Well, thank you very much.

D being pregnant has been a lot different from her trying to be pregnant.  Right.  I know.  You’d think I’d have figured that out by now.  In the FIFTH month.  I think…  And, I did figure it out (not the month thing, no, dream on) but the jealousy part.  You heard me.  I’ve known I was jealous for months and I didn’t tell you.

Don’t be jealous of my jealousy.

When she was trying to conceive, she filled me in on every last sensation.  I got great detail on what was swollen or achy, lumpy or pale.  The night Vegas sank his blastocyst teeth into her uterine lining, I got a thesaurus worth of description.  In fact, I’m still hearing about that.  I wanted to carry this baby ten thousand times over and each symptom and sign got me a smidge closer to knowing how she felt.

It’s hard to keep that sort of thing up over nine months (ten?).  And in the middle here, there’s not much going on.  He’s moving a lot and he’s causing all sorts of aches and pains.  And he’s doing that today.  And tomorrow.  And you get the idea.  I’ve felt a nagging frustration that she’s feeling the baby and I can’t do anything but watch them get more in sync.   This is compounded by hearing more than a fair share of anecdotes lately about how babies only want mom to put them down, or only mom can do the feeding, or that mom has some mysterious bond with baby that no one can ever approximate.  Way to go, everyone, thanks for making me feel completely irrelevant.  Unless, of course, I want to rub her feet, bring her ice cream, or do all the housework/cooking/repairs/cleaning/shopping/adoring while she sits upon a throne of pillows cuddling the child.

I haven’t wanted to mention it, partly in fear that giving the feelings voice would make them more permanent and, in turn, make me more frustrated.  It turns out there’s a temporary vaccination though.  It doesn’t cure the jealousy, but it keeps it from getting worse and makes the symptoms seem a little better for a while.

I felt him kick.

I don’t want go on about no other feeling and so on and so forth but wow – I got to feel him kick.  Thanks kid, I’ll turn the thermostat back up now.

Cozy Toasty Balmy Flushed Thermal Snug

Vegas,

This morning I pressed right up against your mother and relished 10 more minutes of warmth.  Sure, I was happy to be cuddling and filled with awe at you and the growing belly tucked under my arm, but mostly I was happy to be warm.  In fact, I was almost too warm but I was perfectly happy to stay where I was because it was hot.  I could have been sweating outright and I wouldn’t have moved.  All I could think was Hot?  Check.  Not moving. We were late to work.  But not for that reason.  We were late because no matter how tightly I plastered myself next to her, I was still cold.

I hate to admit this to you – after all, you’re still a glimmer in our eyes and we want to make a good impression.  But, two nights ago, we went to sleep when the house was 55 degrees.  We turned on the fan, as we usually do, and tried to sleep in our corner bedroom.  Those two exterior walls leached the last heat from the room (and us).  When I woke up (or rather got up, since I’d been awake off and on all night) and staggered to the shower, I saw that the temperature had dropped to 48 degrees.  Yes, Vegas, I made your mother sleep in a bedroom that was under 50 degrees.  Wikipedia says 46 degrees is an ideal fridge temp.  No doubt you thought you were in the veggie drawer.

I didn’t do this because I wanted to ice you (or your mother) but I had a dose of chilling reality when I opened the gas bill and realized we owed them 300 dollars.  You’re young yet, sunshine, but $300 is not something we take lightly.  We clip coupons.  We’re not spending $300 on heat in 30 days.  You’ll be wiping with 2 ply, I’m just saying.  So $300?  Way more than we expected and more than twice what we paid the month before.  We can afford it, but we won’t be able to afford both it and daycare.  So, unless you’re planning to be out working at the very mature age of six months, we’re in real trouble when next winter comes.

I’m not saying don’t get a job child, just wait til you can walk first.

So I admit it, I froze us all out because I panicked.  Vegas, this has been the coldest winter in decades and no one here remembers this much snow.  Ever.  Sorry kid, you missed the big, exciting winter that everyone is going to talk about for the rest of your childhood.  You know, “Oh remember the winter of 2010 (it’s twenty ten, son)?  I’ve never seen anything like it before or since!”  And then they’ll probably pinch your cheeks and tell you to get their iPhone.  I even made your mother call the gas company and they assured her that the reading was right and that it was just a very cold month.  Again, I’m sorry you’re missing out.  I saw a great snowman yesterday.

Resolve hardened, I made your mother huddle in a chair until it was time to huddle in bed and then we huddled together, just short of shivering, remembering the time grandma made us sleep in The Hole.  You’re going to hear about The Hole, Vegas, but don’t tell grandma that’s what we call her Wyoming basement when she makes us sleep in it in the middle of winter.  We’re having you as insurance against her.  Just so you know.  I can’t take another year of sleep in subzero temperatures.

It took me a full 48 hours to get warm again and then I turned the heat back up to a respectable 60.  I don’t know how we’re going to afford both you and heat, baby doll, but we’re going to have to work it out.  We’ll make it somehow.  I’m sure this isn’t the first time I’ll go to sleep thinking I can’t really take care of you.  For the record, your room stayed warm, even with the vent shut.  You might have the coziest spot in the house.

Enjoy it while you can.
Your mother, the heat miser.

Being a Roadie

It isn’t easy, this business of being the roadie.  Hey, it wasn’t even easy coming up with that first sentence.  Everything I could think of to sum up my status resulted in a negative.  NON-bio mom, OTHER mother, NOT carrier.  Sure, there’s mother, but it doesn’t capture what I wanted to talk about today, which is being the mother of a child carried and birthed by someone else.  I didn’t land on a single word that implied “as much as” or “equal to” or “partner in”.  Maybe you know one.  Please tell me you do.  Otherwise, we’re stuck with roadie, you and me.

Roadie: An individual who is responsible for setting up, tearing down, and generally maintaining the equipment for a band (Urban Dictionary); a person who often performs errands for musicians on tour (Dictionary.com); and, a person who works (as by moving heavy equipment) for traveling entertainers (Merriam Webster).

It’s true isn’t it?  I’m a roadie.  In that spirit, I’ve called on the good folks at roadie.net to help me with this entry.

Lately, I’ve felt like the “college crew” (students who volunteered to help with the load in…who also had no idea how hard it really is).  I move stuff and, in between thinking I might die, I smile at my wife to show her that it isn’t that heavy.  Actually, it is.  But I’m so glad she can’t carry it, that I’m happy to suffocate under a load of things I would never pick up otherwise.

I’m definitely beginning to focus more on getting ready (yes, I’m a planner.  no, there is no roadie term for that.  I think planner is the antithesis of roadie.)  The other day we did so much errand-running to prepare for Vegas that I got a serious case of gig butt (that burning sensation caused by wearing your underwear way too long on the road).  After a trip to a kids’ store to buy a crib mattress, I was left wondering IATSE (“Is all this Shit Essential?”)?  We came home with so much IATSE that we did, in fact, need that I had to do an idiot check of the car (after everything has been loaded out, you go back one more time to make sure nothing is left behind).

I’ve gone from being a delicate flower with white gloves (doesn’t seem to get dirty, or doesn’t seem to really do any work, i.e. “She’s strictly ‘White Gloves”) to throwing on my blacks (official uniform of roadies) and unhitching my allen wrench.  Someone has to install that redneck laser (mirror ball) in Vegas’ room.

Evenings continue to be exhausting for both of us, but as she gets bigger, I’m more in hoc to the lead (person [dog] with biggest ego), who demands walks three times a night.  I think he’s in for a real shock once Vegas comes along.  As it is, we’re accommodating him as the first-born, but we live on a very steep hill and I’m facing the fact that our 80 pound hound cannot haul my wife and Vegas up a mountain in the ice and rain.

I know the real pyro (pyrotechnics, aka indoor fireworks and explosives) isn’t coming til June, but I also know that it’s my responsibility in the meantime to do mic checks (verification that everything is wired correctly and functioning) and maintain the air ride (air cushioned trailer used in transporting fragile electronic [pregnant] equipment [people]) so that she’s as comfortable as possible.  And that means, among other things, taking over the responsibility of explaining to folks how she came to be pregnant – PFM (Pure Freakin’ Magic…A good answer to give to somebody when you are asked how something works and don’t have the time to explain it.) and reading What to Expect to her – particularly that part about Texas gravy (the white froth that builds up in your drawers on a humid day) and why she might have to switch from boxers to panties.

Sadly, also like a roadie, I have had to resort to the bunk sock (an article of clothing used by “lonely roadies” that need a little relief from the long lonely nights in the tour bus).  Really folks.  We are currently 148 days til go (start the gig, i.e. “Five minutes till go”) and I’m worried about getting my rocks off.  Thank goodness she’s already given me a backstage pass (a colorful printed self adhesive cloth patch that allows certain access and privileges during or after the show) instead of percussive maintenance (having to hit something a few times to get it to work properly).  Though that could be fun.

How to Decide

We vacillate between impulse buying and careful research.  Generally, our impulse buying works out really well and the careful research ends up extending from months to years.  For example, we have a really fantastic iron bed in our guest room.  Because we needed it, we decided on and bought it in the space of an hour.  On the other hand, we are sleeping on a simple pine frame that is a little wobbly and looks unfinished.  We’ve never found a bed that looks like what we want, has the features we’d like and is a reasonable price.  I keep waiting for one to show up in a dumpster, but I’ve stopped holding my breath.

The first baby book we bought was “Baby Bargains” by Denise and Alan Fields.  Very early on in the pregnancy, we were feeling disheartened and plagued by a sea of completely unacceptable baby books.  We even made a trip to a big bookstore out of town in hopes of finding something more open-minded.  Yes, I can order from Amazon, but after paging through a few terrible tomes, I was so deeply suspicious that I wanted to see any books in person first.  This one has a bright green cover and a tall narrow shape and really, it was an impulse buy I wouldn’t have made another day.  I mean, come on, bright green and weird doesn’t scream reliable source.

It is the most wonderful book.  D and I know a lot about babies but practically nothing about the branding surrounding babies.  Sure, Graco is plastered on every third…what is that huge…oh…”travel system”.  But aside from mourning the loss of our grab and go lifestyle, we were baffled as to what made a good** brand and what was actually important in the baby merchandising business.

What I love about this book:  It cuts right through the bullshit.  I like knowing what I can buy used or cheaper and not worry about making a bad decision.  I appreciate that a car seat should be new – especially for folks like us that don’t have a trusted, recent hand-me-down source for big ticket items.  Honestly, I’d have bought that fishy car seat from craigslist that had been in 17 accidents and turned into a gremlin at night.  It was also really helpful to know that a firm  mattress is good and that coil count isn’t the only thing to pay attention to.

Babies are a business and anything that helps me weed through the hype is fantastic.  This book has ratings, reviews, common sense and is well-organized.    It’s also up-to-date – critical in the branding biz.  I’m a walking advertisement (as much as I wish I wasn’t!).  The only other baby book we’ve bought has been What to Expect When You’re Expecting.  We’re minimalists, but I wouldn’t trade this book in for any other.  It did a lot of my research for me!  By the way, I’m not going to drool over anything else for awhile.  But this was too good not to share.

**good, for us, is whatever suits our particular needs at the time we need it.  It isn’t any endorsement for what’s good for anyone else’s needs, thank goodness.  Seriously, we can’t even add, there is no way we can find a moral high ground.

Crib

We bought a crib.  I know.  Colossal landmark.

I have never been so obsessed with brands in my entire life.  I have done so much exhaustive research that I’m a human calculator of crib brands.  The percentages of safety, cost, beauty and functionality all tally in my head to create an absolute rating of perfection.  Kablam!  Just like that.  I’m a wizard I tell you.

That said, we did not buy the perfect crib.  We bought a crib that I calculated to meet our needs.  “Our needs” include: keeping all of Vegas’ fingers attached, being able to lift him out effortlessly and less expensive than a house.  We hoped the finish would not require the purchase of entirely new accessory furniture to match.  But you know about this already right?  Meeting such simple requirements is practically impossible.

D’s mother volunteered to “dig the old crib” out of the garage, but we respectfully declined. There was something fishy about the idea of holding a drop side up with a wire twist tie.  Or maybe it was the back leg propped up with a tupperware.  Regardless, we purchased an actual new crib.

If you’ve ever met us, you know that we generally fall into getting not-new things.  We frequent thrift and consignment shops, craigslist, freecycle and accept things from friends and family.  We are no strangers to adopting from dumpster areas.  We would go to the store if we:

a) ever got around to it and,
b) liked something enough to buy it and look at it for days and months and years and…

So that makes us less thrifty, which we wish we were, and more lazy and/or picky.  Which is funny because I once ran two blocks home to tell my wife to get the car right now there is a recliner outside the dumpster that I absolutely need.  A purple recliner.  With a particularly snarly staple jutting from its footrest.  And then heaved it into the car and lugged it into the house.  That is not picky OR lazy.  At least, not until I sat it in for 3 months straight.  Well, I got up to peer around the dumpster some more.  But that’s it.

So here we are.  Proud owners of a new crib.  A crib which did not take us three years to buy.  We are making serious progress in the shopping department.  If Vegas is lucky, we’ll have gotten a mattress by the time he gets here.

Mellow Yellow

We had our January appointment yesterday at 18 weeks.  Look how smoothly I just said that.  I’m totally getting the hang of this math thing.  Unless 18 weeks and 2 days is actually the 19th week like my ‘What to Expect’ app says.  If that’s the case, I’m still hosed.  Also, like how I threw that in there?  My “app”?  Yeah, I’m so hip like that.  Or not.  Probably not.

Anyway, instead of Georgardo, we saw a new guy, Dr. Ahnold.

A more mellow man I have never met.  In fact, he and my wife could be in a Who’s More Mellow contest and I think Dr. A might totally win.  Since my wife is undefeated in all other Mellow competitions, that is pretty impressive.  I mean, she’s like 240-0.  Seriously.  I’m surprised she’s even human, she’s so mellow.

Dr. A has been the first doc to have the reaction I expected from our doctors.  He came in, looked vaguely befuddled at the pair of vaginas in the room, checked the chart and introduced himself to the vag on the table.  She then introduced him to me and everyone took a deep breath and relaxed.  Let me tell you, the atmosphere was so calm even the molecules in the air laid down and were all “Dude, just chill, man.”  Our other doctors, while mostly likeable, were nothing like this guy:
Soap Opera Doc – I am very professional and have seen many lesbians.  I may, in fact, engage them in threesomes.
Best Of – I am very professional and my objective is to knock you up.  Which I just did.  No need to thank me.
Dr. Me (our actual doctor) – Hi, you guys!  I’m your doctor!  I love you!  I love the gay!  You’re so awesome!
Georgardo – Unzip to your hairline.  Wait, which one of you is preggers again?  Ha. HA.

He checked out the uterus (on target, he says).  WHICH WEEK! I wanted to scream, but didn’t because I’m sure my words would have popped like silent dreamy bubbles in the mellow atmosphere.  He checked the heartbeat (spot on, he says).  He even tells us what the heartbeat is, which is lovely since I’m compiling old wives tales with which to speculate on the sex.  Then he sits down to ask if we have questions, which we don’t.  He proclaims that “refreshing” and, after confirming that D is doing better than fine in the weight gain dept., it’s clear the appointment has evolved into a natural end.  We all gently float from the room and drift happily away.  Well, I sort of walked.  But those two, they evaporated into mellow little swirls.

Needless to say, given Vegas’ father’s info (mellow) and his mother’s genes (beyond mellow), if Dr. A (champion at mellow) delivers this child we will have absolutely no trouble with him at all.

Rent

We’re paying rent on Vegas’ baby brother.

We didn’t have much faith in the getting knocked up process.  We assumed that we’d give it three tries and see if it took and then reevaluate.  We carefully picked a donor, flew his junk to town and plopped it into cold storage to await the seductive call of D’s hooha.

Two seductive calls later (well, one was more of a semi-seductive squawk) and we’re the proud soon-to-be-parents of our donor’s contribution.  And that leaves a third vial in the vault.  I’m not sure what to do with it, besides paying $40 a month room and board.  We might not want another child.  We might want five more (probably not).  Regardless, it sits there, alone, sending us a bill every month.

Even if we do go for a second child, we’ll probably need more than one shot.  So do we store up on donor Good Job the First Time by buying a couple of samples now?  Do we keep paying rent on our lonely guy just in case?  Do we send him off to sperm heaven and hope for the best when we try again?

Biased it may be, but I’d like our kids (if there is more than one) to have the same father so that they share a common gene pool with a second person.  I’m already completely out of the equation, so it would be nice to give Vegas someone with whom he shares a smile or a laugh.  On the other hand, I’m a miser who can’t stand the idea of paying $480 a year so that we have a slim chance some time in the future if we ever wanted it of getting Vegas a baby brother.

What’s more valuable, living in a family with a brother and mother with whom you share genes and an extra random mother or living in a family with a mother whose genes you share and an extra random mother and brother?

Rage Against the Machine

Whoa, nelly.  What did you do with my mild-mannered wife?

Look here child, I rely on this woman to keep me sane.  I rely on her to tell me not to honk at strangers and to chide me when I’m huffing at the person in front of us in line.  While you’ll soon see that she likes to cheer me on when I speed, for the most part Vegas, she is a perfectly reasonable person.

A perfectly. reasonable. person.

Vegas, you have done something to your mother to cause her to randomly erupt in fountains of unsurpassed hostility.  She turns her baleful glare on everyone who so much as moves too slowly, steps too closely or, in fact, moves without permission.  While she is still a sainted picture of serenity and goodwill to me, she has turned into a fiery basilisk to everyone else.

Vegas, your mother is usually a font of good-humored patience.  But I don’t suggest you test her right now.  In fact, stop your fluttering this second.

Don’t make me come down there.

The Holy Grail

After her twins were born, a friend of ours said that she had no idea why she was obsessed with sheet sets before the babies were born.  And, honestly, having seen the bedding sets out there, I’m appalled at the choices.  I can’t imagine being at all interested in tiny Winnie the Pooh blanket sets, bumpers and sheets when those things are going to a) get washed til they fade into nothing or b) kill the baby.  Or both.  I wouldn’t be surprised.  What’s wrong with a 400 thread count fitted sheet in jewel-toned solids or sporting a discrete stripe?  Does the baby have to sleep in tiny swinging monkeys or little orbiting rockets?  Vegas won’t even be able to SEE said monkey-piloted rockets.  I think they mean those patterns to be for me.

Are they kidding?

So clearly, I’m obsessed with sheets in a different way.  Less oh-how-cute and more oh-my-god-no.  However, lest you think I’m sitting over here, superior, let me tell you that I am ridiculous about changing tables.

You have no idea.

I am a practical person.  I like things that are well-made, sturdy, quiet, multi-purpose.  Furniture with a sole purpose has a limited lifespan in our home.  I can’t abide things that wobble.  And, although I love to look at lacquered, red, Chinese cabinets and bright green dressers, I can never convince myself that buying one is a good idea.  I like to be able to change what pops and furniture with too much personality isn’t exactly chameleon-like.

Changing tables are, by their very nature, that drunk guy wearing a chicken costume in the corner of the room.  True changing tables are so distinct, that you couldn’t ever repurpose one without your gusts whispering to one another you do think she knows that isn’t a tea cart, don’t you? Some are flimsy baby racks (is she drying her sweaters on the changing table?!) and some are dressers with a little add on (funny how she’s stuck little flowers in those holes there.  Where do you think she changes the baby now?) but they all seem to be slapped together and inexpensive or slapped together and cost a mint.  Why not just use a bed?  Or buy a pad and stick it on a dresser top.  This is not useful furniture.  It has no life span.  It will probably sneak up on you and kill you in your sleep!

But, like my sheet set-obsessed friend, I am irrationally attached to changing tables.  I want one.  I want a perfect cabinet with a baby sized compartment where I can coo at Vegas while I pretend to bite his toes.  I want to be able to easily whip out a diaper and clean up his tiny butt while effortlessly disposing of the dirty wipes and tossing the old diaper into the pail for pickup.  I want to have a space the dog can’t get into but with unrivaled ease of access.  No sticking drawers, no invadeable shelves.  It would be nice if it matched, but as long as there are no rocket driving monkeys, I’ll be content.  I just want a changing table.  A real live shit station.  For me, it’s the mark of bringing home a baby.

For the record, there are no notable changing tables in my past.  I think my mother might have let us run around nude.

The sensible side of me knows that, even if we can find the sort of table we like in an antique store or quirky shop, it’s going to be almost impossible to get into the house.  “Have one delivered,” says the logical side of me, or “Buy something in a flat pack!”  But my soul throws a temper tantrum.  JUST GIVE ME MY CHANGING TABLE DREAMS.  And I scoffed at sheet sets.

Rub. Reapply.

The second trimester is more tumlulous than I thought it would be.  Instead of propping her eyelids open with toothpicks and picking at her food, she’s walking a bit less vigourously and tearing up a bit more frequently.  It’s nothing we didn’t expect, but I don’t know if I’d bill this as the glowing, wonderful moment the baby books promise.  It’s certainly better in some ways than the first trimester though and probably really is glory days compared to what’s coming.

Early on, we started rubbing her belly every night with a homemade belly oil.  On the practical side, our goal was to keep her skin supple and minimize stretch marks and has evolved to include itch stopping.  Winter is sucking every last bit of moisture out of us and despite the humidifier, she’s really feeling it in skin that’s stretching a bit more every day.

I deeply appreciate the opportunity to spend time with the baby.  I don’t get to live with him and I don’t get to  feel directly how he’s changing her.  Rubbing her belly gives me a chance to feel how he’s moving and growing.  She’s beginning to feel him move often and it’s bittersweet.  I feel like I’m missing something significant, even as I’m delighted in his progress.  Running my fingertips around him gives me a hint of togetherness.

A side benefit has been the reconnecting time that the belly rubs give us.  We haven’t managed it every night, but we get most nights together and it’s time that we can focus just on us and the future, putting aside work, worries and everything else.

I made the belly rub, rather than purchasing it and despite my initial misgiving at the price of ingredients I’m thrilled at how long the first batch is lasting.  It’s easily twice as much as I could have purchased pre-made.  The recipe came from one of my favorite herbalists, Rosemary Gladstar.  I pulled it off of the internet (I love you google books) and my mom just sent a copy of Gladstar’s ‘Herbal Healing for Women’ for christmas (I love you mom).  I halved the original recipe.  Here’s what we made:

Gather 1/4 cups cocoa butter and coconut oil.  The cocoa butter is harder than you think it should be and may have to be chipped out of the container.  Persevere.  Add 1/8 cup grape seed oil.  You could substitute almond (smells yummy) or apricot oil, but grape seed is very light and easy on skin. Augment with 10,000 I.U. vitamin E oil, 1 teaspoon of grated beeswax and 1/2 teaspoon of lanolin.  I used an old carrot peeler I could dedicate to the beeswax, as it can be clingy on a grater.  Melt it all together in a double boiler or in a bowl over a simmering pot.  It will smell like chocolate if left as is, or you can add a few drops of an essential oil to craft a fragrance you like.  Pour into a container you can easily dip your fingers in and rub onto a belly you love at least once a day.

Reconnect.