Crafting the List

Having a baby and getting married are pretty similar events in life. Both represent significant changes in your life and the life of your spouse. Both involve a good amount of the husband attempting to stay ‘out of the crossfire’. Both involve the woman wearing a silly gown at the end. And in both occasions, you pretty much get bought most of what you need to get started (and a good amount you probably don’t need).

It’s that last bit I want to focus on. Both occasions mean lots of free stuff, which is awesome, to be sure. Not only are people pretty expected to ‘shower’ you with gifts, you even get to go out and pretty much tell them exactly what you want, via a great concept known as ‘registering.’ The big difference between registering for both occasions is that, with marriage, you wander wide-eyed and giddy with excitement around Bed Bath and Beyond, zapping your little light gun at anything that tickles your fancy, no matter how outrageous or useless the item may be. Chocolate fondue fountain? BOOP. 5 different crock pots? BOOP. Twelve gauge salad shooter? BOOP.

But baby shopping is a little different. It’s not this drunken zapfest of electric knives you’ll never use or coffee grinders that will gather dust propping up untouched OxiClean boxes under your sink. No sir, baby shopping is about getting what you NEED. You walk into Babies r’ Us with a list, or several lists, or in-laws with lists, and have to zap things you probably never thought you’d ever actually own. Not only that, but some of these things you add to your list don’t exactly conjure up the same good times you expected when you registered for that margarita maker just before your wedding.

I mean seriously, there have been many an occasion during this process that I have encountered products that seem ludicrous but are apparently indispensable. An aspirator? Yeah, it’s essentially a turkey baster you use to suck snot out of your kid’s nose. BOOP. A Diaper Genie? A sealed bucket to put used diapers in after excessive ‘soiling.’ Seriously, ewww. BOOP. (Besides, cant’t we just use that 10 quart Crockpot that’s rotting in the garage we got for our wedding? We could plug it in to kill the bacteria and what not? Why are you looking at me like that?) An electrically powered breast pump? That costs HOW much? The old wet-dry vac wont work? BOOP.

What the hell is a PeePee TeePee? Never mind, I don’t even want to know. BOOP.

This is all speculation of course – we haven’t actually begun the process of registering, just the process of figuring out the process of registering, which consists of not only “what” to register for, but “where” to register. Babies R’ Us is a given – frankly there just aren’t many baby supply super outlets. Probably some online places, like maybe Baby Center or Amazon. Also Pascale’s Liquor Square (that’s less for baby and more for Daddy.)

We’ve also now have started compiling a list – mostly of the indispensable objects necessary to remove the various goos emanating from our child, but also all the accoutrements necessary to keep them content and ideally sleeping rather than endlessly screaming, and ruining whatever free time I might have to play the Nintendo Wii. I’m also sneaking a few “extra” items on the list – things that will help me cope with the rigors of fatherhood. Like earplugs for example…

A Twinge of Concern

I think as time has marched inevitably forward this whole concept of ‘children’ has started to burrow its way slowly into my brain, finding a small niche presently between the rather large ‘sarcasm’ lobe and the equally sizable ‘Jack and Coke Absorption Center’. It certainly never held such a premier spot in my mind before – from what I can recall, as I was growing up, I was reasonably sure that having children required passing some sort of test, obtaining a government license, and perhaps several years of intensive training, possibly involving British nannies in some way. So I just assumed that when I showed up at the designated government office, they would take one look at me, whip out a large, red, “Not Permissible to Procreate” stamp and I’d be on my way, off to buy moon pies and pennywhistles and frolic in the park, carefree in the knowledge that the world would not be subjected to close copies of this ‘masterpiece.’

Apparently, this is not how it works. And the idea is starting to hit me that I have, indeed, set in motion events that will lead to a small replica containing, presumably, at least half of who I am. Not that that’s necessarily a bad thing (for me at least – the world may someday differ), although I have some concerns because it appears that for the first few years, at least, he/she will be unable to talk in coherent sentences, nor control his/her bladder and bowels in any sort of way. This is somewhat upsetting, because when I was a baby I distinctly remember having lengthy discussions with those around me, most notably about the Iran hostage crisis that was going on at the time. I also recall being potty trained inside the womb. So I will expect nothing less of my own child. But I digress – the disappointment I will feel if my kid doesn’t slide out of the womb and ask for a Newsweek before troddling off to the restroom is not really the issue here.

You see, I think the concept that frightens me the most is knowing that how I interact with him/her may have long reaching affects on the way that they live their entire life. Will my son or daughter share my interests, simply because they watch and emulate me? Will they respond to their kindergarten teacher with the same dripping sarcasm I afford everyone I meet? What if they inherit my fondness for Pop Tarts and french fries? My disdain for making and receiving phone calls? My strong dislike for sloppy joes? What if they develop some uncommon desire to endlessly watch episodes of Family Guy and the Simpsons and recount scenes from them to their coworkers despite the eyerolling and clear disinterest? My love of whiskey to ‘make the demons go away’? And what if they pick up my bad qualities?

Beyond the inheritance of my mannerisms, I’m also afraid of the opposite possibility – what if our interests clash? Will they like Star Wars better than Star Trek? I don’t think I can stomach my kid traipsing around dressed like Chewbacca, asking inane questions like ‘Who’s Captain Kirk?’ And oh god, what if he/she ends up a huge NBA fan, or even (horrors) a hockey fan!? Does that mean I have to sit through mindless hockey games straining my eyes to find the puck amidst the freezing cold rink and the rowdy, drunk Canadians just to placate my kid? I mean, I suppose I have to support them and their interests, but it’s going to be rough if the kid ends up liking Norwegian Opera. I may have to draw the line somewhere.

I mean, this influence isn’t all bad. I’ve definitely thought about using this “power of suggestion” in our favor – I’ve long thought that, when we put our children down to sleep (and how come you put a dog down to sleep you kill it, but with a baby you are really just putting it down to sleep?) that we should play the song “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” – over and over, every time they sleep. Then, when they enter what I’m told is called the “Terrible Twos,” and throw temper tantrums in the store because they want this or that, I’ll turn to them and say, “you know, you can’t always get what you want.” And with that, they will simply keel over asleep on the floor. I’m telling you, it could work. But everyone accuses me of “playing God” and “messing with my child’s mind,” and “breaking the laws of nature and good conscience.” I’m just trying to make my life a little easier at the expense of my child – is there anything really wrong with that?

In the end, I guess time will tell how everything works out. Everyone tells me I’ll be a great father, but in the deep recesses of my mind, there’s a little voice that keeps repeating “it’d be funny to implant wrong insignificant facts that may one day lose them money on a gameshow.” So if you are watching Millionaire someday in the future, and the poor guy/gal on the TV asserts that the philosopher Kirkegaard was Dutch (he was Danish), the Reuben sandwich was invented by my boss (it wasn’t) or that the original spelling of the country was Frantz until after the last German invasion, it’s probably a safe bet that’s my progeny. I’ll be the old guy in the audience, chuckling to myself.

The Future?

Credit(?) to Chris K

It’s a… collection of random body parts?

Last week, we once again geared up for another ‘baby appointment’ – but this was to be of the ‘non-standard’ variety. Rather than the posh Long Island apartment of ‘the Nanny’, we would be subject to the soft-lit environs of the ultra-sound room at a specialist near the University. It was time for the momentous and much desired ’19th week ultrasound’ where we would find out the answer to the question that has plagued us all along – human baby or feline kitty?

It was a new and different location, so we left ourselves plenty of time, and rolled into the office at 7:45 for an 8 am apt. Not surprisingly, we were the only patients there for awhile, until another clearly pregnant younger woman strolled in and gave us a look as if to say ‘ha – you call THAT a bump?’. I briefly considered ‘taking it outside’ but I’m pretty sure I couldn’t have taken her – ‘mother lion defending her cubs’ and what not. Regardless, in short order we were called into the back and followed the technician to the exam room.

Now, we had been told that this sonographer was ‘the best’, but since she happened to work in our doctor’s husband’s practice, I had my doubts. But she was tremendous – we were in there for 3 seconds and she had the goop on Kim’s stomach and was already pushing the wand around looking for Chi-Baba. And that’s when the troubles arose.

Nothing bad, of course. Didn’t mean to scare you. See, the issue that was immediately apparent to her (not to us – I felt like were watching a scrambled movie – you could kinda make out what was going on but it wasn’t particularly satisfying) was that our doctor had overestated the age of the baby. They had us close to 19 weeks, but the sonographer (after drawing dotted lines to measure – uh – ‘body parts’ or at least ‘amorphous fuzzy blobs’) estimated us at 17 weeks, 3 days. (which is a very specific estimate by the way). Consequently, she told us, she couldn’t make out enough that was going on in there, other than the cereal Kim had for breakfast (had no idea she swallowed fruit loops whole).

The end result is that we need to go back in a few weeks for another ultrasound, which is fine with us. Finally, after all the technical stuff, she went about trying to take some pictures for us, which i have posted below. We’re pretty sure now, unfortunately, that it’s not a kitty (much to the relief, I’m sure, of that male stray cat that hangs out around our house). And now we finally have some baby pictures we can put in our wallets and show people when they ask about the pregnancy (‘here’s it’s leg’, ‘that’s either a spine or there was a lizard under the exam table’,'that, apparently, is a very cute pose, we’re told’,etc.)

We have another appointment for a regular checkup in a few weeks, and then the ultrasound after that. I hope the kid doesn’t expect this kind of attention when it comes out…

Click on any image to view an enlarged version.  Print out each picture and play “Guess the Gender” with your family.  Or at least “Fuzzy Blob: Part of Baby or Part of Kim’s Guts?”

Baby spine or random lizard?

The Baby is’Vogueing’ – Hands in front of his face from a top down perspective.

Some picture of the baby – with a Roswell looking face that is apparently the baby’s stomach.

The ‘whole shabang’ – you can see the leg and spine.

The ‘leg extended’ I’m told.

Howdy, Stranger.

Ok, I’m back. Sorry about that. While indeed I have seemingly taken a hiatus from the blog, in reality I had been supporting the Writer’s Strike by not posting. Recently, however, I discovered that the Writer’s Guild covers, in fact, only television and movie writers, and not blog writers. I have stopped picketing my internet service provider, retracted a few nasty emails I sent to Blogger, and have once again taken up my keyboard. Enjoy.

After a seeming eternity, we finally had another baby appointment. Our last was just after our return from Las Vegas, back in November, and so we were happy to see the doc again and make sure that everything is going ok. If you’ve never had kids before, I’ll give you the heads up that, at least for your first kid, you will worry when pretty much anything odd happens. Weird pains, excessive fatigue, excessive energy, spontaneous yodeling. Honestly, I think half the reason we visit the OBGYN so often during pregnancy is to keep us sane – the reassuring “it’s fine, really”, “that’s entirely normal,” and “that particular condition only affects penguins so I doubt it’s an issue” from a qualified physician really allays fears – at least for a few days.

Anyway, the coming of the new year, in addition to bringing us yet another dubious reason for Ryan Seacrest to invade my life, found us traveling to our doctor’s new office, which was a bit further from the old office. The new digs are definitely nice – much more spacious than the older, cramped office. The only issue is that, of course, we rolled in on the first day of operations in the new office. No one was really sure what to do – we went to the main office and they gave us a sheet and told us to go to another office. The lady in that office wasn’t sure what to do with the sheet, so she told us to hang onto it and give it to the doctor. Then another lady came in, grabbed our sheet and gave it to the other lady, who then told her to give it back to us. Then a circus clown walked in with a pregnant poodle in a tutu, and everything went to hell. And to top it off, the cable wasn’t hooked up, so I couldn’t get my Regis and Kelly fix.

After a shorter wait than normal (apparently in all the confusion they forgot about the interminable wait) we were ushered in to an exam room. After a quick sprint to the bathroom for the requisite urine sample, it was Kim’s turn. After she finished giving her sample, she stopped at the scale, and then again we found ourselves waiting for Fran Drescher. In she bounded, a bundle of energy in a 5 foot frame. And for once, she spent some genuine quality time with us. Usually, we feel like she’s got the Virgin Mary in Exam 2 and she’s gotta get through us quick before she can go check in on a fetal Jesus, but this time she was chatty. She asked about the optional tests (we said no), asked how Kim was feeling (2 parts tired, 7 parts awesome, 1 part peeing), and whether we had any other questions. The only one we had was flying – the answer is apparently up until the last month, simply because after that point it’s very hard to fly the plane with an engorged stomach pressing on the wheel.

After the chat, it was down to business. The doc reached for something she called a Doppler, which is apparently OBGYN slang for “tummy microphone.” This particular Doppler, she explained, was not her “favorite” Doppler, which apparently had been misplaced in the move, or possibly loned to Channel 9 weather. In any case, she rubbed goo on Kim’s stomach and preceded to fish for our baby’s heartbeat. After a few minutes, she declared that she could hear the heartbeat, but that we could not, again due to this ‘lousy doppler’. So, much to our great delight, she ran up and down the halls in search of the portable ultrasound machine. After some searching, the device was found and wheeled into the room. She hooked it up and within moments we were feasting our eyes upon the visage of our unborn child, which, I am disappointed to say, appears not to be a kitty.

The fetus, complete with arms, legs and such, didn’t seem to be a huge fan of the ultrasound. It looked a bit like Lennox Louis, taking several jabs, two uppercuts, even a low blow at the sounds coming from “outside water world.” Either that, or he/she has been plotting his/her escape and has been slowly trying to claw its way out of Kim’s belly button. While that would probably be intensely painful for Kim, I can’t help wondering what it might look like.

Our window into the womb was all too fleeting (free ultrasounds genuinely are) and soon they were wheeling the magical device back to the Cruise’s and we were ushered out the door, back to the front desk, with our sheet of paper still in hand. The lady in the front reluctantly took it this time, figuring someone probably should. I’m pretty sure I heard her file it in the shredder. We set up our next OBGYN appointment for January 3oth, and also booked our 19 week ultrasound with a professional sonographer. Should be interesting.

All in all, it was a good visit to the doctor. And now we only have a week or two until the next appointment, when we’ll get a really good look at Chi-Baba. It should be interesting…