baby daddy

Little dude, you’re a virus. Seriously. You’re like a vermin which lives inside its host, slowly sucking the life out of it. Instead of life, though, you only suck calcium, iron, water, and about a third of everything your mother eats. Of course, in order to keep the both of you healthy, she has to up her intake of all these items.

After a recent trip to the doctor’s office, your mom found out she’s anemic (which scared the bejesus out of us), but apparently it’s a fairly common thing — you babies take a lot of work to produce, and your mothers’ bodies have to compensate for it. Now your mom has to take iron pills twice a day, and since she’s been swallowing those things like candy her body has changed yet again.

Let’s just say that trips to the bathroom are a little longer than normal.

Yeah, dude. Thanks a lot. Just as she’s not a big fan of needles, your mom’s not a big fan of pills. When we go to the doctor’s office to get a shot or to have blood drawn the doctor has to sing a song about an “itsy-bitsy spider” and distract your mother with his hands. Only when she’s distracted does he sing that the rain has “washed (at which point he jabs her with the needle) the spider out.” This way, after he’s given the shot, the sun can come out and dry up all the rain, which always makes your mother happy because she hates the rain.

With the pills I have to pull the same song and dance — I have to make her think she’s not doing something she wants to do, and that’s why I have to wrap up her pills in a piece of balogna and throw it across the room. She always leaps up and catches it in her mouth before it hits the floor, and I always give her another piece of balogna as a prize. Then I scratch her belly until she falls asleep, and I know she’s dreaming when her hands and feet start twitching. It’s so cute.

But you still owe us for the pills, even though they’re keeping the both of you safe and healthy.

Some parents wait until their child is 18 years old to spring a trap on them — This is to prepare you for the real world, they say. Now that you’re 18, you need to start paying us rent.

Parents, of course, think this idea is ingenious. Not only do they help prepare their child for the real world where rent is not something that can be forgotten or ignored, but they get a little money in return for room and board.

Children, in turn, begin to think: “I was right all along. my parents are real jerks.”

Little dude, I’ve been pondering over this for quite some time now, and it’s come up again now that I’m sitting around doing the taxes. I think it’s a goood idea to help prepare your children for the real bills that show up in the real world, but I think it’ a terrible idea to wait 18 years to help your child make sense of reality. Therefore, I’m going to start making a list of the money you already owe us, and will make you compensate for those expenses from here on out. YOu need to know how the real world works, and I don’t want to start too late. So, here we go.

So far you owe us:
• $13 dollars for one bottle of wine.
• $200 for the initial doctor’s visit to see that you were there.
• 7 months of follow-up visits at $135 a pop.
• Extra food for mommy at, let’s say, 50 bucks a month….so, ummm, $350.
• I just painted your room, and the cost of materials was $70
• A new dresser at $170
• This week we’ll be making a trip that will cost us about $120 in gas,
• and I’ll be generous here and just give us a $40 stipend for food and other necessities.

And I think that’s about it. For now. Keep in mind, though, that this does not include the bills you’ll inevitably incur over the next two months, nor does it include the $3000 we expect to pay the hospital in helping you into this world.

So, for the fiscal year leading up to today you owe us: $1908, which we’ll just whittle down to an even 1900 bucks.

After that, the bills just keep on growing. Sorry, little dude. This is the real world. I’ll have some paperwork for you to sign in early june.

What follows is the post I thought I wanted to post as my initial post on The Blogfathers

I don’t have kids.
I don’t even have kid.
I am without child; my wife is with.

My wife and I are 7 months along, (which means she is “fat,” according to her) (”pregnant,” according to me) and expecting our first child. When I say “we” are pregnant, it is in no way related to the phrases often uttered by most expecting parents: “Yeah, we’re pregnant,” or “We’re expecting,” or even “We’re not all that impressed with our husbands right now.”

“We,” when I use it, means: I’ve gained a lot of wieght. The wife has bought a new set of clothes to accompany the growing lump in her stomach, and I’ve bought a new set of clothes to hide the fact there’s a turkey-sized stomach under my shirt.

When dinner’s ready I let her eat first, but I still snake away her plate under the auspice that I’m more hungry (”I’m taller,” I say. “Don’t worry about feeding that kid. We’ll feed him when he’s born”).

When we’re in public and eating, I trade plates with her — to make it look as though she finished while I’m still marching along on my dish — and mention to the waiter/waitress: “Man, what a pig she is, huh? Got any more burgers back there?”

“We” means that I am as much a part of this pregnancy as she, and that she’d better not get a big head about all the “kicks” and “squirms” and whatnot. I’d rather have some food. (Take a moment to note the title of this post.)

Ok, now that all of that is out of the way, I don’t have to look like a “man.” Now I can be honest.

If you mess with my wife, I’ll kick your ass.
If, after he’s born, you mess with my son, I’ll f*ck you up.
If you mess with him (or my wife) after he’s born, I’ll invent something.
How’s that for a blogfather?

Now I’ll be rational.

My wife and I have been married for seven years. We’ve been together for ten, and yet we’re still in our twenties. We’re young.

We do what we consider to be good work (she a social worker, me a teacher) and I don’t see that we’ll change our careers in the near future. My wife works harder than any person I’ve ever met, and both our jobs constantly remind us that we should never bring a child into this world.

Nevertheless here we are, readying ourselves for a child (who, once he’s born, will become “the cutest child ever on the face of the earth! Oh yes he is! Oh yes he IS!) and worrying along the way that we will ruin his life. Hopefully we won’t.

I’m proud to say we’ve been introduced among the capos over at The Blogfathers.

I’d like to thank the bosses for this honor. We’ll try to serve the family as best we can. Check out the nifty little badge we earned, too! It’s in the sidebar.

Little dude, let me let you in on a little secret — I think everything’s going to be all right. A few months back during your first ultrasound (and the impetus for getting me to write these short little notes to you) the doctor told us a few things that scared the bejesus out of us.

What’s a bejesus? It’s that short little breath that escapes quickly, leaving your lungs cold and as though your heart might jump out to try to snatch it back.

First, the doctor mentione something about a renal problem — that one of your renal arteries was oversized, which could lead to some urinary problems later in life (and the jerk included the word “surgery”).

Second, the doctor mentioned something about “placenta previa,” which sure sounds pretty, but it too scared the bejesus out of us. This next part might not make sense to you, but I want to tell you anyway: your mom and I quickly became experts on every facet of placenta previa — the occurrence rate, how and when it can happen, warning signs, and even what it means, which, for you would sound something like: “your current bedroom unexpectedly flew out its own window.”

Holy cow! Did you feel that bejesus when I told you that? I did! And I hate that feeling. I’ve hated having that same feeling for the last two or three months and your mother has seriously been driving herself crazy with worry, little dude. You owe her a hug when you get out of the joint.

And you should be able to give her that hug with no problem — the doctor told us yesterday after our second major ultrasound that the whole renal problem is gone and that the placents previa problem has completely corrected itself. He mentioned this after the first ultrasound, too — that everything would likely right itself, and that you were 99.6% perfect, but I’ll tell you what: that .4%, that’s the size of a bejesus. Seems small, but it packs a punch.

The best part of the whole day was seeing your face again. This time you weren’t all skeleton but some chubbed cheeks, round eyes, and a jaw that all eerily resemble your mother. I don’t know what the opposite of bejesus is, because bedevil doesn’t sound right when describing how seeing your face made us feel. Maybe “unbejeezed?”

Here’s the first in a series of stories I’ll definitely tell about you for the rest of your life. Likely harbingers of the person yet to come — those tales you hate to hear and which come up at every family get together from the moment you cry ’til your mom and I are long gone. Here’s the first:

When you were just starting to move around in your womb, your mom loved it. I did,too. These days you’re kicking and shoving things out of the way — probably to make room for a bike or something. But every once in a while things get abrnormally quiet. You don’t move for hours, or even entire days. This freaks your mom out pretty good, and she mentions it. I usually come over and talk to you through “the microphone” (i.e., her belly-button — it’s gotta work like a loudspeaker, a direct line in), and after a few seconds you start squirming around.

But one day you didn’t. You wouldn’t move. And, so, I gave you a little poke. Nothing big, just a soft little poke, as if to say: “Hey, little dude. Wake up. Move around. Show us you’re there.”

The moment I took my finger off your mom’s stomach you poked back. Literally one-half second after I poked you, you poked me. As if to say, “Hey, big dude. I’m fine. And I was sleeping up until a second ago.”

Yeah, get ready to hear that one for the rest of your life. Especially any time you show that attitude again, young man.

Little dude, I’ve got a bummer of a letter for you. It’s not from me, but it’s from someone who is part of me and part of your mother. Read on, little dude…

Everything below is cross-posted at the reflective teacher

Before I was a teacher, I was a roofer. Before I was a roofer, I worked at a home for disadvantaged youth — kids who were kicked out of their homes, kids who’d been in and out of jail, kids who moved in and out of foster care. Working in this home made a great impact on the person I’ve become and prepared me for the work I do today. If anything, working in that youth home was the impetus for my becoming a teacher.

This was seven years ago, when I was newly married, working my first “adult” job, and something that interested me because of my wife’s experience and interest in social work. She’d worked in this shelter as “staff,” and her stories from that work led me to apply for a position the minute one opened.

I only worked there one year, and my only reason for leaving was that my wife and I moved out of state so she could attend graduate school. Today, seven years later, I can’t get that place out of my head — the layout, the hallways, the rooms, the routines, the dinners we cooked, the hours we kept (I often worked graveyard shift during my own undergrad years, schooling on Thursdays, going home to have dinner, working throughout the night, waking the kids in the morning and getting them ready for school (including taking them to school), and then going back to my own school for the next days classes), driving around town so the kids could pretend to be on “the cruise,” and ultimately being one among many of the only formal ‘parents’ these kids had.

The one thing I’ve never forgotten is the kids. Today my wife and I got a letter in the mail from one of the kids who lived in the home while we were there. It reads:

Dear [Nobody] Family,

Hello how are you guys doing? I hope that you guys are doing great. I haven’t heard much about you, but that doesn’t mean I forgot who you are. I miss you living in [Sometown] and working at [The Youth Shelter]. Not because I enjoyed being a pain in th butt, yelling and screaming at you and beatting [sic] up other, but because you were one of the few staff who would listen to us when we needed to talk and you understood why most of us were there. you actually cared about all off [sic] us who were there without family and needed somebody, I really think that you didn’t think too much of how much money you made and how many hours you recived [sic]. I don’t know thta oyu have been told this but thanks for showing you care it really helps to know that somebody is there for you. I remember when I spent Thanksgiving with your family at your house in 2001 I think it was. That meant alot [sic] to me. you guys were awesome. As for what has been going on with me wll long story. I turned 18 married [Somebody] (yeah the boy who lived at [The Youth Shelter] and then we had a baby boy who we named [Something]. He is now 2, it went fast. [My Husband] and his friend were selling drugs in the home and when he turned 21 all he did was party and do drugs. Our relationship after that became abusive, I always stayed at home and took care of the baby. I got really depressed and started to do drugs again. The cops busted [My Husband] so we both got into trouble, I ended up getting five years probation (felony) and since how [My Husband] tried to take all blame he ended up in prison for six months and got out on probatioon. He couldn’t stay clean, or do what his probation officer asked so she put him back infront [sic] of the judge and now he has to serve his fixed time which is until 2010. I was doing really good with a full time job a place of my own on the hill and being a single mom. I don’t really recall what happened or how it happened but I slowly lost everything. I ended up in jail and sice [sic] how I don’t have one family member around here and [My Husband's] family is out of wack [sic], [Our Son] went to a home. I really think it is best for him while I get treatment and start over. I am going to get him back, because we all know I am a very good mom and my son means everything to me. I get to visit all the time and stuff. he is doing good, getting big, learning every day, and he is very safe away from crazy people and drugs. I have been clean since Feb. 2005 wich [sic] is when the cops busted us. I have no ideas to use drugs ever again. There are somethings [sic] I do need to learn about and recive [sic] treatment so that I can become independent and stay that way. I will keep intouch [sic] as much as I can. Look at the picture [she included a picture of herself and her son]. I am 21 years old now. CRAZY. Talk to you later. Bye!

Sincerely Always,
[Her Name]

Simply heartbreaking. And I know we’re going to respond with at least a letter. Although we were very young at the time we worked in The Youth Shelter, my wife and I often talked about taking this girl in as a foster child. Now she’s an adult, and I wonder what opportunities we all missed out on.