Time and Space

Today's post is kind of long. Sorry about that.


Time
When MTM and I confirmed this pregnancy way back in February, almost immediately I looked at the spreadsheet I use to keep track of my vacation time (since my company cannot seem to do it themselves on a regular basis) and started to panic. The following facts were indisputable:

1. we could not afford for me to take an unpaid post partum leave
2. my father was going to have surgery in the coming months

We assessed the number of days I had left over from last year (I got myself on a cycle of using the previous year's vacation days in the first half of the year) and how many I would earn before, well, today, actually.

Then came the strategic negotiations with my family. Since my parents live over four hours away, we would likely need an extra day for any weekend we went to help out post-surgery. Ultimately, we only had to use two actual vacation days (plus a lot of working late the night before departing and the evening we returned on my part).

Since then I have not taken a day off, save for statutory holidays, and other than their cottage trip, my family has not taken a holiday.

As of today, I have approximately 18 days saved up (approximately because my start date was mid-month and my rate is not an even multiple of 24, the number of pay periods). I have already officially booked myself off for 13 vacation days, starting tomorrow, which gives us almost three weeks, with an understanding that I may not return to work on October 20 if MTM has not healed completely.

Space
Tonight, my inlaws will descend upon us spend the night, and will remain at our house until MTM is discharged, at which point our family of four will reclaim the house as our own. Sleeping arrangements for tonight are further complicated by the fact that MTM is not comfortable in our bed (the mattress is too firm) and I have developed some congestion which makes my snoring even worse than usual. (Up until tonight this problem has been remedied by her sleeping in a twin bed - which is much softer - we have placed in the nursery, but tonight my FIL will take that while my MIL is on an air mattress.) I have offered to sleep on the couch downstairs, but MTM insists I need to sleep comfortably as well. My plan is to let her go to bed first and then accidentally fall asleep downstairs.

*    *    *
OK, that was the coherent part of today's post. What follows is the rest of it.

Since few of you will read this within the hour (given visitor histories), if you are reading this then I am less than 24 hours from holding my son. Holy fucking shit. Am I scared? Yes. Am I excited? Hell yes. Do I feel like I could write an entire post with pseudo-rhetorical questions? Yep yeppity yep yep!

I have tried to will myself to comment on your blogs these past few days, but often I cannot get out of my own head enough to say anything of value. I apologize. Also, since we're heading to the hospital tomorrow, don't expect me to be commenting any time soon. I'd like to tell you that I'm going to catch up, but honestly I won't be able to.

As far as my posting schedule goes, it will be lighter for the next couple of weeks. The hospital supposedly has WiFi, so there's a chance I may get a few photos posted late Wednesday or early Thursday. I have scheduled part three of the running story for this Friday, so there's that too.

I'm going to take Gravol tonight, as is MTM. Hopefully that will help with the anxiety-driven insomnia. However, if any of you see me online at 2am via Google Talk, feel free to drop me a line. I can't promise I'll make sense, but I'll definitely respond since by that point the silence will have driven me mad.

I don't know if I'm more stressed about the delivery, or the prospect of my inlaws screwing everything up. They have never been ones to respect differences of opinion, and our belief that it is very important for the munchkin to meet her brother with only MTM and myself has not been met very kindly. Apparently we're trampling on their rights as grandparents or something. (It's not like the birth is significant for us or anything; it's all about them.) What I want to have happen is for them to bring her to the waiting room on the maternity floor and I will meet them there. What I worry they will do is bypass my request and ask reception for MTM's room number, interjecting themselves into a moment we want to be special for the munchkin.

I'm scared about the surgery. I've had a few nightmares about MTM not making it out of surgery recently, and if you've never had it happen, let me tell you that dreaming your spouse died is probably the worst feeling in the world. Combine that with your spouse sleeping in a different bed and you're ready for full on anxiety attacks when you wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat.

Tomorrow, I get to hold my little boy, that is true. But I also know that my wife will be in excruciating pain for months to come in order for me to have that moment, so the experience is bittersweet.

All About Her

For about the last two or three weeks, the munchkin has demonstrated a marked change in behaviour. Whereas before she would be happy to let me bathe her or put her to bed when MTM was unavailable, she now whines and complains and often throws a tantrum. It's clearly related to the upcoming birth; she's probably feeling unsure and maybe a bit left out now that she knows exactly how Wednesday will play out.

(In a brief nutshell, my inlaws are coming over Tuesday night and sleeping over. Wednesday morning MTM has to be at the hospital for 6am for pre-op for the 8am c-section, meaning we'll be leaving the house around 5.30am or a bit after, which means that the munchkin will go to bed normally on Tuesday and wake up without us Wednesday morning. We will call the house once MTM is settled in her room - not recovery - at which point the munchkin will meet her new brother.)

With that in mind, we tried to make this weekend, our last weekend as a family of three, as much fun for the munchkin as possible.

Saturday morning was another ballet class, and it went so well. I cannot overstate just how amazing it was. We had talked about just getting into the classroom without apprehension this week, using the same method as last week, where we enter through a side door and I stand very close by. However, when the assistant opened the main door and called the girls, the munchkin took a friend's hand and said, "Let's go!" and walked in by herself. She beamed at me as she passed me in the doorway, and if she lost sight of me (because, hypothetically, I was testing to see if she'd notice if I walked away from the door) she'd look anxious but did not freak out. MTM came for the last ten minutes to see her, and was greeted with smiles but the munchkin did not run out of the room to her Mommy. Both MTM and I were so proud.

Saturday continued with going out breakfast as a family, a little "just because" shopping at Toys R Us, and dinner at Lone Star.

Sunday morning, the munchkin and I had our final daddy-daughter date (if you want to see the mushy side of SciFi Dad, read that post; that's all I'm saying about it), at Chez Ronaldo, where she finally got:


That would be Rinty Dinty Doo (also known as R2-D2). No matter how many times I tried to explain that his name was, in fact, Artoo, she insisted on calling him Rinty Dinty Doo. For some unknown reason, she has become obsessed with the little astromech droid, asking for "a soft one" so she can take it to bed with her. (Aside: no, she has not seen the movies.) She also got a second toy (when we go for breakfast I get the happy meal as well) which was more gender appropriate: a Polly Pocket (no photo taken).

Sunday also included a trip to the park, and a "tv dinner" of pizza while watching the Heffalump Halloween movie (which was actually a Halloween special starring Pooh, Piglet, Tigger, and Rabbit sandwiched by two Heffalump segments... total repeat).

Ultimately, I think she had a good time. In truth, by the end of the weekend MTM and I were looking at each other saying things like, "Maybe we're going too far," or "I think we're spoiling her," or (my personal favourite) "Maybe we're setting her expectations too high for tomorrow."

Whatever. It's not like her world isn't being turned upside down in a few days. The only life she's ever known is going to change dramatically, never to be seen again in that form. Right now she has almost a 100% guarantee of getting at least one parent, if not both, at the drop of a hat (or a tear, as the case may be). However, once things settle and I'm back at work, she'll have to share MTM with her new brother. As far as I'm concerned, she deserved this weekend, if for nothing else than for going into ballet class all by her freaking self!

We Can Do This All Day...

This is part two of the story I started last Friday. I strongly recommend reading part one before continuing.

As with any good story, sometimes you have to go backwards before moving forwards. I was at university studying electrical engineering. At the time (and for all I know now as well, but since I don't follow current trends in engineering education I cannot confirm this), the majority of students in engineering programs were male. Furthermore, the majority of the females that were in engineering were decidedly not in electrical. Given these realities, statistically speaking she was an anomaly.

She was smart, and funny, and attractive. And she listened to Nine Inch Nails and The Stone Roses. I had a crush on her at some point in first year, but had gotten over it by Christmas. She was always social with me, partly because we were in the same "frosh group" (a collection of about 20 students), which meant all of our classes and tutorials were together.

After we had written our last exam in the spring, she stopped me outside the room.

"SciFi, you don't know where you're working for co-op yet, right?"

"Right."

"OK, well I'm going to be in [some city]. Here, let me write down my address. Write me when you get your job, OK? Or email me at my school account, OK?"

"OK," I said as I took the slip of paper. When I got back to my dorm room I emptied my pockets and threw out the paper, thinking, Yeah, right. Like you want me to write you.

I rode out that summer living at home, working at a job pouring metal (literally, my job was "scoop liquid metal out of a furnace, walk to molds, pour liquid metal into little holes") in an aluminum foundry that my dad helped me get. It wasn't engineering, but they were pretty cool about the first co-op job being anything, and plus I made killer cash working tons of overtime in a union plant.

Unfortunately, at one point an idiot another summer student beside me dunked his damp ladle into his furnace. When you introduce water into a 1250F environment, it vapourizes almost instantly. He made a molten aluminum fountain that sprayed 30 feet in the air (it hit the ceiling) and about a 20 feet radius. I was about 15 feet away. A guy about four inches shorter than me jumped on my back and ripped my coveralls (now in flames) off of me, leaving yours truly in a t-shirt and a pair of boxers, which is how I walked to the nurse's station, complete with my coveralls in tatters around my ankles. (One second degree burn on my thigh and a bunch of fleck burns across my back and chest was the damage.)

I returned to school that fall with an even worse attitude than I had left with, thanks to spending four months in an industrial facility with union guys who felt more "like me" than anyone I went to school with. The first day of classes I walked in and took my usual spot at the back corner of the classroom.

She came in and walked straight to me.

"Hey. You never mailed me. What happened?"

"Uh, yeah. I guess I lost your address."

"So, what'd you do this summer?" she asked as she lifted my backpack from the seat beside me and took its place.

"Meh, worked in a foundry. Got these cool fire proof boots."

"Cool."

"Yeah, listen, I have to go take care of something," I said as I packed up my stuff and left the classroom.

I went and got a drink from the fountain and came back in after the prof had started teaching, sitting at the back at the opposite end of the classroom from before.

That should do it.

Our schedules were different that year, so we didn't see each other again until that same class, two days later. Again, I was seated in my usual back corner spot. Again, she came in and moved my backpack and took the seat beside me.

Frustrated, I packed up and walked over to the other side of the room, this time without pretending to get a drink or anything. Before I could set up my notebook, she was moving my backpack over and sitting beside me.

"We can do this all day if you want," she said with a smirk.

"Fuck."

"So listen, we're all going to [random bar] Friday. You should come."

"Yeah, OK."

Friday came and went. I skipped the trip to [random bar], and expected her to get the message. She didn't.

"Hey! Where were you Friday?"

"I forgot."

She sat beside me, telling me all about what I'd missed. She also mentioned that the coming Saturday was her birthday, and she wanted me to come out.

"And this time I'll make sure you don't forget."

"OK."

Every time she passed me in the halls that week, she reminded me about her birthday that Saturday. On Friday, she wasn't in class, and so I didn't see her all day.

Guess I'll forget again. Missing her birthday should do the trick, I thought to myself as I walked back to my dorm room Friday afternoon.

I had no idea how wrong I was.

To be continued...

---

For those of you who asked about it yesterday, MTM has posted the cheddar potato soup recipe.

She's also running her first contest at her review blog, so if you could click over and enter, that would be great.

Preparations

Thanks for all the comments yesterday. I really appreciate it. You guys are the best readers, seriously. Because of yesterday's comments (or more specifically my reaction to them), MTM has asked me to tell you all to click over to Circle Of Life (her blog) so she can thank you.


We are in the home stretch now: in less than a week (ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod) MTM will give birth to our son. In light of this, we have been preparing for this day.

Rearranging Furniture
On our main floor, we have rearranged our furniture (with the only physical - as opposed to locational, of which there were many - change being the resizing of the kitchen table to the nested leaf state and the removal of one chair) such that we have defied the laws of physics: we added a playpen and somehow have an empty space in our livingroom (which will house our Christmas tree come December, but in the meantime will probably be used for the swing or something else).

Of note: the playpen is within arm's reach of the computer. Coincidence, or good planning on the part of my wife?

The Return Of The Beard
When the munchkin was born, I had a beard because I knew a) babies like high contrast (my hair is very dark and my skin is very light) and b) babies like texture. The munchkin loved my beard, even if it was tickly when we snuggled.

I have spent the last month growing out and evening out my beard in anticipation of another little one to enjoy it. I had forgotten how itchy they can be, though. Damn.

Cooking
Last time, we cooked like crazy in the month leading up to the due date. This time, my MIL has been more helpful, filling our freezer for us.

However, that hasn't stopped me from making my (in)famous cheddar potato soup. This past Sunday I made a batch that included: 25 potatoes, 3 carrots, 3 onions, 15 cups of stock, 4 cups of milk and 1kg of cheddar. We estimate that it made between 12 and 15 litres.

The Munchkin
Of the three of us, I daresay that my daughter is the most prepared. She has been working out the minutae of life with a baby: knowing which stools will be in which rooms and where she needs to put them in order to best care for the baby as well as practice runs with her dolls. She works with the doll in the infant car seat, constantly trying to stop its seemingly incessant crying. She talks about what she can do while MTM is feeding, while I am bathing the baby, and has it all worked out in her head (although she seems to believe unless she is in bed for the night, or the baby is being fed, changed, or bathed, that she will be holding the baby).

She's even watched that Harvey Karp DVD (people, even I haven't watched that DVD).

I think we're ready.

---

I also have another post up at Babies Online, where I look at preparing postpartum meals before baby.

Volume Two: Donor's Guilt

Before we get to today's post, a few housekeeping items:

1. this blog will not be all negative stuff while my wife isn't reading
2. it looks like the decision story will span three parts; I plan to put up part two later this week
3. the working title for this post was "Fertilizer Guilt", but that made me think about my lawn, so I changed it

Some (many?) of those readers who are regulars here are not regular readers of my wife's blog, and since I don't often delve into how the pregnancy is going for her, you wouldn't know that this time around has been far worse than her pregnancy with the munchkin. While the munchkin was awkwardly positioned at the very end (the clinical term being "right occipital posterior"), for the most part her presence wasn't painful. Awkward? Yes. Painful? Not so much.

This baby seems to be neither breech nor head down, according to differing reports from various medical professionals. As best as we can tell, he is somewhat sideways, evidenced by the two massive bumps he produces on my wife's stomach at night (we're talking two lumps, both the size of grapefruits here people) causing her to wince both visibly and audibly.

So, on top of the fatigue, the swelling, the waddling, the near-constant peeing, the lack of proper sleep, and every other pregnancy symptom, she's in a lot of discomfort fairly regularly.

And it's mostly my fault for getting her in this condition.

And there isn't a damn thing I can do to make things better.

I apologize to her almost every night, and although she thinks I'm joking, I'm actually half serious. I have said to her that I cannot do this to her again, and every time I say that she admonishes me for even thinking such a thing. But the reality is, she is suffering. Yes, ultimately the reward is great, but she's still suffering.

On the one hand, fathers (or technically at this stage of the game, sperm donors) have it easy. We give, and then we wait. The mother on the other hand spends nine months puking and peeing and feeling nauseous and overtired and unwell. However, for those men who stay around (sadly I cannot generalize and say all), they have to watch their partner go through all that, knowing inside themselves that they are the ones who caused it.

I know, I know. We're getting a little bundle of joy out of this. And I know that my wife isn't upset with me for "doing this to her". But that doesn't mean that I haven't spent the last nine months watching her wince and struggle and feel shitty. I don't remember feeling this way after the munchkin was born, so maybe it will go away when the baby arrives. I hope so.

---

I also have a new post up at Babies Online, where I talk about having two kids.

True Thoughts, Volume One

For the next ten days (maybe a little longer, given the circumstances), this blog's content will be more than a little different. On Saturday, MTM and I were talking, and we agreed that this should be my space to say whatever is on my mind without fear of what effect it will have on her in the short term. To that end, she has promised to not read here until after the baby is born so that I can express myself without worrying about how it makes her feel.

I alluded to this in my burden post, as well as my guest post for Whit, but I wrote that knowing my wife would be sitting there, 38 weeks pregnant, reading it, so it was toned down. With this new found freedom, I want to explore it in a bit more detail.

Not to diminish the woman's fears and anxieties in any way, but for a man, being present for a c-section is probably some of the worst emotional torture he will ever experience. For all of you who have not experienced this before, imagine being in the operating room, sitting behind a curtain, knowing that on the other side someone is literally cutting open your spouse. Imagine knowing that a few feet away from you, someone you love and cherish is being worked on by a team of doctors, while you stand by unable to do anything except hold her hand and tell her everything will be OK.

Now add in the fact that not only are you there, worried sick about your spouse, but you're also numero uno in charge of your new baby. You're alone, figuratively speaking, with this new life, and you need to take care of that baby. But your wife is still having surgery, pretty much right next to you.

And that's if you're lucky.

For those of you who haven't read our birth story, part two is the delivery (which, in case you're completely oblivious, was a c-section), and in there you learn that I, dear reader, was most definitely not lucky.

My daughter was born and taken to the assessment table, and I was called over to see her and take pictures. During one of my attempts to get a better angle, I walked into what can best be called the "no fly" zone. I saw my wife's abdomen, still open with clamps or whatever, as they were working on her (in hindsight, I think they were repairing the internal incision, but I honestly didn't look long enough to confirm this). I recoiled, and after proving to the nurses that I was a man of will, I was given my daughter. Unfortunately, I was not allowed to leave the O.R. right away (as is standard practice at this hospital) because they were concerned I'd pass out while carrying the newborn, so I was left to sit (far, far away) and listen while they finished the surgery. I was eventually allowed to leave and take my daughter to recovery, where we waited for MTM.

I have played that scenario over in my head eleventy million times since that day, and each time I still end up looking where I shouldn't look. I have made myself literally sick with worry, anticipating a repeat of the same experience.

Fortunately, this c-section is booked for the exact.same.room as our first, meaning that I know the layout of the room intimately (see: eleventy million repeats). I know where I will stand, and where I will not, and that I will make liberal use of the zoom feature on our camera as I stand back. I have an almost pathological sense of preparedness this time. I have exit strategies and contingency plans.

But that doesn't change the fact that my wife is having surgery next Wednesday, and I'll be in the room with her. And I will scared shitless the whole time.

Independence Revisited

Throughout the week, MTM and I had been trying to encourage the munchkin that everything would be fine at dance class. We instituted a new "rule" that said that kids go on the hardwood while parents stay on the carpet (in other words, parents will not, under any circumstances, enter the class). We tried to remind her that the class was fun, and that one of us (we see no point in confirming for her that MTM will not be attending classes until after the baby is born) would be right outside the door.

Saturday morning the munchkin and I walked to her third ballet class, and while we walked, we talked about the wood and the carpet, and how she was going to be a big girl and be brave and have no tears.

When the time came, the teacher's assistant opened the door and invited the girls in. The munchkin climbed up into my arms, and clung to me, calling for MTM in a whiny voice. I spoke softly, and told her Mommy wasn't there, but that she would be fine. We walked into the changeroom and opened the door there (which, for those who forget, opens into the part of the classroom where the teacher starts class), and the munchkin went in and sat next to the assistant while I stayed on the carpet.

One of our friends arrived a little late and after her daughter went into the class, she (the mom) stood by the door while I "hid" out of view. She gave me a play by play, and, much to my delight, the munchkin never looked for me once. We migrated a bit further from the door (to prevent our conversation from disrupting the class), and then, without so much as a word, the teacher closed the door.

"Uhm, Miss Teacher?"

"Yes Munchkin?"

"Why did you close the door?"

"Well, I closed it because I didn't want any of the girls running out of the classroom."

"Oh. Well, now I can't see my Daddy."

"That's OK. He's still there."

"But I can't see him."

"It's OK. It's your turn, now, Munchkin. Can you walk like a ballerina for me?"

"OK!"

Having heard that through the door, I walked out to the main lobby to watch through the open door there. Sure enough, when the munchkin walked by, she peered over to make sure I was there, but she didn't flinch or freak out at all. She stayed for the entire class, and did not cry (or completely lose her shit, as I expected her to) when the door closed.

I heaped praise on her from the moment she proudly exited the class with a sticker on her hand. We talked about how much fun it was, and how brave she was, and how proud I was the whole walk home. MTM met us on the sidewalk just in front of our house, and continued the praise-fest I started. Throughout the day on Saturday we reinforced how much fun the class was, and how proud we were that she did it without us.

By nature I am a pessimist realist, so by no means do I think we're out of the woods yet, but we made huge strides this weekend, people. HUGE. Can I get a "Hell ya"?

---

I also have a post up at my review blog, about my daughter's fashion sense.

I'm Like The Matrix...

I'm everywhere, at least today.

Today I'm guest-posting for Whit over at Honea Express. My post is basically a rip-off of a post he did last month, where I set a five minute timer and let my stream of consciousness spill out on to the floor table blogosphere. So, if you want, click over and have a read and let me know what you think of that style of post either here or in Whit's comments. Maybe I'll do more like that here.

Also, for those readers who don't visit via a feed reader (and really, why don't you?), this is my second post today; there's a much longer one below (and I even swear and get somewhat violent in it and everything!)

The Decision

Fifteen years ago, I made a decision that would alter the course of my life more than I could have anticipated. However, as with all stories, it is important to understand its beginnings.

In high school, I was, to be kind, a social outcast. I was smart, fat, and funny looking - the kiss of death for adolescence. I excelled at math and science, but I was also a band geek (I even did two sessions at band camp). I spent most of my free time trying to get the "cool" kids to like me, even though deep down I knew it was futile.

At that time, Ontario allowed students to apply to three universities. My applications were to Hometown University (herein HTU): the local school that was about a 15 minute drive from my house, Prestigious Technical University (herein PTU): a school about three hours away by car that is well known for engineering, and Unique Approach University (herein UAU): another out of town school that had a hybrid engineering/arts program that would have enabled me to take music as well as engineering. At the outset, UAU was my number one choice because I really wanted to continue music (I played alto sax).

The acceptance letters all came within a day of each other. UAU offered one year's tuition as a scholarship, plus a chance at a federal scholarship to be decided after I accepted. HTU offered me scholarships (school and federal) totalling enough to cover all my expenses, plus supplemental income. PTU offered me one term's tuition, plus a four year federal scholarship (the federal scholarship was the same amount from all three schools). Aside from their offers was a scholarship from my father's employer that would cover all tuition and book costs for any school I chose.

I immediately dismissed UAU from contention on the basis of the fact that I felt they insulted me by not guaranteeing the federal deal up front. My mother assumed I would take the HTU offer: I could live at home and even after living like a rockstar be able to save some of the scholarship cash. When I told her I had chosen PTU, she lost it. She threatened that if I went there that I would do so on my own with no help from my parents. (This, after my older sister had lived at home for her undergrad and they had paid part of her tuition.) I refused to back down, and would not accept subsequent offers of money from my parents until my final term in university when my younger sister begged me to let them buy my textbooks. (Unrelated to this story is the fact that I graduated without any debts thanks to the scholarships and a lucrative co-op program.)

I went to PTU, and most of the people there were from another, much larger, very different city about an hour away. I did not fit in. I dressed different, I talked different, I had different values and opinions and ideas. I was lonely and unsure for the initial week after frosh week (since the first week was basically just a celebration of alcohol abuse). I was faced with a choice: I could resume my submissive role and try to get people to like me, or not.

My choice crystalized one Friday night in September. A bunch of the guys from our floor were going to a campus bar, myself included. I was getting dressed when a neighbour came to my open doorway.

"Why do you dress like that?" he asked.

"Huh?"

"Why do you dress so different? Why do you always disagree with everyone else? Why can't you just try to fit in?"

Within a second I had lept over my bed, thrown him against the wall in the hallway, and placed my forearm across his throat.

"Why don't you shut the fuck up?"

I stepped back and stared. He walked away.

A strange thing happened that night. I went out with the crowd, and although he didn't talk to me personally, I know that the story of our exchange was shared many times that evening. They all knew; I could feel it. But nobody said anything. Nobody said anything that night, or any other night. I was no longer weird or difficult. I was just... different.

Things changed after that. I still felt just as misplaced and uneasy as ever, but not because of anything anyone else did to me; I just felt it inside. To anyone else looking at us from the outside, I was "one of the guys". To this day I believe that they really were trying to break me, and when I finally lashed out they realized that I had become a man of will and stopped trying and just accepted the circumstances for what they were.

I kept all of them - and pretty much everyone at that school - at arm's length for that first year. I carried my uniqueness like both a chip on my shoulder and a badge of honour and pride. I would hang out with them, and I would treat them like allies when things got out of control, but at the end of the day it was just me and the rest were them: an abstract concept in my mind, not like me, not enemies, but not friends either.

And then, she decided things had to change (and no, she is not MTM).

To be continued...

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I also have a new post up at Babies Online, where I look at a study that implies a link between a mother's bond and the delivery type.

Leading, Following

A few days ago, I came home from work and the munchkin came racing towards me, announcing that she had been to the park, and not only that, she had climbed "the blue ladder" all by herself.

I looked at MTM, and she nodded.

"Really? All by yourself? That's pretty high up. Was Mommy at the bottom?"

"Nope. She was resting on a bench because the baby was making her tired."

"Wow," I turned back to MTM, "I'm surprised you let her do that."

"I stood with her the first couple of times, and she looked confident to me."

*    *    *
Fast forward to last night, when I took the munchkin to the same park after work. I watched her climb the same ladder a couple of times without incident, and she told me she was a big girl, and that I should go sit.

She looks OK, I thought to myself, But she loses focus sometimes. I'm worried. But, MTM is way more paranoid than I am about this sort of stuff, so the munchkin must be fine.

I went over to the parent benches and sat down. The munchkin climbed up, up, up the ladder and went down the slide. Then she went up, up... down.

I ran to her (well, ran is a relative term; I was in crocs in a sand pit) to find her already getting to her feet, face and (ick) mouth full of sand. I swept her up and carried her over to the benches as she sobbed on my shoulder.

After I had wiped out as much of the sand as I could and assessed the damage (none, save for a minor nick on her upper lip that may or may not have already been there), I told her we would head home to rinse out the remainder of the sand. She sobbed harder.

"But I want to play more!"

So, she's probably not broken then, I thought to myself.

We played a little while longer and made our way home. As soon as she walked in the door, she informed MTM what had happened. Then, while the munchkin was rinsing out the sand, MTM and I had the following exchange:

"I was surprised when you let her climb that unsupervised," I said.

"Well, I wasn't 100% confident, but I'm trying to be more relaxed. You should have spoken up."

"And I was trying to follow your lead since I'm usually the more relaxed one."

In other words, both of us were trying to follow the lead of the other one, and neither of us was actually leading. With our luck, this will happen when she's a teenager and wants to borrow the car to go out with some kid named "Snake".

The Burden Of Knowing

When MTM was pregnant with the munchkin, we knew almost nothing about the baby growing inside of her. We did not know the gender, we did not know exactly when she would go into labour, we did not know how labour and eventually the delivery would progress. We went to bed the night of her due date with no more knowledge than we'd had in the weeks leading up to that imaginary "action" date, and woke up a few hours later with MTM's water breaking and, after a shower and some significant contractions, drove to the hospital.

If you are interested, the whole story is told in three parts: part 1, part 2, and part 3.

This time, things are very different. In order to better prepare the munchkin (who was convinced the new baby was a girl) we opted to learn the gender via ultrasound (it's a boy). Due to the circumstances of the last delivery (brief version: long labour culminating in c-section due to either baby positioning or birth canal shape) we decided it would be better to have a scheduled c-section this time, since it is believed that MTM's long recovery was caused by the long labour prior to the surgery. So, we also know when it will happen.

Here's the thing: we did not have amniocentesis done, so the gender thing is based on grainy ultrasounds at around 20 weeks; there's room for error there. And although we have a date (two weeks from today... gah!) the size of MTM's abdomen makes us wonder if we'll actually make it to that date (as of yesterday, she's measuring at 41 weeks - standard human gestation is 40 weeks - uhm, yeah). So in a way, we're no better off than the first time.

However, we do know what to expect this time. We know that it will be a c-section, which means that I will, once again, have to be in the same room while my wife is having surgery. I know that I will hold the baby for a long time before I can share him with my wife. I know that the recovery will be long, and it will be hard, and through it all someone (namely me) has to make sure the munchkin doesn't get left out. I know that I'm already feeling tired because of work and trying to do more around the house to alleviate MTM's workload, and that this fatigue cannot compare to what I am about to experience.

I also know that this time, when I go back to work, I'll be leaving three people behind, and only one of them won't be aware. The munchkin has been telling me almost daily now that she likes the days that I don't go to work, and that she's sad and misses me when I'm at work. Soon, she'll get her wish (sort of) as I expect to take about three weeks of vacation time to help MTM through her recovery, get acquainted with our son, and take care of the munchkin. And then I'll be gone again.

Having been through this once before is supposed to make it easier. I'm supposed to be better prepared, having had a practice run. Instead, I think I'm more anxious, more stressed, more worried about the whole thing than I was last time. Sometimes, ignorance really is bliss, and knowledge is a burden.

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I also have a new post up at Babies Online, about body image and preschoolers.

Independence

This past weekend, my daughter had two opportunities for independence, and each opportunity yielded a response very different to the one I was expecting.

At her ballet class, I truly believed that in the absence of MTM, the munchkin would have little issue with participating in the class like the other girls: in the room, without a parent by her side. From my account, you know that is not the case.

When we left her at my in-laws, I thought to myself, There's no way she sleeps here tonight; she'll struggle, my MIL will try to avoid the inevitable, and by 10pm we'll be driving back to pick her up. I wasn't trying to be negative; I just didn't think she'd be willing to spend an evening away from both of us.

My daughter's independence is something that I worry about constantly. She is, by anyone's definiton, a "Mommy's girl" (or, more rudely, a "momma suck") and has been almost since day one. Originally, I blamed this on the fact that MTM was a SAHM, and therefore was the munchkin's sole caregiver for the bulk of the day, and her one constant. A lot of kids go to daycare, or preschool, I rationalized, so they're used to more people than she is. She'll grow out of it once she starts taking classes without MTM.

Unfortunately, this has not been the case, and instead we are the proud parents of "that girl": the one that makes the other parents sigh, and try to get their own, more confident kids to help out in some strange attempt to show solidarity among parents.

My personal challenge is that I do not know if I am expecting too much from her at three and a half, or if I have a reason to be concerned. I have my own issues with independence; without going into too much detail, because of my mother's personality and to a certain degree my younger sister's too, I view dependence of any kind to be akin to weakness. This is my own shit, and I am acutely aware of this fact. So, while I sit back and panic about my daughter's lack of willingness to spend 30 minutes in a room without either of us, I do so wondering if it's all my own issue and really there's nothing wrong with her.

As I've said before, I want my kids to grow up feeling loved. However, at the same time, I do not want them to grow up emotionally crippled, incapable of getting along without either parent nearby. Logically, I know that someday she will grow up and become her own person, likely fiercely independent. I just worry that it'll take a monumental effort from all of us to get her there.

This is the part where you all click the comment link and tell me your own horror stories about separation anxiety, and make me feel better. Deal? Deal.

A Good Weekend For The Munchkin

Saturday morning, the munchkin and I walked to her second ballet class. MTM and I had decided that after last week's events, it would better if I took the munchkin by myself. We figured the separation anxiety would be lessened by the fact that I am not the familiar or preferred or favoured parent.

Honestly, I'm not sure if we were right or not. She would not stay in the class without me there, and since I refused to stay in there, we were at an impasse until another mom suggested opening the door to the changeroom which in turn allowed me to stand in a doorway near the munchkin, but technically not in the room. (Yes, it is semantics, but we're making progress: no parent in the classroom this week.)

Once she got over her anxiety, she again had a blast. She chattered non-stop the entire walk home about how much fun she had, and how she wanted to go back for another one right away. Now all we need to do is get her to remember this feeling at the start of the next class 167.5 hours later.

Saturday afternoon, MTM and I discovered the solution to our talking fork problem: get rid of the preschooler. We dropped the munchkin off with my in-laws for her first ever night away from both of us.

While she was busy playing with MTM's old toys from the 1970s that my MIL kept, making pizza and blueberry pancakes, MTM and I talked. Seriously, we talked. We went out for dinner, where we had entire conversations, complete with a point and everything, and on the way home MTM remarked that she felt like we had two week's worth of talking, to which I replied that now we've run out of things to say to one another.

We rented a couple of movies, one for us, and one for me. For us, we got Jumper, which wasn't the greatest movie ever, although MTM enjoyed it (personally my theory is that her impression was influenced by the presence of Samuel L. Jackson and Rachel Bilson - MTM is a huge OC nut). I felt like they didn't explore the relationship between jumpers and paladins enough. For me, we got Cloverfield, which MTM had no interest in seeing (she hates horror flicks and is presently paranoid about the premature labour inducing powers of suspenseful movies). I really enjoyed the movie, although most reviews I've read panned it. The cinematography was definitely interesting.

Sunday morning, after sleeping in until 8.40am for the first time in forever, we relaxed over coffee and drove over to pick up the munchkin. She was not as enthused to see us as MTM had hoped, and although she came with us willingly, I think she would have been equally happy to spend another night there. It looks like this will become a regular "make munchkin feel special" thing, which is going to come in handy once she has a time-monopolizing baby brother.

Sunday afternoon we went to the mall so the munchkin could spend $20 that she received from my work on a stuffed My Little Pony. No, you read that correctly: one of the owners of my company (who met the munchkin back in March when she came for a visit) gave MTM a $20 to buy something from him. This is the second time he's done this (the first being shortly after the visit in March, when she obtained a Doodlebops "keytar" like Deedee). I can't really explain why except that he really likes kids, and I think he wants to encourage them to like him. If nothing else, it makes me think twice when I'm frustrated at work, because it's pretty rare to have a boss who will give your kid $20 out of his own pocket so she can go buy a toy.

In hindsight, the munchkin had an amazing weekend: ballet class, an overnight with her grandparents, and toy shopping with really no restrictions from Mommy and Daddy. I'm glad we were able to do this for her, because I know in a few weeks we won't be able to lavish this much attention on her.

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I have a new post up at Babies Online, where I talk about having two kids.

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I also have two new posts up at my review blog; one about teaching my daughter about finances and the other is an actual review of the book Maybe Baby.

Intentions

Sometimes (originally, I was going to open with the word "often", but after perusing my archives in an attempt to quantify this fact I concluded that "sometimes" was more accurate) when I write about the time I spend with my daughter (such as our daddy-daughter dates or just playing with her toys), I get an email or a comment with a similar sentiment: that my actions now are establishing her expectations for other men in her life, or that I am teaching her what to look for in a man.

I fear that you give me far too much credit, dear reader, if you believe that. In all honesty, nothing could be further from the truth. I have no intention of defining what she should expect from men when she is older; I cannot even fathom her being older, let alone having any expectations of men. I appreciate the compliments - please don't misunderstand me and think otherwise - but you are praising me for something I had no intentions of doing.

The truth is that the motivation for that aspect of my parenting is far more basic. By the time I was eight or nine, both my father worked and my mother worked. When they weren't working, they were often out drinking (Dad) or sleeping (Mom). As a kid, I have many memories of wanting some of my parent's time but never actually getting it (or feeling like I didn't get enough). Combine that with what was, at best, a tenuous relationship with my father, and it is pretty clear where this explanation is headed.

I have long maintained that one's parenting style is based on how they were parented themselves. This is yet another example to prove my theory. I don't want my daughter to grow up feeling like she didn't get enough of my time. I want her to remember that I took the time for just the two of us to go out, that we played with toys she wanted to play with, that she felt like she and her happiness were important to me. I don't want her growing up knowing I love her; I want her to grow up feeling that I love her.

It will be the same with my son. I will take him out (admittedly I will not call them "dates") and I will play with whatever toys he wants to play with too (hopefully it's trucks and Lego; playing with dolls will be OK too, but I'd like a little break from the pink and the girly that his sister favours sometimes). I will not do it because I want to establish expectations for his future, I will do it for the same reasons I do it for my daughter: because they are my kids, and I love them.

Equal

I feel like a lot of my posts are either me complaining about something, or telling a funny anecdote. I rarely write about "good stuff". Today, I am writing about "good stuff".


In the months before MTM became pregnant, as well as a couple of months after that, she went to the gym after dinner a few times a week. Initially, the baths and bedtimes were challenging to say the least. The munchkin cried for her mother, often falling asleep sobbing or forcing herself to stay awake until she heard the front door open and would then call for MTM to kiss her good night.

Eventually, with a lot of effort from both the munchkin and myself, she became comfortable with the situation, and all was well with the world. Until MTM stopped going to the gym.

Once her mother was a regular fixture at bed time, she was the defacto parent for all post-dinner activities. She bathed, she dressed, she read, she brushed. Every time we tried to interject me into the mix, the munchkin would either completely lose her shit or would throw me an inconsequential "job" like taking her to the bathroom (which is basically "stand in the doorway and make sure she doesn't unroll all the toilet paper").

As MTM's due date approached, she began to worry about the munchkin's night time routine. She was concerned that the munchkin would have a difficult time accepting me as the sole caregiver, and would possibly blame the new baby for Mommy's sudden absence. So, we started pretending that MTM already had the baby and I was responsible for baths. Initially, it was as difficult (if not more difficult) than our previous attempt, with incessant pleas for Mommy and attempts to negotiate a division of labour between the two of us.

Here we are, a little bit less than a month later. I can honestly say, without a hint of apprehension, that we are over the hump. I am now the defacto bath giver, pajama dresser, tooth and hair brusher, and bedroom preparer. Stories are generally handled by MTM, but if she's not upstairs when story time arrives, I simply read the stories without any complaints from the munchkin.

I often struggle with daddy guilt, worrying that by working outside the home I am somehow ruining my chances at a good relationship with my daughter. But right now, even though I still get pangs of guilt (like earlier this week, when I came home to learn that MTM sent the munchkin to her room for hitting her, and eventually found the munchkin crying for me on her floor while kissing a photo of me), I feel pretty good about how things are turning out.

I have become, at least in the night time routine environment, MTM's equal as a parent in the munchkin's eyes, and I cannot describe how good that makes me feel.

The Failure Of "The Talking Fork"

For those of you who are incapable of paying attention to details new to the site, my daughter is three and a half years old. She is quite verbal for her age, meaning that she is incapable of living in silence she talks non-stop. Dinner time had become problematic of late, since every time MTM and I try to have a conversation, the munchkin interrupts.

Our original effort to combat this was the "silent request". In lieu of blurting out whatever her mind brought forth instantaneously with little no regard for what anyone else was saying, we got her to put her hand on one of our legs to indicate she wanted to speak next. In concept, this worked well. In practice? Not so much.

She would place her hand on my thigh, and as soon as I paused to acknowledge her, she would seize the opportunity to speak to MTM or myself, effectively ending the pre-existing conversation.

For a few weeks, MTM had been contemplating the implementation of a new system: "The Talking Spoon". The spoon would serve a similar purpose to The Conch in Lord of the Flies; the holder of the spoon had the right to speak, uninterrupted. On Sunday night, she introduced it, except that instead of a large wooden spoon, she chose the munchkin's Disney Princess dinner fork that had been cast aside in favour of fingers.

"The Talking Fork" experiment was marked with the following events:

• Initially, the munchkin would demand the fork immediately after surrendering it, in an effort to prolong her "talk time".
• Then, she reasoned that since she sat in the middle, the fork would follow the path of munchkin - MTM - munchkin - SFD - munchkin - MTM...
• When both of those plans failed, she argued that since it was her fork, she was "in charge" of its distribution, insisting that it had to be passed to whoever she chose, not the person whose turn was next.
• At one point she became so frustrated that she flung the fork, nearly impaling my hand on it.
• "The Talking Fork" era ended with my suggestion to use "The Talking Corn Cob" instead, since a) it lacked anything sharp enough to break skin and b) it could be used to encourage the girl to eat more vegetables, as the holder of The Cob would have to eat some corn before speaking.

The next night, the munchkin asked if we could play "the fork game", and proceeded to talk into her dinner fork as if it was a microphone.

Since then, "The Talking Fork" has not reappeared, nor have any of its cousins, including, sadly, The Cob.

Oh Em Eff Gee

Before I begin, I would like to offer a word of caution to my wife: Sweetheart, this is one of "those posts" that you're probably better off not reading, especially not with the current state of your hormone levels. Even though I know you're still going to read, I feel better warning you ahead of time.


The following facts are known:

1. MTM has a c-section scheduled for October 1.
2. Thanksgiving Day in Canada is October 13.
3. Thanksgiving weekend begins (if you count the Friday evening as part of the weekend) October 10.
4. It took over seven weeks for MTM's last c-section to heal sufficiently for a road trip to visit my parents.
5. My parents are not physically capable of traveling to visit us after the baby comes.

This past weekend, my MIL called MTM and informed her that they (my in-laws) would be spending Thanksgiving at the cottage (a three hour drive away).

First, I have to be completely honest and say that this is a huge relief to both MTM and myself. The prospect of having my in-laws (with my SIL in tow, no doubt) at our place all day, with my MIL taking over (and criticizing) our kitchen making turkey dinner had us weary and leery before it even began. In truth, their absence will be a blessing.

However, they do not know that we feel this way, nor would they care. (Honestly, I'm not trying to be mean, but they put their own feelings ahead of ours or anybody else's most of the time. When the munchkin turned two we had a small party for her and two friends, and when we asked them to come over after the party instead of for the party so that she could enjoy some time with just her friends, they became indignant, arguing about their "rights" as grandparents. They opted to not even come on her birthday, instead coming one or two days later. Seriously.) Bottom line, they decided to go to the cottage for Thanksgiving because it suited them.

They decided to schedule their family Thanksgiving dinner at a location three hours from our house, knowing that MTM would be barely a week post-partum, that she would be barely able to get out of bed for an entire meal, much less drive three hours to get one. They knew that my family wouldn't be coming for the weekend, and that there is no way we could travel to them.

They knew that we'd have a new baby and a preschooler and be working on minimal sleep. And they know that turkey dinner is MTM's favourite.

But none of that mattered. They wanted to be at the cottage, regardless of who it excluded. They would rather spend Thanksgiving up north than with their new baby grandson and their precocious granddaughter, their only grandchildren.

Fortunately, my younger sister is likely to be at our place that weekend. (And no, my in-laws did not know that fact when they made their decision; I'm not even sure they know it now.) She's an awesome help, who gets that "helping with a new baby" means doing stuff like laundry, cleaning, and playing with the older sibling; not holding the baby and lounging on the couch watching television and messing up the kitchen. (Not that I know about other people's perspectives on this matter or anything...)

I have long maintained that my in-laws are two of the most selfish people I have ever met. They place their needs and wants before everyone else's, regardless of who gets hurt or left behind in the process. They often make decisions that baffle me; I admit freely (and proudly) that I am nothing like them, nor is MTM. I can say without a shred of doubt nor a sense of irony that if we are in a similar position one day, we will not leave our child with a new baby so we can have what we want for Thanksgiving, a family holiday.

Personally, I'm glad we have an in-law-free weekend. It will be relaxed, without the tension that seems constant between them and me. But it hurts MTM to have them treat her like this, and that pisses me off to no end.

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I have a new post up at Babies Online about Parenting and Politics.

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I also have a new post at Snackie TeeVee, for Prison Break: S4E2.

Our First Ballet Class

On Friday night, after the munchkin was in bed, MTM came to me and said, "So, I want to talk about tomorrow."

"What about it?"

"I don't know if I should go."

"It's your call."

"But what do you think?"

"I think it's your call."

We went on pretty much like that for 15 minutes.

On Saturday morning, I got up and had a talk with the munchkin about the morning's events. I explained that this week it could be all three of us, but eventually it would be just the two of us once the baby came. So, while I showered, she went and asked MTM to join us, which she did with glee.

We walked in, and everything was perfect. She was excited to be there (trust me, she's beaming behind the spidey smiley):


And there were friends (one she's known since birth; we met her parents at prenatal class, and one neighbour):


When the teacher called them in, she went in. And then she came running out, tears streaming down her face. I tried to negotiate her back into the room. I tried to convince her that she was ready to do this all by herself, and that her friends were there to support her if she needed. (One dad even offered to pull his kid out to take her hand and bring her in.) Nope. "Mama Mama Mama Mama," between sobs.

MTM tried to guide the munchkin back into the class, and then it happened. It would be the teacher suggesting that MTM could remain in the room during attendance, which of course suited the munchkin just fine. Unfortunately, MTM isn't as apt to piss people off as I am (I would have said, "Nope" and walked out), so she dutifully sat down next to the munchkin.

After MTM finally convinced the munchkin to allow her to stand in the doorway, I convinced MTM to leave the doorway and let me be there instead (my intention was to both "cut the cord" for both of them as well as encourage more independance for the munchkin). I mouthed to her that MTM had to use the bathroom (and with her being over eight months pregnant, this was an easy sell), and from that point, everything went beyond perfect.

At one point, the teacher said, "Now, you all walked very loudly. How do you think ballerinas walk?"

Within seconds, she spoke again. "That's right Munchkin! Everyone, look at how Munchkin is walking on her tippy toes. Everybody, try and walk like Munchkin." The munchkin was beaming from ear to ear.

Later on, they did a "free dance" segment, where everytime the music stopped the kids were supposed to freeze. The munchkin didn't quite grasp the freeze concept, and would run back to her original spot every time the music stopped. However, she danced, and twirled pirouetted and placed her arms like a little ballerina. A couple of the parents remarked to each other that she was "a natural".

And somewhere around there, my heart literally burst from pride.

Next week, it will be just me who takes the munchkin. It may be more difficult at first, but I think ultimately it will prove easier than having MTM there, at least until the munchkin develops more comfort.

Wow. That was long. OK, the rest of the weekend will be in short form.

The rest of the weekend was not all that eventful. There were a few errands, a dinner at a friend's house, and a bunch of outside time on Sunday (after watching the Lions lose to a rookie QB and a backup RB), first with puddles:


and then with picking tomatoes:


Overall, it was a relaxing weekend for MTM (I hope), and a good weekend for the munchkin. And if my girls are happy, then I'm good.

A Brand New Low

A few months ago, I told you about playing dollhouse with my daughter. In that post I joked about being a father, a man, playing with dolls. When I wrote that post, I thought that was the most emasculating experience I would have. I was wrong.


A couple of nights ago, my wife had a massage, leaving the munchkin and I to our own devices for the couple of hours between the end of dinner and bedtime. Since bath time only takes about 30 minutes, and I had planned to let her watch another half an hour of television before bed, we had some time to ourselves.

"What would you like to do, munchkin?"

"Play!"

"OK. What would you like to play?"

"Let's go to my room!"

"OK."

"And play My Little Pony!"

Crap.

So, we climbed the stairs to her room, and she assigned us each a pony from her stable. This was my pony (note the extra-girly butterfly wings):


Once each person had a pony of their own (hers was pink with strands of silver garland in its pink hair, for those wondering), we started to do their hair:


Partly because I knew she would like it, and partly because I'm an idiot I knew I would eventually need to learn how to do it, I braided my pony's tail:


Which was, of course, met with wild excitement. She ran to the bathroom and got her "hair bin" (where we keep her brushes and combs and barrettes and elastics and clips and stuff; NOT actual hair thankyouverymuch) so we could keep the braid. Then she had me braid the tails of the other two ponies she owned:


At least with the dollhouse there was a daddy doll that I could argue allowed me to demonstrate proper male role modeling. Where is the masculinity in braiding the tail of a pink and garland haired little pony with butterfly wings? Seriously. I left that room feeling like several beers and a bag of pork rinds weren't enough to wash the girlieness from my soul.

She better not question my love for her; that's for sure.

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I have a guest post up at Multi-tasking Mommy. It's a recipe for what I improvised for dinner last night.

Snip Snip

Whenever I ask for topic ideas (and even sometimes when I have not put out such a request) many people have the same suggestion. "You're having a boy. You should write about circumcision."


Our son will not be circumcised.

Before we delve any deeper into this topic (which I expect will bring out some heated emotions in the comments, regardless of where I stand), I want to state up front that I am giving my opinion. I am not telling anyone else what to do, so please don't tell me what to do. In other words, feel free to disagree, but above all, be nice.

In some religions, circumcision is a ceremonial rite of passage for a baby. It is not my intention to pass judgment on people who practice these faiths. However, it is my opinion that I can respect their right to practice their faith while still finding some rites unnecessary or uncomfortable without disrespecting their faith itself.

For the record, in Ontario, circumcision is technically listed as cosmetic surgery. It is elective, and not covered under the provincial health insurance plan (OHIP).

In some families, the final decision rests with the father, and many men make the decision based on the one their parents made for him (also known as the "be like Daddy" argument). While I understand the underlying rationale, I have to wonder: how do these fathers explain other physical differences? A man-child will not be a clone of his father; other parts of him will not "be like Daddy", so why is something that is hidden from view 99% of the time so critical to be matching? Another argument is that a circumcised peni$ is a clean peni$. This is an urban myth. If proper hygiene is taught, an uncircumcised peni$ is just as clean (some have argued cleaner, but I will leave it at equally clean) as a circumcised one.

Since I anticipate the question will arise, I am uncircumcised. In all honesty, I don't remember whether or not my father is circumcised, but if my recollection is correct, he is circumcised. My mother believed, despite what the doctors in the 1970s told her, that it was cruel and unnecessary, and my father deferred to her. However, my opinions about circumcision have nothing to do with the state of my own genitals.

Truthfully, the idea of someone using a knife on my man parts makes me squeemish. The idea of someone doing that to my son makes me even more uncomfortable. So, if the doctors don't think it's necessary, then I see no point in putting him through such an ordeal. (And to those who will say that the baby doesn't remember it, I honestly don't care. I will remember it, and I will know that someone did that to him.)

In reality, this decision isn't forever. In some cases, a boy may have an overly tight foreskin, a condition that may require a circumcision to correct. And in other cases, a man may choose to be circumcised as an adult. However, in both those cases, the decision is made for reasons I can accept, and the decision is not made at a mere few days old.

Bottom line: our son will not be circumcised, at least not now.

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I also have another post up at Babies Online, where I look at a study that has found that an absent father means earlier puberty in girls.

Two Munchkin Stories

The munchkin has wanted a nightgown since the middle of the spring. Finally, during our last visit to my parents, my mother got her one.

At first, she only wanted to wear it as a long top; as in she would wear it with a pair of pajama bottoms. However, earlier this week, she wore it with a pair of panties during a nap, which was a huge step forward. That night, we had the following discussion:

"Daddy, do I wear panties under my nightgown for sleeping?" (As a general rule, she only wears pajama bottoms to bed, no panties, since it is supposedly better for her girly parts to have air circulation during sleep. That's where this question came from.)

"Well, you don't have to wear them if you don't want to. Some girls don't wear them with nightgowns, and some do."

"But it's better for my body if I don't, right?"

"That's right sweetheart."

"OK. I won't wear any."

So, we finished getting ready for bed, and she climbed into our bed with MTM for stories. Suddenly, while Dora was getting her teeth x-rayed, my daughter exclaimed, "Mommy! My v@gina is all red!"

Both of us looked down, shocked to find her in the process of pulling her l@bia apart.

MTM, far better in these types of situations than me, replied, "Well sweetie, everyone is a little red in there," and then continued with Dora and the dentist.

After the munchkin was in bed, MTM and I were watching television when I turned to her during a commercial and said, "That was pretty freaky before. She was pulling so hard. It looked like it would hurt."

"Well, it's hard to see yourself like that."

"Yeah, well I'm glad you were there to diffuse that situation." Because if it was me, I probably would have shouted, "Stop that or you're going to go blind!"

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Last night while I was giving the munchkin her bath she talked non stop told me a story about her imaginary friend, Deedee (of Doodlebops fame), which in and of itself isn't remarkable. However, the following facts were part of the story:

• Deedee ate toast covered in bath water
• she then fed said toast to the new baby
• the new baby covered the toast with cinnamon
• once the baby actually ate the cinnamon-bathwater toast, he vomited

I guess I should start saving for therapy now.

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I also have a new post up at Babies Online, where I ask the question, Are Duo Strollers A Necessity?

A(nother) Weekend Of Nesting

A warning for all regular readers of this blog: from now until the baby comes, I fear that every weekend recap will be just like last weekend, where I itemize the plethora of stuff we did in preparing for the new baby's arrival. So, it won't hurt my feelings if you all stop visiting on Mondays for the rest of the month.


On Friday we went to Costco for a variety of things we missed last time as well as a new coffee maker since our current one was brewing coffee while both off and unplugged. We found that a bit unnerving, so we replaced it. We did learn, however, that Friday is the day for samples. Check it:


clockwise from top left: applesauce, wagon wheel, wagon wheel, rice pudding, skor bits cookie, mango marshmallow, chicken sausage
We still haven't decided if letting our kid have all this is cheap, bad parenting, or just smart.

On Saturday, we went to the zoo one last time before the baby's arrival. It was hot and sunny, and since the munchkin had no interest in the Max and Ruby show they were hosting, we basically took the Zoomobile to see the zebras:


and spent a fair bit of time in either the splash pad or the shade. In hindsight, MTM probably shouldn't have pushed herself, but in all honesty she's in pretty rough shape these days anyway. The baby is huge (direct quote from the OB, "you're not having a six pounder; over nine pounds for sure"; and this was at 35 weeks) and is capable of moving in such a way as to completely stop her in her tracks for upwards of five minutes at a time. Unfortunately, she is no more comfortable sitting or lying down.

On Sunday I rented a shop vac to finally clean up the remaining insulation from the basement. (I have been ripping down the fibreglass stuff around the area where we had some water leakage and some ant problems, and we had tons of residue on the floor.) Once that was done, I excavated the sit and stand stroller we bought in February and brought it up into the garage for assembly. It has a sitting option for the older kid (as opposed to just standing), but unfortunately that feature isn't available when the infant carrier is installed. So, the munchkin's going to walk or stand for the first little while.

Monday started with a family breakfast out at favourite little spot, and then it was home for more manual labour (on Labour Day, no less): washing cars, messing around in the garage, more shop vac in the basement, more excavating and bringing stuff upstairs, and other even less interesting events (like my new favourite party game, "do you think this is mould?" I'm an idiot for renting a shop vac and letting a very pregnant woman use it in our unfinished basement; everything looks like mould or rotting wood or evidence of ants or a massive flood just waiting to happen).

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In all honesty, this pregnancy has been a lot harder on both of us than the first one. I don't know if it's the fact that we have a preschooler whom we love so much and want to keep happy, or if there's something else at work. I think at least part of the challenge is that last time we were just two adults who understood what was going on, so we were able to just do nothing some days or weekends or evenings. Now we have the munchkin, and while she is truly an amazing kid, with more compassion and empathy than most adults, she's still three years old, and this isn't the easiest stuff in the world to process: Mommy isn't feeling well... but there's no medicine to help, no amount of rest will help... and through all this difficulty we will get a baby, a new cuddly somewhat tiny little bundle of poop, pee, vomit, tears, screams love to hold and kiss and make faces at and (eventually) play with.

Jeez, this gig can be hard to process sometimes for parents. I cannot begin to imagine how hard it must be for my daughter.

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Those more observant readers may have noticed an addition to my "Other Blogs" section; I'm now writing for Snackie TeeVee, where I'll be doing some recap/commentary posts on a few shows (a complete list has yet to be determined, but for now I've got Prison Break and Heroes). My first two posts are up there already: first is a precap for Prison Break, and second is my post about last night's season premiere of Prison Break.