baby daddy

Last night we went to the “child birth preparation class,” and lemme tell ya, little dude, it was insightful. It gave us an interesting view into the whole birthing process, the people who write baby books, and the others in our locale due around the same time we are.

See, you’re gonna wanna be born at some point. Sure, it’s warm in there, and the sloshy sounds of your mother’s stomach and the continuous beat of her heart are warming, but you’re going to have to move out at some point. All your friends are doing it, even if they don’t want to. Trust me, even though it’s a difficult decision for you to make (I only say this because even the video we watched last night mentioned that “no one really knows what causes the labor process to start when it does”), it should happen. You need to get out, grow up, and find your own way through this mess of a life.

At last night’s class — the first in a series of four — we introduced ourselves to the other soon-to-be-parents, we did a little Q&A about labor and whats’ entailed there, we watched a video, we practiced our first breathing exercise, and then we “relaxed.” (That’s in quotation marks because I’m being a little sarcastic.)

We found that we were just about the only people with stable, career-oriented jobs. I’m not trying to size us up against the other parents, because this whole “having a baby” thing isn’t a competition. Your mother, on the other hand, was definitely making decisions about these ither people in the room with us. Don’t worry about it — it’s a thing she does. She treat everything like a competition. Even when we go to a grocery store and another car arrives at the same time we do, she says to me: “We’ve got to get in there before they do.” I think this is pretty healthy, to tell you the truth. She gets through the store quicker, makes sure she marks off eachitem from her list, and we get out fast. Plus, it’s a kick in the pants for me to have her direct me throughout the store, saying things like: “Let’s take vegetable aisle. I saw the old couple make their way into the toothpaste aisle. If we cut them off here, we can round back and them pass them at frozen chicken.”

A note: plan your schedules accordingly, little dude. Your mom has her own plans, and if you interefere with them you’ll end up one of two places. Either you’ll end up “in her way,” or you’ll end up a “sucker who wasted his time.”

One of the decisions your mom made about the other people in the room was whether their jobs matched ours. And, while I think this is a little unhealthy, I have to say that a few of the other couples in the room have occupations that might just not work well with their kids. The most frightening couple: the woman whose husband was “a rockstar,” while she was a “rockstar’s wife.”

I know she was lying and she may have done this for a couple of reasons:

• 1. Maybe she’s not comfortable sharing too much about herself. I mean, we’re only here to learn about the birthing process, we’re not here to find out more about each other.
• 2. She’s a little ashamed about her job (or her husband’s job), and doesn’t feel their work is worth sharing.
• 3. She’s famous and doesn’t want us to know it.

Of course, your mom caught on to this and considered them to fall into category #2. And maybe it’s true because they are very young. Maybe they didn’t plan things out. Maybe they’re #1 and just unwilling to share, and maybe they’re #1 because they are rockstars — they rule!

No matter what other people do, I did notice that we were among the oldest people in the room, with both of us just shy of 30. This means that when you’re in middle school you get to tell all your friends, “Yeah, my dad’s 43. My mom’s 42. It sucks. They’re sooooo old.” And all your friens will tell you, “My mom’s 28, and my dad’s 31,” and your mom and I will make our own uninformed decisions about that.

As we made our way through the class, I think your mom and I both realized that the books we’ve been reading were printed only to scare the bejesus out of us. The books talk about pain and nausea and discomfort and the loss of all control. The books portray the whole birthing process as an end of life event (or, ELE, as it’s known in the awesome film Deep Impact, starring Morgan Freeman as the president. Man, why can’t he be our president?), but we found out after watching the video that birth is just a process. It’s something we’ll have to go through. It’s something that’s painful, but which can be controlled through various means. Instead of the movie version, where a gigantic meteor crashes into the ocean and where the resulting tidal wave crushes entire cities and civilizations, your mother’s only going to have to push and breath and push and breath and push and breathe and sit and wait and push and breathe and sit and wait and sit and breathe and wait and wait and push puuush puuuuuuuuush push push push push push push! until you come out.

The books we’ve read made the whole thing sound hellish, and I’ll let you know about that a little later. The video we watched of an actual childbirth seemed pretty bad, too, but certainly not as bad as we had it in our minds. But that’s the beauty of the human mind — it cam imagine things much worse than they really are. It can come up with scenarios that do not imitate life, and it can make you worry.

I thought the child birth preparation class would cause us more worry, but the truth is it took away a little of that worry. When ou’ve got Morgan Freeman, a DJ, and a rockstar on your side…what can go wrong?

Here’s another trademarked series I’m gearing toward you, little dude. The first in the series focused on Stories I’ll Tell Forever™. Like the stories I’ll tell forever, you’ll probably alos tire of this story, and let’s hope you don’t live up to it.

Today, on the way home from work, I stopped by the post office to send off a check to the phone company. This is something you’ll ave to do in the future, so you might as well hear about it now. At the moment it costs $Too.Much to make phone calls every once in a while. We have a phone and people call us on it, but I’m just not sure if it’s really worth $25 a month to have the phone ring constantly, especially when the majority of people who call us are robots. This might sound strange now, but I’ll predict that within your own lifetime you’ll only speak on the phone with people who don’t really exist. (By the way, they’ll all be named “Brian,” and they’ll all say, at some point in the conversation: “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch that. Were you trying to say ‘I’d like to particpate in this questionnaire,” If so, press one. If you were trying to say, “Please tell me more about the percentage rates,” please press two.)

After leaving the post office I stopped by the local gas station to pick up a beer. I know. Parents shouldn’t drink beer, but you’re not born yet, and that makes everything ok. The fact that your mother doesn’t drink beer is a good thing, and that’s why that word sounds so foreign to you.

But when I was at the gas station, I noticed something that made me think: Won’t do that!

See, when I was waiting in line to purchase my drink, I was stading behind this dude who had a long goatee on his chin and a long case of beer in his hand. He bought a half-rack of Milwaukee’s Best. It’s certainly not the best beer on the planet, though I’m sure you’ll become very familiar with it in your late highschool or early college years.

Sure, you’re thinking: “My dad doesn’t want me to drink beer!”

And you’re right. Good for you! I don’t want you to drink beer. I don’t want you to talk to me about it, and I don’t want to explain to you why I have one. I certainly don’t want you to drink it until you’re at least five years old, and I don’t want to talk about the fact that my own grandfather gave me sips of his Milwaukee’s best when I was a wee one.

But still. Adults buy beer. They drink it. No problem.

Except for the dude in front of me in the line at the gas station. This dude bought a 12-pack of M’s best, and then walked outside to strap it to…

(I should mention here that when I walked in I saw a kid tying his helmet to a motorcycle. I thought to myself: self — is it weird that a 12-year-old is driving a motorcycle? And then my self realized that a 12-year old was probably waiting for his dad).

Turns out this guy was buying himself some beer, and not from some tweenage transient. The truth is that he tied his beer to the back of his son. The twelve-year-old was thi guy’’s kid, and he placed the half-rack into the kid’s backpack. He tied it to the kid. Then he tied the kid to the motorcycle before driving off back home.

Now, I know I’ll buy some liquor while you’re around, but I’ll never purchase anything larger than you and strap it to you for the ride home, I promise.

Unless it’s a playset. Those are toys for you, and I want nothign to do with them.

So you’re due in about 8 weeks, little dude. That’s not that far away. As a matter of fact, you’re due 10 days after school lets out for the year — which is really helpful for your mom and I because it means I’ll automatically have three months off to match her three months of materinity leave. Very cool.

But the more she tells me about this whole pregnancy thing, the more you’re beginning to scare me. We’ve gotten a couple signs already that you might come early. That, sir, is unacceptable. If you come early, you’re grounded. See, if you come early then I have to have a substitute teacher cover my classes for god-knows-how-long; and since I’m not a fan of having a sub in my room for more than 10 minutes at a time, I’ll have to accept this problem.

Then again, who should be in the business of getting used to problems occurring in life? You! That’s right! Good answer! Yes, life is a long and difficult process full of disappointments and problems, but if you learn to live with those two things, you’ll find many rewards. Me, I’ve been through all this, so I don’t really need a refresher.

For example, I teach 8th grade English. Do I really need to give any further examples of the problems I have in my job and of the disappointments I find within my classroom? Must I outline the specifics of exactly why the human race is doomed? There’s not a lot going on in the heads of those kids, little dude. Simple as that. They’re just 13 and 14 year-olds trying to figure out who they are and why they feel so itchy all the time. They’re too concerned with themselves to have an insight into hey what’s that? A hacky sack? Gimme!

I see disappointment every day, little dude. Every single day. Sometimes minute to minute. Sometimes I find myself shaking hands with new forms of disappointment — they come in during my prep hour to introduce themselves:

“Hey there, how’s it goin’?”

Pretty swell, how can I help you?

“You got a minute, or are you busy?”

Actually, I’m kind of in the mid…

“Great! Look. My name is Slack-Ass, and I’ll be here sometime during sixth hour to help out with your kids.”

But they have a paper due sixth hour.

“Yeaahhhhh. That’s right. See you in a few hours.”

But they’re supposed to finish their final drafts.

“Oh, hey. Would it bug you if I brought my associates, Crying Girl and Sweat along with me? They have some business they need to finish up.”

What w…

“Thanks! See you in about an hour.”

And if you decide to come early, son, then we’re going to have a big problem, because one of my least favorite forms of disappointment is the Early Bird. Always eager to be in my space, eager to talk, eager to jump all around the room, coming in and out, slamming doors, asking me “What’s this? What are we doing? What are you doing? Are you busy? Can a tree have feelings? Where do dreams go when you wake up?”

I was that kid when I was in school, and I just don’t think I could handle having another one of me around. So, if you do decide to come early, I’ll do the same thing I do for those early burds who come into my classroom every day — I’ll put you to work grading papers.

We took a tour this week of the place where you’ll be born. It’s called a hospital, but I’m going to call it the baby hotel because it’s just so much easier to describe a hotel as “smelling like a hospital,” than it is to do the same for the former — too awkward and recursive. There you go little dude, your vocabulary leson for the month!

The hospital has 8 or none or ten floors, and the really cool thing about it is that you’ll get the opportunity to be born on one of them– the 2nd floor — and then live on another –the 8th floor — for about a day and a half. Yep, I don’t know why the doctors chose to have the second floor of the hospital be the birthing center, but they did. Maybe they mistakenly think allthose ladies are just fat and need the exercise of going up and down all the stairs. (This delusion is probably further solidified when those ladies make the trek up to the 8th floor and come down a day later and 20 pounds lighter. Stupid doctors.)

Another really cool thing about this hospital? It’s about 35 miles from our house! This means that on the day you decide to come out, daddy gets the chance to do the one things he’s always wanted to do: drive a hundred miles an hour on the shoulder with his hazards on and honking the horn.

As a matter of fact, I’ve been dreaming of this even more since we took that trip to meet your Cousins up North™ and we saw somebody doing the same thing. The mom was in the back seat with her feet up on the headrest of the passenger chair, and the dad was driving pretty dern quick (he passed me, who was speeding) with his hazards on to make it to a hospital about thirty miles away. He was driving a yellow Lincoln Monarch, and I thought to myself: Man, that’s the same type of car my parents had when I was a kid!

• Your mom said: Whoa!
• I said: I’ve lived a long time,and I’ve never seen anything like that before!
• Your mom said: Me neither! And I just got done reading about what to do if you go into labor in your car. Oh god.
• I said: What, NOW!?!
• Your mom said: No. But I was thinking…what if this is a sign of things to come?
• I said: Well, we’d better practice. I’ll turn the hazards on, you get in the back seat!

That should be a fun trip when we get to take it. But your mom won’t play the practice game, so I have to practice with the cat. He doesn’t like cars very much, but his cries do sound eerily like a woman in labor.

The rest of the trip around the hospoital was pretty enlightening, but did create some worries within your mom and me. They’re a little too concerned with safety over there. I know, I know…and yes I’ve read all those stories about the crazy people who sneak into hospitals pretending to be nurses, but end up walking out with a free baby and a cool smock. Yes I know that happens, but the amount of security they have at this particular hospital is just confusing.

See, every time a nurse comes into our room, we’re supposed to ask for her to show her three forms of ID.

• A Picture of Herself. Fine, cool. I get that one. Makes sense. I have several of those forms of ID myself, and could understand why I shouldn’t have somone else’s picture and say it’s me. (This could become an even larger problem on that planned trip to the hospital in a few weeks.)
• A Hospital Pass. That’s a good idea, too. This person better work at the hospital where you’re born.

Ok, maybe I’m a little overzealous in thinking the hospital is overzealous with security. Maybe they’ve got a good plan in place here. Oh, wait a second. I forgot about the third one.

• A Sticker Depicting a Cute Animal. And this sticker changes daily and at any moment. We will only know if the sticker has changed when we are told it’s changed. How the heck am I supposed to remember all that? And isn’t that the unsecure back door forall the crazies to come in?

What if some dude with a scraggly beard busts in the room, and his ID all seems to check out, so I throw that curveball at him: Oh yeah buddy? What’s the cute sticker of the day?

“Oh, yeah.” [snorts a line of snot back into his nose.] “It’s uh, right here.”

That’s a mustard stain.

“Yeah. they done changed the sticker, just like, a couple seconds ago. Gimme your baby, he needs a ride to my hou…he needs a shot or something.”

They changed it to a mustard stain?

“Yeah.”

Well, I guess it IS sort of a cute little mustard stain. Ok. Here you go.

“Thanks dude!” [skedaddles.]

What then? I ask you. What then? And what about the other times when I have to show off my own ID, so that all the hospital staff doesn’t think that I’m the crazy guy with the mustard stain? Who’s really in charge at this place?

It seemed that I wasn’t the only one who was worried about these security measures, because your mom and I were listening pretty closely to another girl on the tour. she was there with her entire family, and looked like she had about an hour and a half before she was due to give birth. She was very nervous about the security, and her questions led us to believe she ought to be.

“So, can I lock my room’s door?”
“How often do people come into the rooms?”
“Can I have a certain person stay with me 24 hours a day?”
“What if I don’t want the baby to go to the nursery, ever?”
“When do they lock the doors to visitors?”
“They won’t put the baby’s last name on the nursery beds will they?
“Can we make it so certian people can’t visit?”

She’s obviously got a concern to deal with, little dude. I’m kind of happy she was so pregnant, because that means she’ll give birth before you decide to come out. If her problems are so worrisome that she needs to barricade herself and her baby inside a room, and that she needs to move around with a gang of people, I don’t want you anywhere near her situation. We’re not going to raise you in that sort of an environment. There will definitely be mustard stains, but we’ll promise: no crazies.

Oh man, little dude, how’d you like that road trip we took this weekend?

I know you liked the food, because every time your mom had a meal, you started kicking like you were in a Russian musical. No, I don’t know what that simile is supposed to mean, but man, you were knocking about in your mother’s belly like Keith Moon at the Isle of Wight. I know what that one means, and I can even show you once you’re born (even thought you rmom has already ruled out drum sets for any reason and at any time).

Anyway, we went to visit your Cousins Up North™ because their parents said we could use all of their furniture and use it as our own. It’s not that we don’t care about you enough to buy you your own crib and changing table and all that jazz, but I will say we did this because we are cheap. And the fact that there are business chains built up around buying stuff your really don’t need for your baby are far too many. Besides, how will you know the difference between what’s old and what’s new when you don’t even know who Keith Moon is? A crib is a crib, a changing table is a changing table, and you’re going to love it. And if you don’t love it, just keep in mind that I said (and your uncle (and your grandpa) agree(s)): “A bathroom sink is a perfectly fine place to change a diaper. So’s a car hood.”

We were a little worried that we should make a road trip that long (7 hours) this late in your mom’s pregnancy (7 months), but the two of you did just fine. You probably liked all those bathroom breaks and the frequent snacks we had at various eateries. I personally enjoyed th Gigantic Bacon Cheeseburger, and I hope you liked your own cheeseburger and mint shake.

The moment we met up with your cousins, though was the first time your mother and I have been truly afraid of bringing you into this world. Yes, we’ll admit it, we’re selfish, and we’re afraid that you’ll eventually turn into the types of people your cousins are: fit-throwing, hair-pulling, belly-punching, mommyanddaddy-nagging, smiling and cutesy-ing little cherubs.

They’re normal kids!

And that’s what freak us out!

They’re not bad kids by any means, and their parents do an absolutely wonderful job of parenting (trust me on this, little dude, they do a great job with their children; be prepared to hear the following phrases from me in the future: “I can’t understand what you’re trying to tell me when you’re screaming,” “Do you want to come in and take a nap in five minutes, or do you want to play for ten minutes and then take a nap?” “You can have your dessert when you eat one more bite of dinner,” “you can eat your dessert when you have one more bite of dinner,” “If you don’t eat your dinner you can only have half as much dessert as your sister gets,” “Get in the car right now,” “If I sing you a song can you go to bed like a big girl?” “I don’t understand what you’re saying. Can you say it slower?” “Wow! Look at your room! It looks wonderful! Who showed you how to clean it up so nicely?”), but man.

I’d been dreading this trip, little dude, because I am a little selfish. We took the trip in the middle of my spring break (I teach kids who are thirteen years older than you, and who act much like your Cousins Up North™), and I’d already spent the first half of my vacation cleaning up your room and painting it. I was worried that the trip would take away form some of my precious “me time.”

Now I realize this trip was, by far, the best thing we could have possibly done. Normally your mom and I skip out into the mountains and spend a few days by a lake talking, drinking coffee, going on hikes and drinking coffee. We may not be able to do that right now, but we did what we could, and I think we made a wise choice. The lakes, the food, and the hikes we know by heart will soon be a major part of your life, but this time around we spent some time with our future. With you. Whether you know it or not.