Womb Whisperer

Wow, that blog title didn't seem half that creepy when I initially typed it. It was meant to be a play on The Dog Whisperer, which I assume is a play on the Robert Redford movie The Horse Whisperer, which is probably a play on something of greater socio-cultural significance that I am ignorant of. Either way, I just meant to imply that everytime I touch the wife's stomach to feel the boy practicing for World Cup 2028 (fingers crossed) he seems to instantly sense my presence and tranquility takes over her tummy. I'm like the anti-Fonz of pre-natal activity. I touch the jukebox and the music instantly stops.

I figured I could take this one of two ways. Either they boy has already learned to feel a crippling sense of fear everytime his father is near, and thus his legacy as a mutli-talented music megastar is nearly written in stone, or maybe my voice and touch are so soothing that I induce narcolepsy in the boy. I'm really hoping it's the latter, but at the same time it would be cool to see what life in one of those awesome RV's that all the rockstars travel in would be like, except you can't poop in them.

And don't feel too bad for me, he still kicks now and then for me too. So much so that sometimes you can actually see the wife's shirt move from across the room. World Cup 2028 I tell you!

No Football, Only Futbol

Call me overprotective, a socialist, or even just plain un-American, but the boy will not be playing pee wee football. I have nothing against football, and I am big proponent of youth sports in general, but I detest the culture of youth football. I mostly just the hate douchebag coaches who drive bloated SUV's and take out all their own daddy issues on kids that probably still pee the bed. And it always creeps me out when adults who spend the majority of their day around kids insist on wearing a hat and sunglasses at all times. In any other social situation wouldn't this overweight man shrouded in facial mystery be a walking Amber Alert?

Anyway, besides the aformentioned reasons, I don't want to teach the boy hyper aggresive behavior in grade school and don't want to have to watch him getting drilled by other midgets either. Not because I think he'll get killed, little kids are made of rubber, but how could any parent not laugh, even if it was their own child, getting their ass handed to them like the onses in this video...

Name Bar Raised

I was watching football last weekend and I came across what I consider to be the best name in the NFL (and possibly the history of man)...Rock Cartwright. Could any name possibly ooze more masculinity, intimidation, or pure americana? I couldn't think of any name combo that sounded remotely plausible, yet still insanely as over the top solid as damn Rock Cartwright. It's like God himself named the man while setting his personal best bench press record. Please take a moment to imagine a cartoon of God throwing up his personal best on the bench press (he's probably wearing an American Flag bandanay), sitting up and wiping the sweat from his brow with his God gym towel, chuckling to himself and leaning over towards his dry erase board to write out "Rock Cartwright"...then proceeding to whale on his lats. This has to be how this lucky running back obtained his glorious name.

And yes, you should now be scared for the boy, considering the ante has been considerably upped in the name game. All sorts of greatness has come flooding into my brain since the Rock encounter. I'm sure I can do some refining with the help of a thesaurus, but names like Superior, Major, and Rod have now all entered the equation. They will never be rock, but at least the sentiment to overcompensate for all deficiencies in my life will be blatantly obvious for all to see.

Gimme Sympathy

What the hell is going on with my body right now? Everyone asks how the wife is doing, and she's doing just like a pregnant woman should be doing, but what about me? My back aches, I'm not sleeping through the nigh, I can't stop craving goddamn Panda Express, and I swear I'm peeing about 14 times a day. I never believed in sympathy pains, and I still don't, but I do think it's funny that my current lifestyle choices are leading to a series of results that would normally imply a giant jump in estrogen.The funny thing (the previous sentences weren't really funny, but instead stone cold truths) is that now the wife feels like I feel in every normal day of my life.

Here's a quick rundown of our newfound similarities:

• Happy Hours aren't nearly as fun when you're forced to hangout for multiple sober hours and then drive drunk asses home. In fact, 80% of alcohol related social encounters completely blow when you can't drink.
• My back kills from years of athletic overuse and lack of stretching, hers from carrying around life all day.
• Her maternity pants keep sliding off because of their elastic waistbands, mine do because I have a flat ass (or "no-ass-at-all" disease, as it's referred to in medical literature).
• TV's and couch are incredibly alluring when you can't do anything athletic because your body is currently a shell of its former self.
• And sweat pants, sweet sweet sweat pants. There is no further explanation needed.  

My only grave fear is what can I do to compare to her popping out the lil midget? The posibilities are very limited and all equally cringe-inducing.

Dentists Gone Mild

I went to the dentist this week for the first time in a while. I figured I would be berated for missing my last yearly checkup and then forced to endure a half hour's worth of unbridled pain as the hygienist went to town with her evil hook-pick thing during my "cleaning". Has there ever been a general shape or medical implement that exuded more pure evil than that little metal bastard? I dare say not.

Anyway, I was pleasantly surprised by how nice everyone was at the dentist's office, including a total lack of harsh lecturing. In fact, even the x-rays aren't so bad anymore. I distinctly remember tearing up and gagging every time a small rectangle of the world's sharpest cardboard was hatefully lodged into the back recesses of my mouth in previous visits, but not these days. Then the true turning point came when the hygienist asked if was allergic to anything and I replied, "Only dentist offices", she laughed and I apologized for not coming in regularly and told her it was ok to now proceed to induce tears because of my mouth transgressions. She then shook my foundations by telling offering me numbing gel for my gums, handing me headphones and a remote for the DirecTv above my head, and turning on the massage chair. I didn't feel a thing (other than the soothing massage chair) and watched sports the entire time. What in the...

I know what you're saying, "what the hell does any of this have to do with being an expectant father?". Everything, impatient reader. Everything.

I have been afraid of the dentist for a solid 29 years. Not just afraid, but as soon as you get me in that seat I expect the worst, usually get something even worse than my terrible expectations, and as I moved into adulthood was forced to pay money out of my own pocket for all this fascist torture. The only good thing about my childhood dentist was the free Frogger game in the lobby, which was freaking awesome, but didn't help much once you got pulled back into The Chair. Surely this was at least a partial cause of my ulcers (that, and room fulls of inflated balloons. cringe...). But now there is hope for a new generation of youngins. My boy shall go to this wonderland of dental professionals I have found less than a block from the beach. He will not be afraid, as I was, instead he will glide through a world of gum-numbing gel and DirecTv, with his only concern being whether to set the massage chair to stationary or rolling.

Now if you're like one of my closest friends who shall rename nameless, you would probably think this is all a bunch of horseshit. Why should my kid get off so easy? I will tell you exactly why, it's one less thing I will be forced to bargain, plead, and coerce him into doing in his young life. It not only makes my dentist woes easier now, it will make my parenting experience easier and if I'm lucky I can even surf while he's getting his cleaning. Suck it, parenting!

Goooal!!!

I have a feeling, due to all the hype around me and the wife's general athletic proficiencies, that the cosmos will play a hilarious joke on us and the boy will probably end up being this kind of child athelete...

Registry and Breasts

Last week we went baby shower registry shopping at Target (not exactly a Top 5 on most guys' lists of awesome things to do on your lunchbreak) . This trip consisted of the wife making mostly prudent and responsible choices regarding baby gear, with a few pregnancy mania-induced overshopping crazes sprinkled in. My only role was to approve or deny her choices and hold the lazer scanner gun while shooting everything in sight. My inner dialogue during the hour long shopping/zapping fest consisted entirely of futuristic space ray gun sounds: zap, peeoow, ziing! I was able to resist the urge to scan the wife's boobs, but only after she saw me lining the gun up and then told me not too.

The only item that I really dug in on was a 3 piece San Diego Charger warm up set. He's a boy, it will look adorable, and even though I never played football I do love me a pair of comfy sweat pants. When he's old enough the boy can make his own sporting and clothing decsions, but for now I get to live out my little fairy tale sports dreams through his infancy.

The only weird part about registry shopping, other than the fact that we were buying clothes for someone that still lives in a giant liquid pouch, was when we were shopping for bottles and a nice young lady asked if she could give us some good advice. I thought she was going to recommend one brand or style of bottle over another, instead she went on a probably 5 minute run of how you must time "pulling the baby off the boob" at exactly the right time. Otherwise the kid will either become boob dependent (uh, he is a guy) or bottle dependent. I know she was trying to be helpful and share her experience, but the whole thing felt really odd. Especially when you're like me and can't stop overthinking every situation and you realize that this girl is not only talking about my wife's breasts, but also giving us pretty intimate details about her own chest situation. It was a man test of will and I would like to think I passed without cracking up or telling her to mind her own business. I hope to not have any future boob-based conversations with strangers at Target, but if I do at least I know I'm battle tested now.    

Name Suggesting: The Ancient Art of Awkward

If you have a name suggestion for the boy, please feel free to post it in the comment section of this blog. That way we can avoid that awkward moment of silence that occurs in face to face and phone conversations where you suggest a name or two that you think would be great for our new child and we desperately struggle to figure out how to politely lie and tell you that we will consider it.

This might be the weirdest social aspect of being an expectant parent. I respect your opinion, and you might even suggest a name we love, but I'd say roughly 98% of the time it ends in fake laughter or prolonged staring, instead of high fives and excessive rejoicing. It's kind of like when an elderly person farts in public. Nobody wants to be rude, but is it ruder to completely change the subject and pretend like nothing happened? There is no comfortable way out of this situation.

Also, please stop suggesting I name the kid after myself. Surprisingly, during the first 6 months of the wife's pregnancy I have already contemplated this option (for roughly all of 5 seconds). And though I do not wish to pass my name along to the boy, I don't actually have anything against juniors, I just figure why make the kid's social life more confusing then it needs to be. He is already going to have my last name, why add any more expectations that will likely come back to bite me in the ass when junior begins "figuring where things went wrong" in therapy. Besides, I don't want mini-me getting into trouble and somehow blaming that crap on me!

Man Lessons Revisited

I fear that I have already failed in my pre-fatherhood journey. It's completely unacceptable, neigh, unconscionable that I made mention of Terminator in my "Man Lessons" post about movies that taught me life lessons and yet I somehow omitted T2: Judgement Day. We are talking about a movie that is arguably the most awesome adolescent blockbuster ever made! Even more impressive, it's epic awesomeness is not even slightly hindered by its complete and total lack of boobs (some would argue it even completely lacked a female character...ouch). I know that there is still plenty of time before the boy is born, let alone before he reaches proper viewing age, but I still feel as though my lack of proper fathering skills have been exposed.

A quick rundown of a few of the important lessons garnered by young boys from T2:

-Flat tops will never die. You're probably thinking that I'm referring to the fact that Arnold's character is still rocking the same symmetrical hairstyle after his inital experience traveling through time to kill a member of the Connor family in 1984. What you're missing is the fact that Arnold's presence in the past only confirms the haircut's popularity nearly a half century into the future (2029). Mindblowing!

-Semi trucks filled with gas make a totally sweet pingy sound right before they explode into tsunami's of fire. What could make a massive explosion of gas and future cyborg assasins even cooler...ping-KABOOM!!!

-Operating lever-action shotguns while riding Harley Davidon motorcyles is not only feasible, but it's also just plain badass.  I would never have believed it if I hadn't seen it on the big screen with my own eyes. Who would have thought that these two seemingly opposing activities could work out as well as an Austrian bodybuilding actor trying his hand at state politics.....ahh shit.

-The key to real comic genius is merely asking a foreigner to mesh English with some sort of Spanish slang... and then blowing something or someone up! I bet Steve Martin feels soo stupid for wasting his time "thinking" about all those jokes!

Constant Cravings

So far cravings have not been a part of the wife's pregnancy. Please note that in the previous sentence I refrained from taking partial posession of the wife's 40 week physical marathon by referring to this experience as "our pregnancy". I am here to do everything I can to make this process as comfortable as possible for her, but at the end of the day I don't have to carry around a medicine ball in my gut, I can lay flat on a surfboard, and am still able to make it through the night without waking up multiple times to pee. Sorry, rant digression, back to the food. Far from craving any random food, the wife is actually experiencing stronger than normal aversions to many foods she already didn't love, and is unable to eat many foods she would like to eat because of "what I did to her". The only thing even slightly resembling a craving she has experienced is a desire for soda. But this makes sense when you realize that something had to take the place of any and all previously enjoyable Happy Hour beverages.

I on the other hand appear to be experiencing some sort of inexplicable sympathy cravings. I probably completely made that term up, but we have noticed a trend ever since we found out a little one was on the way. Probably 3-4 times a week I absolutely lust after Panda Express. Why do I crave hastily made semi-cultural fast food? I have no damn clue. In high school I had a solid relationship with the take out specialists and bi-racial bear enthusiasts, but by the time I made it to college I realized that we were just going our seperate ways. I thought I had completley kicked the habit. Sure, I would grab some orange chicken if I was desperate for a quick hit of sweet and ethnic, but I always felt a little depressed after eating there. Now, for the past 20+ weeks I have been all over that damn place like... .

Anyway, I don't know what the deal is or when it will stop, but I literally had to sit in a chair for 10 minutes tonight and convince myself that I would be happier without orange chicken. I ended up getting some of the best Mexican chicken soup around and it was delicious. I've been feeling like I was catching a cold all day, so the soup was the perfect meal. Yes, I am still completely pissed I didn't go to Panda. WTF?!

Man Lessons for The Boy

Nearly all of my childhood lessons in machismo and comedy were garnered through my exposure to R-rated movies at a young age. As bad as that sounds it really was a very progressive parenting step employed by my mom. I wasn't ever allowed to watch any horror movies (which is probably why I curled up in a ball and whimpered endlessly in the theater when I tried to sit through "The Ring"...as the wife sat there completely unphased) and I had to close my eyes during all gratuitous sex scenes. I was also never allowed to cuss or play with guns when I was a kid, so it was sort of an agreement between my mom and I that I was allowed to be exposed to more mature content as long as I carried myself in a mature manner. When you think about it, it was actually a great life lesson about responsibility and earned trust and respect. Also, I did occasionally not completely close my eyes and was able to peek at a boobie now and again, so it was a win-win all around.

Fast forward to the present day and I am faced with the fact that in the near future I will be able teach the boy all the great things about being a man. Unfortunately, the only instructional man video I currently own on DVD is Footloose. This sweeping epic (shut up) taught me about the dangers of religious fervor, how to dance my anger out in warehouses, and how perfectly cute high school chicks can grow up to be skeletal caricatures of themselves (Sarah Jessica Parker). It also taught me to always fear John Lithgow and, perhaps most importantly, how sometimes a soundtrack can really outshine a film. So, as you can see 90 minutes of viewing could really save me endless hours of parenting talks, and really free up more time for me to surf and watch recorded English soccer matches on my DVR.

 If one movie could have so much influence, imagine how much free time I could take back by merely purchasing Road House, Lethal Weapon 1 & 2, Eddie Murphy: Raw, Eddie Murphy: Delirious, Bill Cosby: Himself, Major League, Commando, Victory, Terminator, Brewster's Millions, and Die Hard. Not only would I enjoy experiencing these movies again with my son, but I would also save myself tons of awkward conversations and end up with a kid light years ahead of his peers in so many facets of life. And with today's awful fashion trends boomeranging right back in our face from the 80's, it would be the smoothest of transitions possible.

Did I mention that my mom and dad both used to work at Video Library (before the evil Blockbuster empire took it over) and I had Beta and VHS versions of nearly all of the aformentintioned movies? I bet this entire blog (and my personality in general) makes a lot more sense now.

I Have Been Replaced

That's right, the other day a giant box from diapers.com showed up on our doorstop, and what was inside was truly shocking. A giant u-shaped pillow known as a Back 'N Belly Pregnancy Pillow. Like all things baby related you could guarantee it would be 100% cutesy wootsie because this product's makers flagrantly disregarded the use of the word "and" or  an ampersand. Instead they opted for the apostophre and single letter combo, the universal mark for everything overpriced and targeted towards vulnerable parents. Dammit, these blood thirsty capitalists really know how to play their target demo.

Now just take a good long look at those images. If anyone woman was exposed to this product prior to their baby baking situation do you think guys would have half a chance at conning them into sex? Look at that thing, it's the perfect spouse. It provides women with some very "intimate" positions, it will allow you to snuggle late into the light, and in the end it won't tell you how mind-numbingly awful all your reality tv shows are! It's a freaking Stepford Husband.

Maybe I just have a natural aversion to all things pillow related, because once you are married all husbands are subjected years of world's most ridiculous product...the decorative pillow. I can't get started on these poofy little squares, circles, and cylinders of retardedness, because if I do I won't stop typing until after the boy arrives. Just know this, they suck and are never actually used for anything other than to drive tassled wedges into otherwise healty relationships. That's why when the wife goes out of town me and dogs regularly sleep on them, just out of principle.

Back to the body pillow. My main concern was that this rowboat-sized pillow would now force me to sleep on couch since we are already sort of scrunched in our queen bed with two dogs and a wife that likes to roll and twitch in her sleep (she says she's sleeping when she pops me in the throat at 3 in the morning, but I think I'm going to set up a nanny cam on her ass.). But against all logic it turns out that this stuffed arch ended up giving me more space and comfort for sleeping. It provides borders to limit the wild pregnancy flails at night and the dogs love to snuggle on and inside of it. So now I have more room, and less stress at night (nanny cam still not out of the question).

I really couldn't be more thrilled with how this whole thing worked out. The wife is much more comfortable and ergonomically supported at night, I don't have to worry about endless shoving matches with the pug and pitbull for bed real estate, and since the thing is so huge the wife probably won't notice when I start hucking decorative pillows into our neighbors' backyards and blaming the losses on her pregnancy brain. Booyah!

Name Game

Before I drop a few solid macho nombres for the boy, please allow me to apologize for slacking lately on the semi-humorous blogging. When the time change hits it completely throws my life out of whack. I'm sleeping fine, waking up fine, but it gets dark so damn early it turns my auto-pilot lazy mode switch on way ahead of time. The sweat pants come out and the only thing I might accomplish besides working on the house is massive snacking and television consumption. Thanks for your patience.

And now back to your regularly scheduled unborn baby exploitation, also knowns as the name game:

Thunder - lightning is for those who have to show off, thunder is just a hint of power and flash to come. Maybe I'm overcompensating with all these hyper-masculine names, but I like to apply all of them to various stages of the boy's life and then chuckle at how great these situations could end up being for everyone. Just imagine me taking a young toddler to the park in his overalls, meeting the other dads at the jungle gym, and then someone asks what the boy's name is. Now try to imagine the expression of confusion, humor, and flat out envy on his face when he realizes he wasted his one opportunity in his life to give his kid the gift of lifelong aweseomeness. Huzzah!

Buster - not only was this the name of my first dog as a child, but it's just plain cute in a manly way. It's non-threatening, yet unmistakeably manly. I also like names that always lead people to underestimate you. The only downside I see to this is once the boy enters the world of dating there is a neverending list of crude combinations that people will come up with for his success with girls. Just think about the possibilities for a minute, you will probably offend yourself.

What's up, Doc?

So, apparently expectant parents are supposed to choose a pediatrician before their child is born. Something about the baby doctor coming to the hospital when the boy is born. I guess this actually a regular thing, but it seems like such an odd, conterintuitive concept to me. I guess it's one of those things in life that sound bass ackwards at first, but really shows a lot of foresight and planning. Just like drinking diet soda when you are going to eat a huge meal. Oh...wait, that is actually just plain retarded. I'm sure there are some other valid analogies out there, but I really just wanted to make fun of people who drink diet sodas.

Back to the pediatrician selection. At first I thought this would not be a very complicated task. Find a competent doctor who doesn't immediately creep me out. I went to a great pediatrics office, with a some awesome doctors, and a few that I remember seeing on the local news for the books they wrote or just sharing their expertise in certain areas. I of course remembered the cool pediatrician that used to juggle to distract the kids and make them feel comfortable, and always seemed a little cooler than the other doctors because of his foreign accent. But now that I'm nearing my third decade in life the juggling didn't seem so cute, it almost seemed creepy. Not to mention that this was 25 years ago, and now this same doctor would now also probably be more concerned with crossing items off his bucket list rather than giving booster shots. Do I really want some of the boy's first memories in life to be a of an aging European juggler sticking needles in him? That's the type of crap that could cost me thousands of dollars in therapy in his teen years...err, I mean could really make the boy unhappy.

This whole thing is such a crapshoot. I know we'll probably just end up selecting a pediatrician based on a personal reference or whoever seems least threatening. How the hell will we know if the doctor has any real medical skill or if the boy will be comfortable with the doc? Worst of all, what if the doctor is a fan of Two and a Half Men? God, that show is just awful. I guess you can always switch if you don't like your first choice, but it still seems weird to me that anyone alive in the 80's can now watch Charlie Sheen and an ambiguously gay John Cryer raise a walking warning for Type II Diabetes and still laugh. I do not understand the world we live in.