This Post Now Has A Title

There are six pillows in my house and currently five of them are adjacent to My Lovely Wife. The sixth lays on my side of the bed. This doesn't include the curved body pillow, who we affectionately call "Mr. Snuggle" that is currently next to the bed, should my wife need it. The last time there were this many pillows on my bed, I was making a fort.

If you are not, like me, a first-time expectant father, you may have stopped reading after the second sentence, where I claim to retain a "side of the bed." That statement may just invalidate every other thing I have written. Well, here we are, five and a half months into this pregnancy and I still have a side of the bed. I don't always sleep there.

It's no secret, either. After giving some men updates on how far along my wife is, they follow up with, "Are you sleeping on the couch yet?" The answer is, sometimes. We also have an air mattress. Where I sleep on any given night depends on several variables: how she feels, when I am coming to bed (beyond 30 minutes of her), when I have to wake up, how bad my breath is perceived to be, etc.

Tonight I placed two pillows under my wife's feet for the first time. I've marveled publicly about the physical changes a woman must withstand during gestation. Once again, I have no response or basic comprehension of how it must feel to be expecting. You would think that sleep - a time when even physical injuries can seem healed - would provide respite for an aching mother-to-be. But you'd be wrong. The closer a woman is to nine months, and the larger her belly is, the more difficult it is for her to sleep, in any position. It's already a chore to walk, to sit, to anything we take for granted, but for sleep to be elusive on top of it all, that's just cruel.

So I wisely sleep outside of our bed from time-t0-time. Tonight, I'm hoping to get a few hours of shut-eye on that Queen size pillow-top we paid so much for, but if not, that's understandable. And if i do? Well, I'll try not to steal the covers.

UPDATE No. 1 - Remember, when blogging late at night, to write your title first, otherwise, you'll just plain forget.

UPDATE No. 2 - I did not, as expected, sleep in my own bed last night. I tried to, but found my wife sleeping in a position that can only be described as "diagonal sprawl." Unable to find room for me, I retreated to the second bedroom.

Baby Clothing Is Small

We have two shirts, two "onesies" and a pair of Osh Kosh B'gosh overalls just waiting for our daughter, so she's set to be clothed for about 12 hours. If the size of this clothing is any indication we can, in a pinch, cut holes in the finger tips of old gloves and have a few new outfits, as well.


I've had some infant-handling experience before. I know that babies, as a general rule, are small. My niece was born premature and I could cradle her in the crook of my arm like a football when we first met. Gestating inside my wife's belly, my daughter is only going to go so big before it's time to meet the parents.

But still, nothing quite illustrates how tiny a newborn baby is like baby clothing. We're talking swatches of cloth here - no bigger than a dishrag. And my daughter will fit inside of that for a few months. Our last Thanksgiving turkey was larger than my newborn daughter will be - and there were just five of us at that table.


One of the joys of parenthood must be clothing a child. Somewhere in between those times it becomes a chore and after blocking out the time that spitup ruined that brand new Sunday dress, there have to be a few moments where simply putting clothes on a child is bliss. And, by bliss, of course I mean, hysterical.


Both of our baby t-shirts were gifts, and each has a sassy slogan. I've given fellow parents-to-be shirts with choice words on it in the past, and I plan to continue to do so. A cursory search turns up just a few of my favorites, which are below. If it's my turn to dress our daughter, chances are, she'll be wearing something similar. This practice, of course, will last only until her fourth birthday. From ages 4-12, she will wear simple clothing with no words. Following age 12, she will not be allowed to wear words on her clothing of any kind, particularly if those words are "juicy," "sassy," or are written across the bottom of a pair of shorts.

...And We're Back...

I was away for a few days, but not in the vacation or "getaway" sense. I was away in the blogger sense. That is, I was dealing with some other crap for a few days. Among the real life crap: battling a debilitating cold and moving. While I'm sure you want to hear about my courageous battle against a common virus, the more exciting news is that I'm typing to you from our future nursery! Which is a kind way of saying, I am surrounded by yellow. It's pushing midnight, and yet, it's still bright as day in here.

I've been thinking about moving lately, and not in the change-of-address sense. As in the, "my daughter sure does move a lot" sense. Now, I haven't yet been able to feel my daughter move yet, but My Lovely Wife sure has. Ever since Lefty was jarred awake during that traumatic plane ride, she's been reenacting scenes from Flashdance in my wife's uterus.

The closest that I may ever come to feeling something move inside of me comes about thirty minutes after I eat Taco Bell, so I can't really imagine what any pregnant woman must feel. If you've never been pregnant, or even if you have, think about how my wife must have felt when - disregarding all advice and reading material and sleeping in her usual position on her stomach instead of her side - all of a sudden, a very constrained being jabs her quickly from the inside.

My wife has slept on her side ever since. I'm glad that she does, since that is the healthy way to pass the next few months, but does it also mean my daughter is going to solve her problems by punching them? That can't be good.

Lefty also has some fairly odd sleeping habits. Apparently, every ultrasound that we have ever scheduled has come during Lefty's naptime. I'm fairly certain I saw her give us the finger after we awoke her during our last appointment. But when my wife is taking a deposition? That's when Lefty uses the placenta as a Slip N Slide. Very professional, kid.

All this internal movement, from my point of view, is very positive. There's not much to complain about a healthy active child, even one that has yet to be born. Maybe Lefty will take an interest in gymnastics, or dance, or jujitsu.

Of course, it's entirely possible that Lefty will want to sleep all day, and wake up only after nightfall to begin moving around like a spaz. But I'm hoping that will come at a natural point in childhood development: college.

What Will She Look Like?

I've got a lot of questions about my daughter. Will she be a crier? How much will she sleep? Will she be into Barbie? Does she like yellow? Most of these questions can only be learned in due time. But there are a few things that I won't have any control or input on and the one that I've been wrestling with is, "What will she look like?"

Now, I've already weighed in on who she currently resembles, but once she arrives in the oxygen-breathing world, it will be different. I think that I'm a pretty good-looking guy and I'm married to the most beautiful woman in the world, so what could go wrong? Well, if I know anything about genetics, it's that I don't know anything about genetics. But if I recall correctly from high school science class, sometimes things can add up in ways you never saw coming.

Let me step in front of the mirror and see whether my good looks will help or hinder my daughter.

• Broad Shoulders - Yes, they help distribute my weight a bit, but squeezing through crowds can get bumpy. And broad shoulders on a guy? Potential linebacker. Broad shoulders on a girl? Well, hope she can cook.
• Blue Eyes - Perhaps my finest asset. My blue eyes seem to change hue slightly depending on my mood or my attire. Put them in a girl's head, and they inspire high school emo guys to write stomach-churning metaphors like, "two gleaming sapphire pearls, nestled a'center the facial oyster." I used to pull crap like that, and my intentions were not pure. Let's hope for the brown eyes, and not anything resembling a puppy dog's.
• Legs - To say my legs were shapely would assume that "tree trunk" is a shape. They've gotten me from Point A to Point B, and served me well through years of playing catcher. On a woman, however, they'd probably look a bit out of place...or she could take up soccer.
• Hair - Yes, it is very dark. Yes, it is very straight. Yes, women who cut my hair compliment me from time to time. But it is also thick and hot. I had long hair for a while, but almost never wore it "down" for this very reason. Can't imagine that'd be comfortable on a girl.

I could go on, but it's getting a bit depressing. It's a good thing I was born a male, because it seems I'd make one awkward looking woman. I'm going to sit back and pray that my daughter takes more from her mommy than her daddy.

Girlie Baby Photos

From the expectant parents who brought you the photo essays Amorphous Blob of Cells, "I Think It Has Wings", and The Thumbsucking Fetus, come the latest round of in utero photographs: The Little Miss & Her Developed Spine!

Having passed eighth grade biology,
I'm comfortable detailing the gender of my baby.
Now, stop looking at her there.

The beauty of the situation quickly deteriorated when
Daddy realized that he'd better start an orthodontics fund.
A profile. The wife thinks she looks like Curious George.
I say she more resembles this guy.

Random Thoughts

I never really knew that people rely on this site for their unborn baby update until my wife and I suddenly left town after I posted our baby's gender.

It was very sad (but not entirely unexpected) news that brought us back to Florida for the second time in two weeks. The news that we are having a girl brought a little bit of joy into a solemn weekend, particularly for my mother, who has been surrounded by men for the past 60 years.

We're both drained from the weekend and the ensuing chaos in the airport during our return flight, but I did have some random thoughts...

On Flying...My girl does not like turbulence. Actually, neither of them do...My Lovely Wife did manage to keep all her food down, but the Little Miss seemed bent on turning Mommy's uterus into a prenatal amusement park when we hit turbulence on our descent...

On Moving...Our planned move has been postponed a week...you'd think that living with just two unpacked plates, bowls, and glasses would be liberating; you'd be wrong.

On Raising a Girl...Before the ultrasound photos had even dried, my wife turned to me and said, "You'll never be able to say 'no' to her, will you?"...I can't say 'no' to my wife, let alone the Little Miss...The caption of the gender post was my response when someone asked if we were having a boy or girl...I have NO idea how to raise a girl, so this is going to be my strategy: give her everything she wants until she turns 18...shit, do I have to pay for a wedding, now, on top of college?...If I'm really going to be a protective father, I'll have to buy a shotgun...

More to come after a good night's sleep in my own bed.

The Results Are In!

We're having a princess.

Oh God, What Have I Done (Part II)?

As promised a few posts ago, it is time for the public embarrassment.

But before we get to that, a little background.

Of the many remarkable things about me as a person, two of the standouts are my oddly broad shoulders and my ability to eat. These two features have been kind to me over the years. My ability to eat (think marathon, not sprint) helped me fill out my broad-shouldered frame during those formative years. As I left puberty behind, I continued to eat with a trough and shovel. I was good at eating, and I enjoyed it, too. With broad shoulders, my weight was spread around a bit further, keeping me (so I convinced myself), from getting too overweight.

Fast-forward to the present time, and my appetite has hardly diminished but my metabolism sure has. And it began to catch up with me. Once comfortable 10-15 pounds heavier than I "should" be, my weight crept up to about 20-25 pounds heaver than I "should" be. My most recent doctor's appointment confirmed this. My doctor's simple advice: lose some weight and your vitals will come into an acceptable range.

It was during a particularly low moment following that visit I spied an ad for a "Healthy Challenge" sponsored by the local newspaper. Cutting to the point - I've been a participant in this Healthy Challenge for about ten days now. You can follow my progress through the Web site, I'm sure (no direct link, go work for it!), or you can just listen to me bitch.

Since my first weigh-in 12 days ago I have been subject to personal training sessions three times a week, with personal training sessions two additional days a week, I have joined Weight Watchers and been hungry since the first day. I have been to the gym more times in the past two weeks than all of 2007 prior to this month. I have sore muscles in places I didn't know muscles existed. But, I feel great and have left eight pounds by the wayside.

I like to think that I signed up for this exercise in masochism because of a particularly down moment. I took advantage of myself at a vulnerable time and got myself wrapped up in something new. But really, I needed this. I am part of a team, in competition with another team, to lose weight and get into better shape. My name, age, weight and personal details are listed weekly in the newspaper. My co-workers know about this. As narcissistic as I am, this isn't just about me.

This is about my child and my child's father. I don't want my body to ache after carrying my child home. I don't want to lose my breath playing with my child on a playground. I don't want my child to look elsewhere when learning or practicing new games or sports. And, selfishly, I don't want to miss "the payoff." As I said when I was introduced as a participant in this challenge, my father died before he got to meet my wife, before he got to meet his grandchild. I want to do as much as I can to guarantee that, if my child agrees to something so publicly embarrassing, that I will be there cheering him or her on.

Updates on this will come sporadically and you can check www.gazette.net each Wednesday for formal updates. Now, however, I have to go eat a 2-point yogurt.

Born in DC, Raised in Amarillo

I want to be the guy who names paint colors.

We recently painted most of our new condo, in preparation to move next week. Between Home Depot and the local paint store, My Lovely Wife and I took in hundreds of color samples from all over the spectrum. No longer are there just the simple ROY G BIV colors. Today's paint colors comes in all types:

• Edible: Eggshell, Avocado, Celery, Artichoke
• Emotional: Harmony, Tranquility, Serenity
• Fauna: Lilac, Rose, Azalea
• Sports Themed: Phillies Red, Notre Dame Gold, UNC Blue
• Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals Judges: Pamela Ann Rymer Green, Alex Kozinski Violet

Our main living and dining room areas came out perfectly. Soft earth tones matching our furniture with a complementary accent wall.

For our nursery, we wanted something gender-neutral yet "bright." So we sorted through the yellows. We considered sun rise and lemon cake, egg yolk and caution light, bum's urine and fool's gold before we settled on daffodil. The sample looked great.

After seeing the great work our painters did in the main living areas, My Lovely Wife and I dashed down the hall to the second bedroom. We threw open the door and there it was. Four daffodil walls staring back at us...and nearly burning our retinas.

Apparently, daffodil is the most intense shade of yellow ever conceived. The only possible yellow with more intensity is the sun.

Now, we're not upset with our color choice, though if we had to choose again, we may have opted for "sunflower" instead. It's just that now we will have to raise our child in "the yellow room." It almost sounds as cool as "the man in the yellow hat."

"The yellow room" exudes metaphoric sunshine. Daffodil yellow reflects so much light, my kid won't be afraid of the boogie monster until freshman year in college.

The best part of the yellow room is that it doubles as our guest room before our child's arrival. So if any of you are in need of a little pick-me-up or just feel like you don't get enough exposure to the sun in the course of your daily events, our door is always open.

What's In A Name, Part III

Newspapers and Web sites with an "off beat news" section have been blowing up over this story in Sweden, where parents Michael and Karolina Tamaro are fighting to name their six-month old girl Metallica.

To me, the most notable part of the story isn't that the parents wanted to name their child Metallica - there are far more perplexing, silly, and downright demoralizing names out there. What I find interesting isn't any amount of public backlash, but that a Swedish governmental organization, the Swedish National Tax Board, apparently has the authority to register (or to block the registration of) baby names in that country. Little Metallica has already been baptized, but just like with marriage, the government has trumped god.

Baby names have been on my mind this week. In nine days, we will find out if "Lefty" is a boy or girl. Shortly thereafter, the lists of names My Lovely Wife and I have been working on will move from concept to reality. One of the lists will be thrown away, the other will become the centerpiece of my life.

One of the great things about this country, compared with the repressive cultures of other Draconian countries like, say, Sweden, is that you can name your baby whatever you wish. They may be urban legends, but should you ever run into a woman named Female, or Syphilis, or a gentleman named Nosmo King, or perhaps the siblings Orangejello and Lemonjello, you can thank this great country we live in.

My Lovely Wife and I can name our child whatever strikes our fancy. We could name our baby after a corporation, a television show, or a venereal disease, and no G-man is going to come around to stop us.

So in nine days, I will know if I'm having a son or a daughter. I'm guessing that within three-four weeks from now, I'll know my son or daughter's name. The only thing that is certain right now is that YOU won't know the name until my baby is born. The name is our little secret. Besides, when you've got a name as cool as Pantera, you want too keep it under wraps.

Oops.

Leaving on a Jet Plane

I'm too young to really remember flying as the grand experience it once was. I'm old enough to remember full meals served, ashtrays built into seats, and movies shown on a single screen in the front of coach, but for most of my life, I fly by Travelocity, not travel agent.

I crossed into another era of air travel on Sunday, one that will linger for a while. I may be too young to remember flying as a grand experience, but I will try to remember when flying used to be an easy experience. Because for the foreseeable future, it's about to get tough.

For about four years, I had a job that required a certain amount of travel. At the time, it was great and even got to be routine: pack hastily the night before, arrange a cab, wake up, get to the airport, buy a magazine, fly, land, check-in, find the bar. I racked up premium status the natural way on one airline, and approached it on several more. Now, I shudder to think about the next time I have to fly.

Heightened security means heightened hassles for all of us, but none moreso than parents of young children. My Lovely Wife and I took off on Friday, when many families were embarking on their Spring Breaks. "Look around," I said as we waiting at the checkpoint. "Not a single parent looks happy to be here." It was true.

As little girls and boys hopped and twirled around their parents legs, their early rise tempered by thoughts of meeting Mickey and Minnie, the assorted mothers and fathers looked on, grimly anticipating the next few hours.

For parents of infants - who were once like me at my old job - flying now means saddling up with diaper bags, food, toys, clothes, and anything else that baby might need in the next few hours. And the hope of preparation is balanced with the fear that the baby might just up and decide to cry for the duration of the flight. Which is what I feared the infant in 21C might do on Sunday, but fortunately, that only lasted about 30 minutes.

Between us, my wife and I had one carry-on bag. It held our flight information, some reading material and two waters. I was upset when she wanted me to carry on the book she had just bought, rather than just carry it on herself. I might want to keep that in mind the next time I fly and it takes me 20 minutes to pass through the security checkpoint.