Freebirth Kind of Weirds Me Out

The front page of today's Washington post has a large feature story called "Do-It-Yourself Delivery." The story details the experiences of a few women who advocate "freebirth," which is to say, having a baby at home, largely unattended by any licensed medical professional.

My knee-jerk reaction to the story, after realizing that as the father, *I'd* be responsible for cleaning up the mess, was outright dismissal of these women. I lumped them in with the Diaper Free Baby people in the corner of my mind.

But after reading the article, and following the subsequent chat on the Washington Post's Web site, I can't sit here and continue to condemn these people. That isn't to say that I agree with them or that I their ideas intrigue me and I'd like to subscribe to their newsletter. It's just to say that I don't think I can throw up a couple thousand words decrying them.

One of the central beliefs of freebirth advocates is that childbirth is a natural process and does not need the intervention of doctors, medicines, or technology. Given that children were born naturally for thousands of years before the first OB/GYN shop opened up in Babylon, there's a nugget of truth in that. This natural process argument loses me when support by phrases like "brings us closer as a family." I don't particularly believe that.

Freebirth advocates also point to the large amounts of research and planning that go into a natural home delivery. They say that women (and men) who are preparing for a freebirth are more knowledgeable than many other expectant couples. To which I reply, "duh."

Like I said above, I can't out-and-out condemn freebirth advocates, particularly when the medical community has such disparate opinions relating to things like vaginal vs. C-section delivery. But there is no way I would want my child to be born this way. There are going to be risks associated with childbirth until the end of time. Having a baby born in a hospital has its own set of risks from human error to mechanical failure. But 10 times out of 10 (though I'm really shooting for just two times out of two), I'd want my wife - and child - in that hospital bed.

UPDATE: The two women participating in the freebirth discussion on the Washington Post's' Web site did not answer my question. So, if you are a freebirth advocate, I really want to know the following:
1. Are there any special sheets or linens used in freebirth?
2. Do you throw the linens and sheets away or do you wash and reuse them?
3. Who cleans up the birth area?
4. What becomes of the placenta?

We Gots Mad Skillz

Ok, now I am ready to have a baby.

All the worry, the unknowns, the fear, it's all gone. Bring on baby.

Why am I so confident? The wife and I took a little class called "Babycare Skills" last night. And we did well.

Because for all the reading we've done, all the videos we've watched, all the stress we've had, all the advice we've been given, all it takes is a three-hour class right?

Maybe not.

But, if the time ever comes where I need to give a fake bath to a plastic doll, I'm your man (laugh all you want, I'm having a daughter, so those plastic doll washing skills might come in handy).

The Babycare Skills class did pass on some very helpful advice and also served as a reminder that we have many more things left to buy in order to have a healthy baby (like baby nail clippers or a hair brush).

What did make us more confident in becoming capable parents were some of the other "students" in the class. Of the eight couples (plus the lone pregnant woman there alone), at least three could be considered, in my wife's words "fucktards." Sometimes it's the questionable competency of others that makes you feel a bit better.

It's hard to quantify how these people displayed their fucktardation and it's hard to knock a first-time expectant parent for asking too many questions. But somewhere in the first hour, it became obvious that these are the type of people that twisted their teacher's arms to give them a word count for their research reports, because "long enough to prove your point" doesn't resonate with them.

Oh, and one more thing. All those years of eating Chipotle (and its far superior competitor in the Washington DC area) paid off: I can swaddle like a champion.

Giving Birth: The Playlist

What do you get when you cross the iPod generation and the maternity ward? Yeah, that' right - the Giving Birth Playlist. When I joked to my wife that we should have three - one for labor, one for delivery, one for recovery, I think she actually meant that I'll be doing that.

Fortunately, my wife and I met in college, well past our mix tape primes. And, while we did exchange a special tape or CD once or twice, she was spared the classic mix tapes I made as a child - typically four Bon Jovi songs followed by six INXS songs, all chronological from the same album. I am not the mix tape master.

But, since listening to music beast sitting in silence, constantly asking "How are you doing?" I figured I'd do a bit of research.

Many people are willing to share their mixes with you, but something about them seems off. To each their own, I suppose, but other people's mixes seem geared toward creating a relaxing atmosphere or sentimental romance. There's nothing specific to the moment. That's what I've been working on. Songs I'd put on my playlist are below.

For The Drive To The Hospital
"Theme" - Benny Hill: Seems approrpriate for the drive and arrival

Early Stages of Labor
"Having a Baby" - Barenaked Ladies: I don't like the band, but I respect them. I've never heard this song, but the lyrics intrigue me.

"You're Having My Baby" - Paul Anka and Odia Coates: Quite appropriate.

"Breathe" - Pink Floyd: Lots of songs with this title, but this is the one I know best.

"Gracie" - Ben Folds: Pretty song he wrote for his daughter; Composer of our wedding dance song.

Active Labor & Delivery
"Breathe" - Prodigy: Things are a little more intense now.

"Push It" - Salt N Pepa/Garbage: Two songs, two artists my wife loves, good message.

"Eye of the Tiger" - Survivor/"Gonan Fly Now (Theme)" - Rocky: For that extra motivation.

"Got Your Money" - Ol' Dirty Bastard: About two weeks ago, my wife was blasting this song when she stops, turns to me and says, "This isn't really appropriate for a mother, is it?" Enjoy it one last time.

Baby Time!
"Three is the Magic Number - Schoolhouse Rock/Blind Melon version: Oh yeah it is.

"Sweet Child O' Mine" - Guns N Roses: It's only creepy if you think about it being written for a girlfirend, not a baby.

"Baby, Baby" - Amy Grant: Yeah, you read that right. My baby, my playlist, my music.

Becoming A Parent

Last night, we became parents. Not in a literal sense, so save your cards and gifts. Our baby is still inside my wife, still growing and enjoying herself for the next few weeks. She is, by all accounts, healthy and happy. Though for a few hours last night, we weren't sure.

The facts of last night are simple. My wife realizes she hasn't felt our baby move or kick in an unusually long period of time. We call the doctor, who recommends a hospital visit. We drop everything and sprint to the hospital. After a few anxious moments, mommy and baby are monitored, both heartbeats are strong, and both are fine. A few hours later, we leave and go home.

If only it were as simple as the facts.

I cannot recall a time that I felt as scared and helpless as I did for those few brief minutes between home and the hospital. The clock told me it was about 20 minutes, but it felt like ten times that.

As a future father, you're given shreds of responsibility while your wife is pregnant. As she progresses, you (hopefully) take on more than you have, whether it be cooking, cleaning, assorted chores, or just making sure she has enough water, juice, or space to stretch out. You can fool yourself into thinking that obtaining and constructing furniture gives you a good feeling of being "the provider." But now I think that none of that is really being a parent. It's merely a foundation.

Becoming a parent happens on an emotional level. It happens when everything else in the world ceases to exist or matter except for the child in your care. It happens when all modesty is thrown out the window. It happens when you are overcome with a range of emotions - concern, fear, anxiety, relief, happiness - that hit you with a force you have never felt before. It happens not when you realize that you have to care for someone who cannot care for herself-- it happens when you begin to care for someone who cannot care for herself.

I imagine if you are a parent reading this, you are smiling and nodding your head - even laughing at my breakthrough "discovery." My wife even remarked last night that we went through a parental rite of passage last night - the prenatal scare.

This blog was founded on my musings of becoming a father and for all the thinking, hypothesizing, and typing I've done on the subject, there was no time to ponder last night. Yes, I think my wife and I became parents last night by shear reflex.

All the preparation in the world can go out the window sometimes. I think being a parent has a lot to do with what happens after it does.

All Scrunchy & Chipmunkey

Well, that didn't take long. I have already missed a significant event in my daughter's life. Here's hoping that trend ends prenatally.

At my wife's most recent doctor's visit, the technician flipped that switch on the ultrasound machine. My wife was treated to a thirty-minute show of our daughter happily snuggled in the womb, winking, sticking her tongue out and being a general cutie pie. I, of course, felt I couldn't miss any work that day; gotta be a provider, you know. So my wife got to see our daughter's chipmunk cheeks, funny nose, and hairy head, while I sat in my office, virtually alone, waiting for my co-workers to arrive. They never would have known if I was not there.

Two of the photos are below, I hope this doesn't ruin any surprises when she is actually born.

Graduating from Baby University

Yesterday was quite possibly the perfect summer day. The temperature was in the low-80s, the sun was shining, the air smelled like green leaves and uncut grass. What better way to spend it than staying inside for a 9-hour class on childbirth? That's how we spent our day. And here's how it went...

8:20 am: A last-minute check of the registration e-mail reveals we should bring two pillows and a blanket to the class. Until this minute, I had no idea. An optimist would praise the good fortune of double-checking that e-mail. A pessimist would ask how I could screw up something so simple what else I read and have ignored in preparation of having a child.

9:00: Class begins at our anticipated delivery hospital. Instructor has 18-years of experience delivering babies. She has also been awake since 3:00 pm of the previous day and spent the night delivering three babies. There will be no yawning during class.

9:05: Among the warning signs that we should report to our doctor: pre-term labor. Good call.

9:12: There is a videotape of Bill Cosby's "Himself" sitting on a nearby television stand. That bodes well.

9:15: Here is our birth plan, feel free to modify it for your own purposes:
1. Go Into Labor
2. Go To Hospital
3. Deliver Baby

9:22 Introductions! "Hi, my name is Eric, I am a first-time father, and I have not yet built the crib."

9:24: There are eight couples here, expected to deliver between four and eight weeks from now. Four are having girls, two are having boys, and two couples must have very boring color schemes in their nursery.

9:27: I did not pay money and get up this early for a PowerPoint presentation. Though it looks like I have no choice.

9:40: "Having a baby is about pooping. And peeing. You will poop, and the nurses will say 'good job!' The muscles you use to poop are the same you use to push. Think of pushing like you have been constipated for nine months." Ok, awesome analogy and quite vivid. Maybe equating giving birth to taking a dump is a ploy to get the men more attuned. But what does that exactly make my daughter?

9:50 As my wife slips out to go to the bathroom, we have a scientific discussion of the perineum and doing Kegel exercises to strengthen the muscles. I perform a group Kegel stretch with 16 strangers. It is the kinkiest thing I have ever done.

10:00 Was informed that the placenta has "gooey stuff" attached to it.

10:05: Five minute break. Eight women go to the bathroom eleven times.

10:10: Yes! Bill Cosby's "Himself"

Do you think that we'll get to watch the dentist bit after lunch?

10:40: For all the scientific knowledge we have about childbirth, we have identified the substance that triggers women into labor. We have yet to identified what triggers this substance to be released into the body. Instructor calls this a miracle, I find it fascinating.

10:50: If baby wasn't active in utero back in the day, "vibra-electric stimulation" was used to jolt baby. Public discussion of vibra-electric stimulation takes top spot from group Kegel on kink list!

11:00: Six of eight women will be requesting an epidural. The other two will "wait and see." Instructor is clearly displeased. Natus, Roman god of newborns is awakened from slumber.

11:15: There are four stages of labor: 1. Dilation 2. Delivery of Baby 3. Delivery of Placenta 4. Recovery (up six weeks). I don't know how they decided those were the four stages. 1 & 2 seem the most important, but 3 & 4 remind me of when I put "wake up" and "eat lunch" on my to-do lists.

11:40: You can gauge the strength of contractions by feeling a woman's belly. To tell the difference in severity, compare to pressing against your nose, chin, then forehead. That's how I've been measuring whether a steak is done for years.

11:41: Use the "5-1-1" rule when measuring contractions. Record the duration of each contraction and the frequency of the contractions. When the contractions are 3-5 minutes apart, call the doctor and be at the hospital post haste. (this entry added as a public service to anyone reading a random blog, wondering whether they are in labor).

12:00 - 12:45: Hospital tour! Women holding very tiny babies! Labor room is nicer than my college apartment. Definitely more sterile. Many gadgets, gauges, straps, and clips. Spotlights from the ceiling! Smile, you are on vagina-cam! Recovery rooms can be private or semi-private. Jockeying for private rooms turns newfound friends into bitter rivals.

12:45-1:45: Lunch. Hospital food is everything it is advertised to be. I'll pack a lunch.

1:55: My wife takes an average of 12 breaths during a given 45-second period. I need to know this for some reason, but not sure why.

2:10: Our instructor. I really like her as an instructor. She doesn't mince words, she has experience and is very responsive and informed with answers to all types of questions. But here's the thing. She is clearly a non-native English speaker. Brand names and newer drug names or procedures, she has no problem pronouncing, but some terms, she must have learned to say one way and never changed. This is why she pronounces uterus as "oo-ter-ohs" and puts an extra syllable in dilation (di-la-tay-tion). It doesn't ruin her credibility, but it's distracting. Of course, she has delivered 1,000 babies, and I have not.

2:15: Suggested remedies for back labor include the mother changing positions and getting on all fours. Behold, the cycle of life.

2:20: That time period when the baby actually descends the birth canal and takes its first breath is called "transition." As a man who writes and spins words for a living, I applaud whoever named that.

2:21: "Your wife will likely not want to be touched during transition." Noted.

2:30: Giving birth is full of choices - epidural or natural? doula or husband? Apparently, "Would you like to hold this mirror so you can see the baby crowning?" is on that list.

2:40: Any feelings I had about my instructor's command of the English language disappear when she uses "anal" instead of careful or meticulous. Repeatedly.

2:45: There are five primary vital signs measured at one minute of life and again at five minutes. Each sign is valued and a perfect vital sign measurement is ten. In 18 years, my instructor has only seen three perfect tens. Maybe self-consciousness of ones body doesn't begin with Teen Cosmo.

2:46 - 5:30: Our instructor, now awake for more than 24 straight hours, goes into detail on each variable of pregnancy, from induction to foreceps, from the epidural to the C-section. Everyone listens intently. I even asked a question about the effect the body's (or baby's) rejection of Cervidil has on the introduction of Petocin the following morning when inducing pregnancy. Look at the big brain on me! (Answer: not much).

5:30: "Applying pressure to specific portions of the foot can cause premature labor." The stunned silence you hear are eight women realizing that perk of pregnancy is gone.

5:35: The women are escorted out of the room, the men are left inside. I think this is when we watch "Our Bodies, Ourselves."

5:36: Nope, instead, we get a little gentlemanly pep talk and are told to be strong during the birthing process (translation: you can guess, but no one knows how your wife will react during labor. If she starts to clutch your testicles and curse your existence, don't take it personally).

5:37: We are going to "simulate" the pains of labor by pinching our wives with oversized clothespins in different body parts while she focuses on relaxing and breathing for sixty seconds. This will not end well.

5:38: Instructor goes outside to speak with women, gone no less than two minutes, the eight men left alone say absolutely nothing to each other.

5:40 - 6:00: I pinch my wife's shoulder, forearm and upper arm, apologizing the entire time. There aren't enough sorry's in the world to make up for what she'll be going through on August 20.

6:01: Since I never bothered to pick up my undergraduate diploma, this certificate of completion is pinnacle of my academic existence. I plan on framing it and putting it in the nursery.

The class was long and the subject matter was foreign and frightening, but we are now certified in the ability to give birth - so watch out world, here comes baby!

So, What is Your Stance on Rectal Thermometers?

I have a big interview today. Not with a reporter or employer, but with a doctor. Actually, with a stable of doctors. We're in the market for a pediatrician, and I'll be attending a new-parent orientation at a practice nearby tonight.

I've never given much thought to my own medical care. Since being responsible for my own health and health insurance, I don't think I've ever gone to the same doctor twice. Between moving and moving jobs, I found myself picking a doctor, going for a physical, and never returning. But now I'm looking for some consistency.

Rarely did I conduct any sort of research to find a doctor. Location was key - the office has to be close to my home or office - but far enough away to justify leaving work early without having to come back. God bless the 3:30 pm doctor's appointment. Sometimes, when I felt frisky, I'd use the different searchable categories provided by my insurer to narrow down the doctor search. For a while, it was very important that my doctor be fluent in Portuguese. Fere quando eu faço este, Doc!

So I've get to interview pediatricians tonight, and I get to do it alone. My Lovely Wife has been taking enough time off work to visit doctors, so this time, it is my turn. Now, I'm looking forward to this, surely I'll be the hero of the neo-maternal set, the dashing expectant father, looking out for his family. But, honestly, this is a recipe for disaster. Where my wife would have the brains to ask about afterhours services, immunizations, and insurance information, my primary concern is whether they have Dum-Dum lollipops or the flat kind that my bank has. (Really, is there any better feeling than getting the Dum-Dum with the question mark wrapper and absolutely nailing the flavor? "The mystery flavor is...cream soda.")

I'm scribbling down some intelligent questions today, mainly dealing with afterhours services, immunizations, and insurance information. My fallback question will be "Yes, how many times do we get to call and ask "Why is my baby crying? What am I doing wrong? Is there something wrong with my baby?" before we are transferred to another practice?

These Things We Believe

I’m looking forward to using my child as a guinea pig. I plan on conducting a few simple, yet highly informative, studies over the next few years: serving vegetables as “dessert”, teaching my daughter that a fork is called “spoon,” that sort of stuff. I’m curious to see what happens.

No matter the result of my weird science, there are a few things that my child is just going to have to accept. These are longstanding beliefs shared by me and my wife. These are the tenants on which on our relationship is based, the foundation of our life as a family. My daughter will have no choice but to accept:

• Sunday nights are sacred, reserved for a nice dinner, “America’s Funniest Home Videos” and no mention of rising early for work.
• Tim Daly and Stephen Weber are two of the nation’s foremost actors and every show in which they appear must be watched. Except for “Wings,” which is crap.
• Creamy peanut butter, never chunky
• Toilet paper is hung to be dispensed from over the top, not from under
• The designated hitter rule is a pox on the great game of baseball
• Cold is better than hot
• Never buy pad thai from a street vendor in the suburbs
• Large birds (ostriches, swans, etc.) may look silly, but they will mess you up
• The only good cream cheese comes in bar form, not in a tub (NOTE: this is up for dispute in the household, though I am sure my daughter, as with any sane and rational human, will agree)
• The Fourth of July is meant to be spent indoors
• Christmas is meant to be spent playing cards and drinking
• Napping is an acceptable hobby

There are more, to be sure, but let’s not overwhelm the child from day one. If I miss any that are egregious, I’ll update accordingly.

August 20: This Day in Music

This is an awesome Web site.

In fact, it's the awesomeist Web site I have seen today.

Too lazy to click the link? It's a database of what song was number one on any given day of any given year. Now, my birthday has some pretty choice cuts attached to it ("A licky boom boom down," anyone?). But continuing my obsession with all things August 20, I have to admit, that date is a pretty good one, musically. We are talking all-time classics here:

1929 ... "Singin' in the Rain" by Cliff Edwards
1949 ... "Some Enchanted Evening" by Perry Como
1956 ... "Hound Dog/ Don't Be Cruel" by Elvis Presley
1955 ... "Rock Around the Clock" by Bill Haley & His Comets
1964 ... "Where Did Our Love Go" by The Supremes
1996 ... "Macarena [Bayside Boys Mix]" by Los Del Rio

Those are some of the best songs ever written, produced and performed! And how about these two, back-to-back ballads that pretty much defined any Bar Mitzvah or eight-grade mixer in the early 1990's?

1992 ... "End of the Road" by Boyz II Men
1991 ... "(Everything I Do) I Do It for You" by Bryan Adams

Just reading those titles makes me want to stand arms-length away from an twelve-year old girl with braces and just sway back and forth.

It's too hard to feature just one or two songs from the 1980's, when you are dealing with a list this comprehensive. All of the following topped the charts on August 20:

1989 ... "Right Here Waiting" by Richard Marx
1988 ... "Roll with It" by Steve Winwood
1987 ... "Who's That Girl" by Madonna
1986 ... "Papa, Don't Preach" by Madonna
1985 ... "The Power of Love" by Huey Lewis & the News
1984 ... "Ghostbusters" by Ray Parker, Jr.
1983 ... "Every Breath You Take" by The Police
1982 ... "Eye of the Tiger" by Survivor
1981 ... "Endless Love" by Diana Ross & Lionel Richie
1980 ... "Magic" by Olivia Newton-John

When a song tops the charts on August 20, that song has staying power. That song is either featured in a blockbuster summer movie or is a timeless classic by a transcendent artist or that song is in the final throes of being known as the summer's hot song (see 2006's "London Bridge" by Fergie).

But sometimes, beyond the movie soundracks or classic songs by well-known artists, something else slips in. Something that is just so...appropriate...

1974 ... "(You're) Having My Baby" by Paul Anka with Odia Coates

You Got My Back?

What is the true sign of adulthood? Is it the decision to settle down and marry, sharing your life and all the good and bad that is to come with another person? Is it the decision - whether conscious or not - to conceive, gestate, and raise another human being? Or is it something else entirely. Something that happens to nearly every person at some point in their life. It may happen earlier for some but later for others. It happened to my father nearly two decades ago - and to my brother just last year. Maybe it has happened to you. And if it hasn't, it probably will.

What rite of passage to adulthood am I prattling on about?

Yesterday, I hurt my back.

Sometime yesterday morning, while readying the nursery for the delivery of the crib (which remains in pieces), I wrenched my back. And, man, does it suck. The two ironies of this situation, of course, are that I can hardly pinpoint how it happened - there was no heavy lifting involved; Not to mention that I am, or at least was this week, in probably the best shape I have ever been in. And now I have a spine that goes left.

After suffering (i.e. whining like a baby) yesterday, I feel slightly better today, but still hobble around like Quasimodo on occasion. I have never looked forward to the week beginning, so I can call a chiropractor.

Walking with my wife last night, we made quite the sight - her full belly and my stunted gait, together making our bid for the Olympic synchronized lurching team.

I was prepared to write about how, physically, this brings me closer to my wife's state. I can lay and I can stand, but getting between the two is problematic. But our ranges of mobility still aren't close.

Still, despite the inconvenience and the whining, I feel like more of an adult than I did the day before. I feel like I've crossed some unspoken threshold, shedding the last fleeting notions of an immortal youth. I'm more of a man than I was yesterday. A man with a spine that takes a hard left turn just above his waist.

My Worst Nightmare

I have a recurring nightmare. I guess it's more of a recurring bad thought - because it comes and goes during the day and night. My baby is born, the delivery is a success, she is healthy, all her vitals are strong, and she's just plain ugly.


Now, I don't mean she's ugly in that "newborn/prune face/still wiping off the goop sort of way", or even in the "okay, that's clearly an unnatural growth, have you seen what advances have been made in infant plastic surgery sort of way." I mean, ugly in the "face only a mother could love because daddy is playing peek-a-boo, but never peeks, just goes boo."


Well, as bad as my worst nightmares are, I was a bit comforted to know that this child has already been born.

On a positive note, she won't be scaring too many people off when she living in a van...DOWN BY THE RIVER!

Top Ten Responses When Asked “When Is Your Wife Due?”

I get the question often, from new acquaintances and friends with bad memories, "When is your wife due?" Since it's getting harder and harder to answer the question with a straight face and my Nine Month Odyssey t-shirts haven't arrived...with a million apologies to David Letterman....

Top Ten Responses When Asked “When Is Your Wife Due?”

10. Why should I care, it’s not mine?

9. When her belly button pops, it means the baby’s done

8. I don’t know. She takes Metro every day. It starts, it stops, it bumps and jostles, and stutters…and still, no baby!

7. The vet says we should expect a litter by September. Wanna help me lay down newspaper?

6. Not much, mostly just lies there and eats popsicles. Oh, you said, "when's she due?"

5. Hopefully not until after the sumo tournament

4. She’s not pregnant

3. She’s not a library book! (actual answer, given by three-year old SteveJeltzFan, when asked when his pregnant mother was due, circa 1981).

2. Don’t know, don’t care. I just need a fresh Social Security Number. You know, for security.

And the number one response to “When Is Your Wife Due?”

1. About five minutes before the afterbirth!

I Will Be Busy August 20

Since no one likes to work the weekend if they can help it, our due date has been moved from Sunday, August 19 to Monday, August 20. Not a big change, in the grand scheme of things, though I did have to figure out how to re-jigger the countdown clock to the right.

On one hand, my wife being induced means we'll miss out on any "Oh, this is it!" moment, but those stories usually end with, "So, I don't think we'll be allowed back in that restaurant any time soon." I can live with that.

At my wife's last doctor's appointment, she was given a seven-day window to select the date she'll be induced. Which then gave us an entire evening to discuss the minutae of our lives and how they relate to what date to have our child. It is a conversation few other couples have to have and it leads to things that are rarely uttered in when discussing the birth of a child:

• "Well, I have baseball tickets on the 16th, so if we could do it after that, I'd appreciate it."
• "If we do Friday, we won't be sitting around all weekend, waiting for it to happen, without any work to distract us."
• "Isaac Hayes and Robert Plant were born that day, so that's gotta be worth something.
• "With "The Sopranos" off the air, we won't be doing anything on Sunday night anyway

One of the hallmarks of my generation is that we try to control too much - we try to plan more than we should, as my mother-in-law puts it, "You make plans and God laughs." That may have been the case when creating this baby, but when it comes to delivering her, it will happen on my schedule. I mean, I already marked it on my calendar. Besides, this is the surest way to prevent a birth on the side of the road.

A Bad Precedent

Tiger Woods is in my town today. And if not today, then by tonight, he will. The first AT&T National golf tournament, to benefit Tiger's foundation, is being held in Bethesda, Maryland through July 7. All the golfniks in town are in a tizzy and Tiger's been on the front page of the sports section from the last few days.

Now, I want to phrase this next point correctly, without room for misinterpretation or room for error: Tiger Woods may be a gigantic ass who has set a dangerous precedent in his marriage and as a father. Yeah, that came out right.

Listen, I'm as judgmental as the next guy. I cast stones, I do. I, admittedly, am reacting viciously to media reports and television updates. But this is what I have learned in the past 24 hours.

Tiger's wife, Elin, was admitted to the hospital on the eve of the U.S. Open golf tournament. Tiger participated in said golf tournament while his wife was in the hospital with "non-life threatening" conditions. Tiger finished second in the U.S. Open, working four consecutive days while his wife was in the hospital experiencing complications preceding the birth of their first child. Tiger arrived at the hospital in time to witness his daughter's birth by C-section at 1:30 in the morning on Monday.

Let's cut out the chaff and bullshit of the previous paragraph. Tiger Woods' eight-month pregnant wife is admitted to the hospital on a Wednesday. Thursday morning, Tiger goes to work 1,500 miles away, spending four days away from his wife. Tiger shows up on Sunday night and his wife has a C-section.

You could call that good timing, I call it a bad precedent.

Tiger, if there is one thing that I have learned over the past seven months, is it that your priorities are no longer what they were. And never will be again. Think of your wife and daughter as "heatseekers" on the Billboard chart of your like. Coming out of nowhere, these two have vaulted over chart mainstays like Cadillac and AT&T to the number one and two positions where they will remain. Forever.

I do not doubt that Tiger and Elin had many conversations about his participation in the U.S. Open. I am sure that all factors were considered - from sponsorship obligations to media perception. And, according to this article, Elin encouraged Tiger to "go get a 'W'" and she could wait to deliver. But Tiger, guess what? She didn't mean it. And you should know better.

No doubt the doctors told Tiger and Elin that she was in no imminent danger and that she could wait four or five days before a C-section was necessary. But this isn't like the weekend before a wedding. You can't go out and play golf for four days while your wife is laid up in the hospital, eight months pregnant.

Tiger Woods has more money than Richie Rich, controls his media like he lives in Soviet Russia, and commands more attention than the drunk sorority girl who "forgets" to put underwear on before her formal. And now, he is completely owned by his wife. Elin has this on you now, Tiger, and she will likely never let you forget it.

Over time, as little Sam grows older, the story will mutate. Sure, it will start with "daddy went to work while mommy was in the hospital," but that will soon change. Eventually, daddy will have sent mommy in a cab to the hospital, while daddy flew to Oakmont via Vegas, drinking and carousing before blowing his shot to win a major tournament on the inspiration of his daughter.

The Tiger Woods Foundation does tremendous work. The man and his charitable organization are responsible for some admirable philanthropic efforts across the country. But charity, as they say, begins at home. And Tiger has set a bad precedent. Control access and the media all you want, Mr. Woods, but this is going to be hard to spin in your favor.

On The Company Dime

Back from vacation, but only posting on the weekends? Something ain't right about that.

Seems I've started to play a round of, "Where's Daddy?" before my daughter even arrives. Truth is, I started a new job last week and it's kept me fairly busy, which is more than I can say for my last gig.

Also, something tells me I should wait until my first week is over before posting on this blog from work. Though I just did now, so there goes that vow.

Regardless, stick around, we'll be right back. After all, tomorrow is a holiday.

DIY, Please Don't Die

It was a beautiful day here in suburban Washington, D.C. The high, humid temperatures broke yesterday and today was mostly sunny and in the mid-80's.

Combined, my wife and I spent thirty minutes outside of our house.

Rather than take advantage of one of our final few weekends as a couple, we undertook a few things that we've been neglecting for a while: a wholesale clean of our home and setting up the nursery.

We did quite a number on the nursery, opening nearly all the gifts, de-tagging the tiny clothes, readying them for the wash, laughing at the books we'll have memorized in a few months and me...I built some things.

I am not a handyman. I'm not even a handy man. But it seems that all the baby furniture and accessories we bought (and are available) are DIY assembly. Talk about pressure to perform.

Beyond the fact that my future daughter's life is hanging in the balance of my craftsmanship on various swings and chairs, but the manufacturers do not make it any easier. Each book of instructions comes in about seven languages, with each step repeated in each language. Fortunately, each step comes illustrated. On a related note, it's great to see that M.C. Escher is getting work these days.

After only a few missteps and wrong turns, I was able to get the most intricate piece of furniture built. It's a swing, and a mobile, and a musicmaker, and a floor wax, and a dessert topping. After all the time I put into figuring out what goes where, reversing course and deciding what was supposed to go elsewhere, I'm hoping that my daughter will enjoy it for more than five minutes. Although, given that I built it, I'm just hoping that it lasts five minutes.