lot and making my way to wherever they keep the Macaroni and Cheese (and broccoli).

I was on a mission, so it only took a few minutes for me to find what I needed and hop in the checkout line. I spent my short wait glancing around at nearby parents and kids, a creepy little habit that I've picked up recently.

Being a less-than-upstanding Wal-Mart, even by Wal-Mart standards, this can be depressing. There are a lot of kids getting smacked around and yelled at, so it's a generally unpleasant place to be.

Today, though, there was an exception. The dad in line in front of me was outstanding. He had a cart full of healthy looking stuff, stacked carefully around his two little girls. The girls were impeccably dressed. Their hair was fixed nicely. They were polite. He was trying to teach one of them how to eat fried chicken. She kept trying to gnaw on the bone and he was helping her hold it so that she could get the last bit of meat off the bone. It was endearing as hell and this guy was clearly the best parent I have ever observed in this place.

When it was his turn in line, he stepped up to the cashier, pulled out a huge wad of hundred dollar bills with a prison-tattooed hand and checked his big fat, diamond studded gold watch. His pants were sagging as he checked his beeper and gave one of his girls a kiss while he waited for his change.

I'm sure on a different day the guy would have shot me as soon as looked at me, but I couldn't help but think that he seemed like one hell of a nice guy.

It just goes to show that you can't judge a book by its cover.

Oh, wait. He's clearly a drug dealer. I guess you can judge a book by its cover.

Cute kids, though.

 

Got ‘r done (congrats!)

Our good friends finally squeezed out their baby earlier today. The kid is healthy, Dad is happy, and Mom is now one human being lighter.

I stopped by their place to check in on their dog. I sat in a comfy chair, put my feet up, and looked around at all the pristine baby stuff tucked into each corner, waiting to be used for the first time. Alone in their house, the reality sunk in: this dog is going to be pissed.

I know you’re in there…

BabyCar was lucky.

She was able to feel our little guy/girl squirming around in there beginning in about her 15th week. This is not typical.

All of the books and websites and message boards out there say that week 14 is about as early as you can hope for and that some women might not feel anything until week 20 or beyond.

The movement is faint, but it’s there. The downside to this early excitement is that we got started with our first dose of parental anxiety a little bit early.

Once you get used to feeling somebody in there (or hearing about feeling somebody in there) it is really unsettling when that feeling disappears for a while.

Baby decided to have a little three day hibernation session recently, which left BabyCar and I pacing around the living room paging though baby books and surfing the Web.

Everything we found said that a day or two without movement is nothing to worry about. Babies get turned around funny, start to kick inwardly where the mom can’t feel it, or just tweak their activity cycles.

The books all offered the same advice: if you haven’t felt the baby for a day or two and are starting to get anxious, your obstetrician will be happy to hook you up to the fetal heartbeat monitor to put your mind at ease.

Yeah, right.

A fetal heartbeat monitor is about as complicated to use as a glue stick and could be done in less than a minute, but I don’t think we could get into that place on less than a month’s notice if BabyCar’s uterus was on fire.

We couldn’t even get our doctor on the phone, much less get a foot in the door.

Two nurses collaborated for a few minutes and managed to call us back with a confidence inspiring, “umm, we talked and think you should go see your family practitioner.”

Near as I can tell, facial piercings are the only qualifications necessary to become an OB/GYN nurse – my health insurance dollars at work.

Long story short, we didn’t get in to see the doctor. We didn’t go to the family doctor and we didn’t have a very relaxing evening. But late that night, as if finally deciding to cut the old ‘rents some slack, Baby mustered a kick or two.

Looking back, it was the only way that either of us were going to get any sleep that night.

Should have bought the GT

When I left for work the other day, BabyCar wasn't feeling well – trouble breathing. She has had some asthma issues in the past, but we really didn't think it was going to be a big deal. By the end of the day, she had been short of breath for something like four hours and had developed sharp pain in her arms and back.

She called me at work. She said that she talked to someone at the obstemagician's office (not our actual doctor, because NO ONE may see the great and mighty Oz without an appointment). The nurse/receptionist/urine sample sniffer told her that she should go to the Emergency Room.

Apparently BabyCar's ailment was dangerous enough to warrant a trip to the ER, but not quite in the realm of things worth interrupting the doctor over.

So I get the "ummm…something's wrong and I need to go to the ER" call. I freaked.

I left a little cloud of smoke hanging in the air as I darted into the hallway and down the stairs. I park pretty close to the building where I work, but unfortunately for me, the stupid building is about a mile long.

I set a new personal record for the 100 yard dash as I made it to the long hallway downstairs. I made it about another 100 yards before I realized that at some point I turned into a fat guy that can no longer run at full speed for more than a few paces before I start gasping for breath on the outside and weeping on the inside.

I made it the rest of the way at a more moderate pace – slow enough that I didn't pass out, but fast enough that I almost overturned a little metal mail cart that veered into my path without signaling (move it, buddy!).

I finally made it to my brand new Subaru Legacy with the sport shift.

I jumped in, instinctively fiddled with the radio (focus, dammit!) and took off in a hurry. After bashing my way through a parking lot snow drift that turned out to be a lot more substantial that I was expecting, I made my way to the little four lane connector that runs pretty much from my office to my house.

As a reformed speeder, I had never really put my Subaru through its paces before, but I'll admit I was a little happy to have a good reason now.

I kicked the shifter over into sport mode and got ready to pass the first set of slow-pokes I encountered.

It was at exactly that moment that I realized something. My car is about as much a race car as I am a race horse.

I pressed the gas pedal to the floor and just managed to keep up with an oblivious woman in an Altima that was chatting away on her cell phone.

I'll spare you the details of the rest of my frenzied little trip, but if you must have a Subaru Legacy and think you might ever need to evade a police helicopter or pass an old lady, you should probably spring for the GT.

Anyway, I made it to the house, and BabyCar was waiting for me. We hopped into her Subaru with the semi-peppy V6, and made it the Urgent Care place in no time.

Urgent Care is like an emergency room outlet mall. It is just far enough off the beaten path to stay free of the usual Emergency Room gun-shot wound, drug overdose crowd, so we were able to pull in there on a Friday night and pretty much have the place to ourselves (with the exception of a college girl whose whole demeanor just screamed "Barbie's first STD").

The doctor saw us right away. She was clearly concerned and seemed competent, so we were happy. BabyCar had to breath into one of those fogger machines for five minutes and after that, the pain and shortness of breath started to subside. We walked out of there with two prescriptions – one for an inhaler and another for a just-in-case antibiotic because BabyCar had a slight fever.

We were told to have our next baby doctor appointment sooner, rather than later, and were on our way.

It was quite an afternoon.

My Pregtarded Wife

How do developing babies get enough brain cells to effectively spit up and crap on their first day out of the womb? They steal them from their moms.

Near as I can tell, this begins around the beginning of the second trimester. That’s when the mental pregtardation begins to set in.

Since then, living with BabyCar has been like living with a very pretty Alzheimer’s patient. She forgets to eat. She forgets to go to bed. She leaves pizza in the oven until it turns into charcoal (okay, that was me).

On top of all that, I think she is officially the youngest person in pharmaceutical history to own one of those Morning/Lunchtime/Evening pill cases with the little boxes for each day of the week. I feel like we should have one of those big-numbered telephones sitting right next to it.

To make matters worse, BabyCar is not only going through the usual pregnant lady day-to-day activities, she’s also running our business. This means that by the end of the pregnancy, our entire office – if not the house – will be wallpapered in Post-It yellow.

“Do Invoicing”

“Go to Bank”

“Call so-and-so”

“Pee (repeat as necessary)”

I wonder if sticky notes are admissible if we ever get audited by the IRS.

Sir, you say you have a freelance writing business here, but your shoe-box full of Post-Its clearly reveals that this is some sort of a back room nursing home for the elderly and incontinent. You’re not zoned for that.

So now I have two jobs: communications consultant and reminder monkey.

Because BabyCar doesn’t particularly like using Post-Its (and forgets to read them anyway) it is my responsibility to call and e-mail her throughout the day to keep those little tasks like making phone calls and eating lunch from falling through the cracks.

I really don’t mind. As long as she’s hard at work building a little person from scratch, I figure she’s doing more than her share of the family workload.

I just hope that some of those brain cells grow back once Baby is raising hell outside of the womb.

What’s in a name?

…that which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. If I remember my Cliffnotes correctly, that’s from Romeo and Juliet.

Easy for Juliet to say. She and Romeo had awesome names, hand picked by the greatest wordsmith of all time. Would their names be synonymous with passion and romance if instead of Romeo and Juliet Shakespeare had gone with Hasslehoff and Krotchswett?

Beats me, but I do know that if Shakespeare ever had kids, his wife/mistress/stagehand wouldn’t have given a crap about his literary credentials when it came time to name the kid.

Baby girl, I’m the greatest writer the world has ever seen. My words are etched forever on the souls of the hopeful. I think I know what I’m talking about!

To which he can expect to hear something along the lines of I don’t care if you wrote the New Testament, Ophelia is a whore’s name AND I AIN’T RAISIN’ NO WHORE!

We have kicked around girl names and boy names and first names and middle names for months now, and we’re getting nowhere.

Though I am learning a little bit about how important it apparently is that we get this name thing right. We need a name that will not only get the kid from daycare through high school without being beat up, but at the same time stick with something authoritative that will sound good with “Doctor” before it or “CEO” after.

BabyCar is quick to inform me that all the names I like are less doctor/CEO and more custodian/drunk-girl-at-the-bowling-alley.

But in the battle of the names, she made one big mistake at dinner last night. I was saying that because our last name begins with W, we can’t really go with a name like Joshua Edward, on account of the problematic initials that result.

Until BabyCar jokingly mentioned it, little had I realized that our non-negotiable W opened the door for the greatest initials of all time – BMW. If only my parents had loved me enough to make me a Brian Michael or a Barry Matthew. Hell, I would have put up with Borat McGuillacuttie if it got me the initials BMW.

But alas, I got a J instead (and a JJ at that, though I managed to dodge that bullet growing up).

They say the best you can do as a parent is to give your kids the things you never had. I had it pretty good growing up, but if I can at least make sure that my kid has the best initials ever and more than eight channels on the TV, I can die knowing that I did all I could.

Though I suppose if BabyCar divorces me over this BMW thing and gives the baby her old last name, the whole thing is pretty a wash. I’ll let you know how it goes.

Get thee to a midwife!

You don't really hear a lot about midwives until you run into someone who has knocked back the midwife kool-aid. I am pretty sure that anyone who uses a midwife during their pregnancy takes a solemn oath to go forth and proclaim the midwife gospel to all who will listen. Maybe midwives won't give you your baby until you sign a pledge or something, but for whatever reason, parents who use a midwife seem very eager to tell you all about why no person in their right mind would ever want some "sassy, know-it-all doctor" presiding over the birth of their child.

It's kind of like people who belong to a credit union. Yeah, I get it – you got a super interest rate on your car loan. Now please get out of my house.

Anyway, as it turns out, our sassy, know-it-all doctor is, well, a sassy know-it-all doctor. She is extraordinarily competent, but also extraordinarily cold and a little bit bitchy.

So we decided to give the midwives a shot.

The way the practice is set up, if you decide to go with a midwife, you need to have at least one appointment with each one on staff, presumably so that when it comes time for birth, the mother-to-be gets to work with someone that she knows well enough to curse at and hit with things.

The other day, at appointment number three, we met midwife number one.

I'll just call her "Uh-huh."

Uh-huh was heavy-set (very maternal), well-dressed (very professional) and responded to everything we said with a very engaging and enthusiastic "uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh…"

We told her that Baby Car had been feeling some fatigue lately (uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh…) and that there was a little bit of ligament pain (uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh…) and that we wanted another ultrasound (uh-huh, uh-huh…NO!)

We have been methodically shot down any time we've suggested getting an ultrasound outside of the usual ultrasound schedule. I don't know what the big deal is – the procedure is less complicated than making a TV dinner – but apparently at this particular office, exceptions to the schedule just aren't made. Actually, I'm pretty sure we will get in trouble if the baby isn't born during normal business hours on our exact due date.

So an ultrasound just wasn't in the cards. We aren't worried about the baby or anything, but we had read that it was sometimes possible to determine gender by now and we figured it would be cool to give it a shot. We were thinking that maybe the midwife would have a heart and bend the rules, but no such luck. It will be about another month during the "anatomy ultrasound" that we get to find out if we're having a boy or a girl.

Perhaps it was because of the warm uh-huhs, but Uh-huh made us feel a lot more comfortable than we had ever been with the obstemagician.

Probably because of that, Baby Car felt able to confide in the midwife that she didn't think she was feeling the appropriate level of emotional attachment to mommy's little parasite.

Uh-huh told us that at this stage of the game (just barely into the second trimester), feeling that way is completely normal. Right now, the baby is pretty much just a source of inconvenient and frustrating pregnancy symptoms that she gets to endure without being far enough along to enjoy all the cool pregnancy stuff, like feeling the little kicks and stroking that stylin' baby bump.

We were assured that in the next month the attachment would grow and that it would become especially strong once we found out if it was a little boy or a little girl (or a pony!) growing in there.

Personally, I'm crazy in love with the little creature already. I look at our only set of ultrasound picture 25 times a day and at work I have two thumbtacks stuck in the wall to keep track of how long baby is, head to rump (8.5 centimeters!).

But then again, I'm not nauseous, my energy level is great, and my boobs are no more sensitive than normal. For me, the little guy/gal is easy to love.

But it's okay, Baby Car will come around. She doesn't wear her emotions on her sleeve, but I know they're brewing. I just can't wait for them to start bubbling to the surface so that I don't have to feel like such an emotional sap all by myself.