The Phlebotomist

We went to the doctor yesterday, and I think it was an appointment just to see if we were still alive. The doctor popped in, said hi, reaffirmed that the Posette is indeed still pregnant, and then sent in a phlebotomist to draw some blood.*

*The blood screen will tell us if the LP potentially has any number of horrible diseases. But no bigeee, she will call us in a week if anything turns up. Otherwise, we are not to worry. Yeah, this seems like an effective plan. Now, all I can think about is whether the doctor is going to call. I've got an underdeveloped sense of worry, but I think this was just a test designed to push the limits of my underdevelopment.

The phlebotomist at our doctor's office is a bit too perky, especially for someone who is going to literally take the essence of life from my wife's body. She kicked off her routine by mocking anyone who is afraid of needles as a big baby, and an unfit parent. Suck it up, girl.

Then, she had this actual exchange with the Posette:

"You're not scared, are you?"

"No, this is hardly the worst thing that will happen to me."

"Yes, the worst thing that can happen to you is having children."

/awkwardsilence

She then resumed her attack on those big whiners who don't want to give blood.

All in all, a good doctor's appointment. We were given a dose of unreasonable worry that should last us a week, told that having children is the worst thing that will ever happen to us, and then I stole a lollipop.

Really happy I went to that appointment. When do we get to do fun stuff like find out the sex of the baby? Because coming in to watch the Posette become a pin cushion is not nearly as fun as you would think.

Operation Ghostbusters

Long time, no blog.

We have three pets: Elvis, who you've met; Opus, the Official Cat of the Posette; and Ernest, the Official Snake of the Posette (or the most chill pet ever). The three have always eyed each other warily, spending as little time together as possible.

Elvis has attempted to befriend Opus in his own inimitable way: by jumping up right next to Opus and barking in his face while furiously wagging his tail. I speak a little Dog, though it's a bit rusty, and I think I translated his barks as:

"HI!! I'M ELVIS!! BE MY FRIEND!!! BE MY FRIEND!! WHY ARE YOU RUNNING?!?! WE'RE PLAYING CHASE?! I LOVE CHASE!!!"

Opus either storms off or swipes Elvis in the face with his claws. Repeat.

After we brought home the dog, Opus decided he was having none of this, and he retreated into the guest bedroom or as he likes to call it, Opus' Room. Which was fine, it allowed the two animals to leave in peace without killing one another. Elvis literally is trying to kill to Opus with kindness.

It was a good system, but unfortunately, Opus can't keep his room because we only have the one guest room. And we kind of need to turn that into a nursery. Which means booting Opus from his room, cleaning the heck out of it to remove all vestiges of Cat, and then closing the door to keep him out. That was the easy part, though I still need to steam clean the carpet.

No, the difficult part was re-introducing Elvis and Opus. We did our best to make Elvis sleep in his bed, but we lost that battle, and Elvis now sleeps on top of one of us. I'd hate to say he sleeps on the bed, he quite literally sleeps on me. Or, if I'm lucky, the Posette.

Well, now Opus hangs out in our bedroom as well, which means all five of us (the snake is still just chilling out in his terrarium) are in there at night. And Elvis is back to trying to make friends with Opus, who wants to be friends with a dog like you want to be friends with the Ebola virus.

This means even less sleep as usual as Elvis will occasionally wake up at 3 AM and think to himself, "Holy crap! There's a CAT in here! I must now warn my People!" He then starts barking. It's a good system, and I then politely inform Elvis that we are aware of the Cat Situation. He then happily goes back to sleep, secure in the knowledge he has once again earned his keep as the best guard dog on the planet.

Opus then retaliates by peeing on my laundry. Ernest hides in his turtle shell, setting a good example on how to peacefully coexist with others, provided you are separated by a glass wall.

Bill Murray was right, dogs and cats living together... mass hysteria.

Maybe I Should've Gone to Kansas

The Posette’s family has a big card tournament every year in Kansas, which took place this weekend. I thought I was going to have to work, so I stayed home, which sort of sucks. I enjoy her family and I like playing cards. Really, the only drawback is, you know, going to Kansas.

Kansas is not exactly the most happening of states. I wouldn’t say that it sucks, just that Kansas is a little bit slower in pace than I’d like. To each his own, you know? Though I was in Wichita once, and they had a sidewalk display for the Kansas Hall of Fame, and of the six or seven people listed – two were fictional. One, of course, was Dorothy, whose claim to fame is trying to get out of the Technicolor world of Oz and back to Kansas, appropriately shot in black and white.

The other fictional person in the Kansas Hall of Fame was Superman. I hate to break it to Kansas, especially since they devoted so much of their Hall of Fame to people who don’t actually exist, but Superman is not from Kansas. He’s from the planet Krypton, and is the most illegal of illegal aliens. He came over here and took our superhero jobs.

So the Posette, her sister, and her mom drove up to Kansas to lose at cards. I stayed at home to watch college football with Elvis, the Official Dog of Poseur. I hadn’t expected to be at home, so I essentially had 48 hours to do whatever I wanted to do.

This is when I discovered that I simply cannot function without the Posette telling me what to do. Elvis made sure I woke up at a reasonable hour by demanding to go outside, but other than that, I padded around the house without much purpose. On Saturday, I stayed in pajama pants until about 1 PM, when I started to get hungry and realized we had a severe peanut butter and jelly shortage in the house.

I used to be able to function for long stretches without adult supervision, but the Posette has weakened my independent survival skills. I was totally lost without her.

And in about six months, I’m going to be responsible for another human being. I can’t even take care of my own self. I need adult supervision at all times, and pretty soon, I am going to be the adult supervision. That’s just a horrifying thought. I hope the Posette is up to watching two helpless creatures, because that’s my current plan.

World Series Tickets and Proper Etiquette

Sorry, the blog has taken a short holiday as we enjoy the World Series coming to Dallas. The Posette is a huge Rangers fan because her father, being a good dad, properly brainwashed his child to root passionately for his favorite team.

Dads really only have a few clearly delineated duties:

1. Pay the rent/mortgage

2. Make sure your child does not throw a baseball like a European

3. Teach your child the difference between a flathead a Philips head screwdriver

4. Indoctrinate your child into liking your favorite sporting franchises and bands

Aside from keeping them alive, everything else is basically gravy.

The Posette, by the way, can also properly throw a baseball. So well done Father of Posette.

Anyway, the Posette has been pretty much over the moon now that the Rangers are in the Series. It's been pretty much a lifetime of suffering for Rangers fans, so these past two seasons have sort of felt like the culmination of her fandom. She's been punching the clock, and now it's time to receive the reward.

Well, the Posette's mom, the Official Mother-In-Law of Poseur had an extra ticket to Game Three of the World Series. But only one extra ticket.

Now, I'm a pretty big baseball fan and I've never ever been to a playoff game. The Posette and her sister went to the ALCS Game 6 last year, but she had never been to the World Series. So, being the nice guy that I am, I said "sure, honey, you take the ticket."

Rules of relationships state that at this point, she is required to say, "No, honey... you should take it."

Ummm.... yeah. See above and how her father properly indoctrinated his child. That counter-offer never happened. She just said, "Thanks, hon. Oh, and could you pick me up a sweatshirt?"

So, if you're wondering why the Rangers won every game at home except for Game Three -- well, I blame it on a breach of etiquette.

Free Loot!

The Official Mom of Poseur sent me an email today offering to buy us the carseat, stroller, and base combo thingee that is on our baby registry.

The thing is, she didn't want to get it from the place we were registered, probably because my mom can find a deal on just about any item in existence. The woman can shop is what I'm saying. Which is totally cool, why pay more for something if you don't have to?

She's talking about buying us the package and then sending it to us for Christmas, which takes some of the surprise out of Christmas, but that's okay. While the Posette and I are insane Christmas fanatics, the Official Mom of Poseur is a tad more low key about the whole thing.

Still, it's a very cool thing for her to do and we both really appreciate it. I mean, woo hoo! Free stuff! Of course it's okay if she gets it from somewhere else, I don't own stock in the baby supply store. I'm not looking a gift horse in the mouth.

Only one thing bothers me about this whole situation...

Until I received that email, I had no idea we even had a baby registry.

Zombies

The Posette and I are sitting on the couch enjoying one of our favorite shows, The Walking Dead. We like the show because it gives us an excuse to talk about our favorite topic: surviving the zombie apocalypse.

We have a lot of the basics down. We know to get out of the city as soon as possible and get to the Ranch where there is well water, good vistas, an already established barbed wire perimeter, MRE's, and of course, guns. I've even learned how to shoot them.

So no matter what happened in our lives, we had that one problem solved. In case of the zombie apocalypse, we knew exactly what to do. You can never be too careful, you know. Our parents think it's silly, but they won't think it's silly when the undead rise and start chewing on their extremities. Have a plan, aim for the head.

However, this show is illuminating perhaps the biggest flaw in our zombie apocalypse preparations: children are remarkably stupid.*

*Actually, we've always had the Elvis Problem. What to do if our dog becomes a zombie dog, or as the Posette calls it, a Zog? I don't even want to think about that.

Now, I'm sure the Little Poseur will be a bright child. OK, I hope so. I have all sorts of plans that involve lots and lots of reading. Hopefully, the LP will be a qualified librarian by age 5. But even if we have the smartest kid ever, there's smart and there is smart for a kid.

Kids are curious. Why shouldn't they be? There's a whole world out there, and they get the chance to discover it. Usually, that's a good thing. But with zombies around? That's bound to get us into trouble.

We also have the problem that instead of just trying to save our own hides, we now will put someone else's interest above our own. I like the Posette a lot, but I believe that she can be counted on to make good decisions which will further her survival, if left to her own devices. The LP, on the other hand, we're gonna have to make those calls for him or her.

The LP is going to be a liability in the zombie apocalypse. It's just going to have to completely change how we plan for this thing. Back to the drawing board, ya know?

Just when you thought you had one thing taken care of, you really don't.

Doctor's Appointment

There's not a much more superfluous thing in the world as a guy at his wife's OB/GYN appointment. We show up to be supportive and have some sort of involvement in the pregnancy, as it's not like we're going to incubate the critter. But really, there's not a whole lot for us to do but sit in the chair in the corner and hold her purse.

Which, let's face it, is a pretty big sacrifice. You know how much we hate holding that thing.

Give a guy a purse to hold. We literally have no idea what to do. It's like giving a monkey a Rubik's Cube. There's a chance we might use the thing correctly, but we're probably going to get bored and throw it somewhere.

There's simply no manly way to hold a purse. You really only have three options. ONE. You can carry it like a football. TWO. You can hold the top of the bag with one hand, holding the bag away from your body as if it contains dog poo. THREE. You can learn telekinesis. You, under no circumstances, should ever touch the straps of a purse or else your arm will become infected with cooties, rot, and fall off. It is not worth the risk.

So, other than holding your purse, we just sit there in the corner and try not to cry like a little girl when they draw blood from you. Seriously, needles freak me out. You're on your own on that front.

Glad to be of support, hon. You are welcome.

Fuzzy Wuzzy

The Posette has two pregnancy apps on her iPhone.  Yeah, that's right, two.  I have zero because we're actually living through this and until the iPhone can actually deliver the baby, I remain skeptical of the utility of the iPhone app.

However, she's learning a lot from these apps, and feels the need to share.  As a big fan of useless trivia,* I can't complain about her sharing these little nuggets of inapplicable knowledge.

* For example, the Pillsbury Dough Boy's real name is Poppin' Fresh.  You're welcome. Hee hee!

Anyway, I received this text today:

"Hair growth isn't limited to the baby's head, though. He or she is also covered with a downy coating of hair called lanugo, largely there for warmth. As fat accumulates later on in the pregnancy (the baby's fat, not yours - though that will accumulate, too), most of the lanugo will shed - though some babies, especially those born early, still have a fuzzy coating at delivery (it sheds soon afterward)."

That's right, the Little Poseur is currently a Wookie.  Right now, our baby looks a little like this:

Really, I'm not pleased with this development.  First, the mechanics are all off.  Little Poseur has got to learn that you need to point your foot where you intend the ball to go.  Looking at this photo, LP is trying to throw the ball somewhere down the third base line.  Just awful form.  This will not do.

But a Wookie?  Totally awesome.  Wookies, as we know, our the mot advanced creature on the known universe, by universal acclaim, because no one will tell the Wookies to their face anything differently.  They can play chess, fly starships, and put together robots.

Now, if the Posette gives birth to a Wookie, there might be some uncomfortable questions to answer, but I will love the LP anyway, such is the inherent awesomeness of Wookies.  Of course, with my luck, our fuzzy looking baby will look more like this:

Seriously, if the LP can't even figure out electricity, I'm going to be sorely disappointed.  And don't give me this "Ewoks were cute" line.  They are mutant teddy bears.  Any creature that can't identify C-3PO as a whiny pain in the butt is really not worth being recognized as a civilization.

I'm rooting for a Wookie.

Movie Night

The Posette loves horror movies.  Hell, I love horror movies.*

*My mom still insists I do not like horror movies because I was scared by Gremlins when I was 9.  Two things about this: 1) I was 9. 2) She's thinking of the neighbor's kids.  She wouldn't let me see Gremlins.

Whenever we are trying to decide what to watch, the Posette will invariably suggest "something scary".  So, being a bot of horror aficionado and knowing that the prequel is coming out in a few weeks, I helpfully suggested we watch The Thing.

I do not regret this decision, as it is the second best John Carpenter movie starring Kurt Russell (Big Trouble in Little China being the clear #1).  However, if you're not familiar with your 80s horror films, and shame on you if you aren't, The Thing is about a parasite which grows inside a person and eventually takes over that person's body.

OK, so it's not Rosemary's Baby, but this had to be real high on the list of movies not to show a pregnant woman.  When she wakes up in the middle of the night, thinking that the Little Poseur is trying to possess her via orbital mind control lasers, I'm really only going to have myself to blame on that front.  So, yeah, that's my fault.

On the flip side, it really is a great movie and the Posette hadn't seen it, which was a gross oversight on her part. It's not my fault she waited until pregnancy to see a movie about evil parasites growing inside you.

But if her belly grows fangs and bites my arms off, well, I'm going to be a little upset with myself.  Because I should have seen that one coming.

The O's, Hon

I'm sitting on the couch, watching the Orioles lose yet another baseball game.  I'm used to this feeling, the Orioles have lost 92 times this season already, and they have lost more than they have won for 15 consecutive years.  Next year's not looking so hot, either.

The O's stink, have stunk, and all likelihood, will continue to stink.  I, of course, will continue to root for them and think of ways each spring on how they could possibly compete.

I'm looking forward to the Little Poseur getting here, partly because I'll have a young mind to attempt to brainwash.  And one of the first areas we attempt to brainwash our children is in sports loyalties.  The Posette has already caught me looking at LSU football jerseys (if we have a boy) and cheerleader outfits (for a girl).  I don't deny it.

In most cases, the Posette and I agree on which teams to root for, but baseball will be the killer for me.  There is a 90% chance the Little Poseur will be a Rangers fan.  The Posette is a huge Rangers fan as are her parents.  We live in Dallas, so methinks there will be some exposure to Rangers games.  The Rangers have a cool ballpark that I'm sure we'll bring the LP to.  Television during the summer sort of sucks, so the LP will be exposed to a steady diet of Rangers games on the local broadcast. Just from living in the area, LP will likely root for the Rangers, even without a fanatical Rangers fan for a mom, who still has the video on her cellphone of her celebration in the stands for the final out of Game 6 of the ALCS.

I want to fight this. Not because I hate the Rangers. In fact, I like the Rangers and have had a great time learning to mimic Ron Washington's "that's the way baseball go" line.

I just want to be able to at least try to make the LP a little Oriole fan in good faith, but how?  How can I introduce a child -- an innocent who I profess to love -- to a lifetime of sports pain?  While all of LP's friends would be celebrating yet another Rangers victory, the LP could be staying up with daddy watching the orange and black lose another heartbreaker 7-3.  So close.

It's one thing to brainwash your kid into rooting for a crappy local team.  Hey, there's character in suffering, especially when it's the whole town doing the suffering.  One day, the Pirates are going to have a good year, and it will be awesome to be in Pittsburgh then.*

*Well, as awesome as living in Pittsburgh could be.

Bu rooting for an out-of-market crappy team?  That's suffering with the added bonus of loneliness.  When the Orioles finish up yet another 72-90 campaign, there will be no one who cares.  Well, other than the LP's crazy dad.

That's not an appealing argument.  Hey, kid.  You can either root for the local team, who we watch on TV all of the time, who mom loves, who all of your friends root for.... OR you can root for this really, really bad team who your dad roots for.  And nobody else does. Woo hoo.

To successfully brainwash the LP to root for the Orioles, I would have to have skills on the level of Angela Lansbury in The Manchurian Candidate.  And I don't want my child to spend their life thinking they are attending a women's tea auxiliary.

So I don't think I can even put up more than a token effort on behalf of my beloved Orioles.  Sorry, Cal.  Don't worry, I will move my resources to winning a fight on a more winnable front... making sure my child doesn't root for the Colts.

Boring Sickness

Wow, a whole week without an update.  And I wonder why I don't have a loyal audience.

The Posette is still experiencing morning sickness, which is one of those misnomers like "military intelligence." There's no Linda Blair head spinning, it's more of a constant, dull stomachache, which keeps the Posette on the couch.  Or that's what she tells me, it's entirely possible she's faking in some elaborate ruse to get me to do the dishes.

"Oh, don't worry, honey.  You stay on the couch, I'll do the dishes.... Yes, I'll be happy to get you some water... Would you like a yogurt?"  

But a stomachache is a lot less exciting than Spectacular Stories of Vomitus, which I don't have.  It ain't the Roman Empire at Poseur HQ.

Instead, it's like living with someone who constantly has a fever of 99 degrees.  You know, just enough that you're not faking, but not enough that anyone really feels any sympathy for you.  It's being sick in a very boring way.  It's like the United Nations of sickness.

What this mainly means is that we don't leave the house a whole lot.  I mean, the Posette does a quick analysis of the Cost-Benefit of going out versus taking a nap, and you know what?  The nap usually wins.  Going out involves being ambulatory.  Sometimes for hours.

Naps, on the other hand, involve blankies.  Really, if your choice was to hang out with your husband's lawyer friends talk about lawyer stuff OR wrap yourself in a blankie and watch reruns of West Wing... well, come on. I think we'd all be watching President Bartlett.

See, boring.  That's what I got right now.  Lots and lots of boring.  That comes from not leaving the house except to go to work and forage for foodstuffs.  I feel this is good training for being a parent, in which I hope to be spectacularly boring.  Boring parents means that you're not calling poison control.  So, we'll see how that goes.

Boring looks good on me.  

All Quiet On the Western Front

I'm getting bad about updating this blog.  Sorry about that.  It's just that I'm pretty busy at work right, so when I get home, the last thing I want to do is type one of these things.  The Posette and I have so little time to hang out as it is.

Which made today so nice.

We both worked yesterday, and we've both been working late all this week, and even if we do come home on time, we've got a pile of work on the kitchen table to hide behind and help us ignore the other.  That's no way to go through life, so we took the day to sit on the couch, watch some football, and ok, do some chores around the house (the laundry thanks me).

The Posette finally has started to feel like she can eat something, which is nice.  Her routine over the past several weeks has to get ravenously hungry, get a lot of food, eat three bites, and then be totally full.  And then be sick.  It's a great weight loss program, but not an enjoyable way to live.

We (hopefully) are getting out of the morning sickness stage, and moving on to the extremely tired phase.  The Posette is now in competition with the Official Dog of Poseur over who can nap better.  Their nap-offs are a thing to behold, and Elvis has taken to cheating, by jumping on the Posette's lap in the hope that his weight will make her uncomfortable and end her nap.  But she's too committed.

Today, however, was a day we were actually up and about and hanging out.  It was one of those few days we were able to just enjoy each other's company and not worry about the gazillion things to do at home and at work.

Nothing happened to day, and it was good.

Sparring with the Dog

I've probably already introduced you to Elvis, the Official Dog of Poseur.  If you have not met Elvis, here he is:

Elvis is a cute little guy with a big head.  I'm not making a metaphor, he literally has a huge head.  I'd wager his body mass is 50% head. He's a little top heavy.  He also makes a lot of noise and I have to take care of him so he can poo.

Basically, he's our Training Baby.  He's a little bit more mobile and self-reliant than an actual baby, and I hear you're not allowed to put a baby in a crate all day when you go to work -- but I am responsible for another lifeform. And just like a baby, he can't quite lift his head on his own.

It's not a perfect training scenario, but it at least teaches you to be somewhat responsible.  If taking care of a baby is a 10, taking care of a dog is about a 3.  Taking care of a cat is a -1.*

*Not only our cats perfectly able to survive without you, when you take care of a cat, you are increasing the Cat Population by 1.  The universe suffers.

Anyway, Elvis realized that he wasn't providing much of challenge for us in our baby preparations, and being the good dog that he is, he decided to help us out.  Elvis decided to go a day without eating any food because, well, he's a dog and he's forgetful.  He was busy with trying to perfect his scratching technique.  He's almost got it, too.  Then, when he went out for his evening constitutional, he decided that he was hungry after all, so he should eat a clump of grass.

Now, I don't know if you're familiar with the dietary habits of the American canine, but when my dog eats a clump of grass on an empty stomach, that's when his stomach decides to rebel.  Elvis was courteous enough to wait until he got inside to throw up, though.  He's a team player that way.

It was time for bed, but Elvis couldn't sleep, spending the whole night trying to throw up the entire contents of his stomach.  Now, when you have a pet that's throwing up in the middle of the night, your only real concern is that he throws up on the tile instead of the carpet for cleaning purposes.

But the night was pretty much a constant cycle of this cycle:
STEP ONE -- Dog whines, wakes me up.
STEP TWO -- I comfort dog, he lies back down
STEP THREE -- He whines again and starts making noises that were used on the soundtrack of Alien before the chest bursting scene.  I ignore him.
STEP FOUR -- Posette openly wishes for meteor to hit dog.
STEP FIVE -- I get out of bed, take dog downstairs.
STEP SIX -- He makes a few laps around the kitchen island until he finds a good spot.  I make sure his head is over tile not carpet. He throws up.  I clean it up.
STEP SEVEN -- He paws at door.  I take him outside.  While looking like he's going to do his Doggy Business, he head fakes and then eats more grass.  I curse violently.
STEP EIGHT -- I take him back inside and we go back to bed.
STEP NINE -- Dog whines, wakes me up.  And the cycle continues.

This went out, quite literally, all night long.  I never got more than an hour of uninterrupted sleep.

In the morning, he ate his breakfast, jumped in my lap and licked me in the face.  If he wasn't so cute, I would drown him in a river.  Lucky for him, all of the rivers in Dallas are currently dried up, so I'd have to drive to the Red River to find a suitable river to drown him in.

It was like having a sparring partner.  If you want to compete in a boxing match, you need to spar a little bit. Work on the fundamentals.  And that's what Elvis is doing.  He's my Baby Preparation sparring partner.  Just working on the up all night fundamentals.

Gosh, I'm so lucky.

The Heartbeat

There are some things in life you can't quite prepare for.  You think you know how it will be, how you will react, but really, you don't.

That's what it was like for me when I first heard my child's heartbeat on the monitor.

The world stopped for a second.  There was nothing but us and the sound of the baby's heart, beating away, furiously working towards a new life.  It is the sound of hard work, as our baby works, yearns, to be formed and then be born in this massive world.

"I am here.  Just wait for me, Daddy."

I will.  I'm waiting.  I can't wait to meet you, too.

The sound of that heartbeat is the sound of future promise.  It's the sound that this is actually real.  We're a family, even if not yet.  It is the sound of expectations and hope.  Anything can happen at this point -- the possibilities in the future are literally infinite.

I have no idea what happens next.  I can't look two days into the future much less two decades. But I do know that it started in that room where I heard my child for the first time.  And it was in this moment that I fell in love.

I promise, jokes next week.

All The Time Sickness

Today, the Posette wasn't sick.

That is what passes for news around the house these days. In fact, the Posette making a Linda Blair impression (minus the head-spinning and general blasphemy) is the usual course of the day. I'm not saying she throws up a lot, but she's giving me flashbacks to college or even that one birthday party I don't like to talk about because I don't quite remember it. I hear I had a good time.

See, in a normal life, being sick is news. Not stop the presses news, and probably news you keep to yourself, but it does classify as a bit of an event. Now, it's the opposite for the Posette. We mark the days she isn't sick and call that the memorable day.

I, of course, blame the pickles.

Little Poseur right now is genetic Ipecac. At least we don't have to worry about the Posette being poisoned. Hey, that's me. Mr. Look-On-The-Bright-Side.

I know it's not LP's fault. (S)He can't help it, and besides, the LP has other things to worry about -- like growing a brain and internal organs and all that other cool stuff that we take for granted. There's just not a whole lot of real estate in the Posette, so it makes sense that the LP ends up pressing up against things.

Ever been really full? Like post-Thanksgiving full? Yeah, well that's just turkey and some pie. This is a whole other person who is busy, well, coming into being. LP's pretty darn bust thankyouverymuch and (s)he can't be paying attention to every little intestine (s)he rubs up against.

I appreciate Little Poseur taking a day off. I was beginning to think it was my cooking.

Ain't Never Gonna Change

Little Poseur went to his/her first rock n roll show on Friday. And it was there that we purchased our first piece of baby-related paraphernalia, a cute little Drive-by Truckers onesie. You can never start too early trying to get your child to like songs about whiskey, bad love, and killing.*

*We're talking about a band in which one of the guitarist wrote a song called Goddamn Lonely Love. While he was married to the bass player. they were divorced by the next album's release. But it is a great song, if ill-advised from a relationship standpoint.

It may not have been our best decision.

The show started about an hour after we thought it was going to start, which meant an extra hour of standing around. Now, I've always been able to stand around at shows for a long time, mainly because there is the magic elixir called "beer".

Beer allows you to stand around for hours on end, without your feet hurting. It's pretty amazing stuff. Someone should look into marketing this stuff because let me tell you -- it's sort of awesome. Unfortunately, beer has alcohol and alcohol is completely off limits to the Posette. She's not a Mad Men character, after all.

Actually, at dinner before the show, our incredibly perky waitress offered the Posette a drink about six different times. Each time she buzzed our table, she detailed their incredibly drink specials and two dollar shots.* This waitress was committed to getting some alcohol in the Posette. The only way to fight her off was to finally tell her that the Posette was pregnant. Our perky waitress then became even more perky. It was kind of horrifying.

*I shudder to think what is in a two dollar shot.

So instead of standing around for three hours, we were standing around for four hours. The Posette can do three hours of standing around without magic elixir, but Hour Four is asking too much. She tapped out and she went to find a place to sit down.

Now, sitting was a good plan, but the only place to sit down was a smoking area set up outside. The club was non-smoking, so it forces all of the smokers out front if they want to light up, which is normally a great system for everyone involved. But when the pregnant lady is looking for a breather, well, it's not such a great system.

The Posette's two options were now either stay inside and be in pain from standing too long or go outside and sit down among what was apparently the entire smoking population of Dallas. Geez, I didn't know that many people smoked these days, but apparently a large portion of Dallas' population has not received the memo that cigarettes are not good for you. Because there were a ton of people hang outside the show where you couldn't even hear the band.

This is when we decided it would be a better plan to sit in the car as I drove her home. Pregnancy is not very rock n roll friendly.

No News

I've got nothing. Sorry about that.

It's been a busy week at work and there's no news on the baby front. I'm thinking the Posette just made this whole thing up so I would feel morally obligated to give her back rubs. I'm on to this scam. You can't fool me.

She's like that Nigerian prince who keeps asking for my bank account so he can give me millions of dollars. You only fall for that once, am I right?

Little Poseur Versus Bey-Z

Beyonce is pregnant.*

*Jay-Z is the father. I call dibs on naming the baby Bey-Z.

I know Beyonce and the Posette have been in a long-running feud over who is hotter, but this is just trying to steal our thunder. We were pregnant first. Back off lady.

That's just like her to totally step all over our news. Now I'm sure Mr. Z is going to write some song about the responsibilities of fatherhood. It'll be slow and mushy, and also probably the worst thing Jay-Z has ever done.*

*The song, not the baby. I'm sure the baby will be really cute and have a three record deal from Geffen within a decade.

It's going to be tough to compete with that power couple in the press, but I think we're up for it. I can outblog you, Jay-Z! The gauntlet has been thrown. It's on like Donkey Kong.

Ginger Snaps and Poseur's Cooking

The Posette has been enjoying her first bouts of morning sickness. I will spare you the jokes about how it's not really morning sickness because it happens all the time. Anyway, she's been hanging out on the couch all weekend trying not to do anything too strenuous.

This means I got sent to the grocery store to go pick us up food for the week. I'm working on my hunting and gathering skills, which means I can't just walk into Albertson's and buy up all of their Doritos. She probably expects me to come home with food that can actually be consumed over the course of the week.

Now, this has all of the major problems you would think. I'm not totally incompetent in the kitchen, but that's about the only bar I clear. The Posette did most of our cooking, and she is quickly deciding that she doesn't really want to do that for the next nine months. Can't say I blame her.

I can make just about anything from a box, but past that, most of my cooking skills tap out. I've started to make some meals, but that only means the Posette is getting a steady diet of spaghetti and all of the Zatarain's mixes.* I'm not trying to pretend I'm Emeril here, I can ground beef and boil water -- one of the reasons I can make spaghetti as it requires both of these skills -- and not much else.

*The jambalaya mix is especially delicious once you properly doctor it.

So if you have any recipes for the barely competent person, y'know, me... I'd greatly appreciate it. Remember, I am an idiot and I work for a living. Don't send me a recipe for fois gras or anything like that. Because we'll starve to death if it requires more than three or four steps.

However, there is some upside to doing the shopping. I read up a bit on morning sickness, and one of the things that helps with nausea is ginger. Which means I had an excuse to go out and buy ginger snaps. This worked out great for me for several reasons:

1) It showed I've actually read something about pregnancy.
2) It also shows I've applied some of that knowledge. Without even being asked!
3) Hopefully, it works. Nausea sucks.
4) I get to eat ginger snaps.

Really, ginger snaps are one of the most delicious cookies on the planet.* Now I have an excuse to buy them, as we've been trying to keep cookies out of the house. Look, you buy cookies, I'll eat 'em. I've seen me do it.

*Well, most cookies are delicious. It's hard to break them down into little groups. Chocolate chip, of course, are the classics and probably the definitive cookie. I'm also partial to sugar cookies and snickerdoodles. Ginger snaps probably finish a solid fourth, ahead of such contenders as Oreos and butter cookies. Oh, and those iced animal cookies, those things are like crack.

Well, how I imagine crack. I've never actually had any crack, so perhaps this is a bad comparison. But I hear it's addictive and not very good for you, so it sounds like a good comp.

We'll see how this cooking and shopping thing goes. I'm sure I'll be okay, as I have long experience of cooking for myself. I'd worry about the Posette -- she has to eat the things I cook. But at least she gets some ginger snaps.

Being the Lesser Half

I was forced to socialize last night at a reception without the benefit of my better half. Forced to develop my own charming personality, I did the only logical thing when forced into social chit-chat: I talked about the Posette.

Talking about my wife has two distinct advantages. First, no one has ever stormed out of a conversation in which someone says they love their wife. People will almost always politely listen when you say that your wife is pretty darn cool, and the chances are good they will even like you for it.

"No! I disagree! You do not love your wife...." is high on the list of unlikely things to hear in conversation.

Two, the Posette is really cool. Even without delving into her personality, she's a school teacher who is currently pregnant. I like to latch on to her inherent goodness and bask in the reflected glow.

Hey, if this fundamentally decent person likes to keep me around, perhaps I'm not a total jackass. It's about the only card in my deck, and I play it early.

Oh God, I'm going to be one of those parents, aren't I?

Information Travels Faster In the Modern Age

Sorry, Poseur HQ was knocked offline due to the aftermath of the Great Earthquake of 2011. Pay no attention to the fact that I live in Texas. I'm from Maryland, and I felt the pain of my homeland.

I just couldn't focus knowing that there were chai lattes that had fallen over and will never be refilled.

Actually, I was struck by something yesterday, following the news of the earthquake. I found out about the quake from Facebook. An hour later, I had seen about two hundred thousand* jokes like the one above on Twitter. An hour after that, I saw another twelve kajillion* pleas that Earthquake jokes were all played out. It had been two hours since the event, and people were already objecting to jokes as being "old".

*All numbers are 96.3% accurate and not made up at all.

This is the world the Little Poseur is going to be born in. This blog is less than two weeks old, and you're probably already sick of it. Most of my readership has moved on to something more timely, like that pregnant puppy down the street. I mean, seriously. Puppies are really cute. I can't compete with that.

You mean this pregnancy thing is going to drag on for nine whole months? Firefly didn't last that long.*

*Damn you, FOX television executives. Damn you straight to hell.

One of the biggest events in the world that happened during my childhood was the Miracle on Ice. Perhaps you've heard of it. Well, I watched it on tape delay. Tape delay! And I had no flippin' idea who had won when I sat down in front of the TV. Because I was five. And my parents didn't like hockey. But had I been a motivated five-year-old, there still would have been no real way for me to find out about the game. The TV networks were able to keep us in the dark for half a day, and we were none the wiser.

The LP won't ever experience that. The very concept of "tape delay" will be foreign to the LP. The Little Poseur will be born into a world that moves so fast, that we tire of jokes about something happening contemporaneously. I mean, people hadn't finished putting their lawn furniture back in the same place, and we, as a culture, had moved on.

Once-in-a-century earthquake? How five minutes ago. Literally.

I don't want to be too much of a Get Off My Lawn type, but I hope the LP learns to slow down and appreciate the world. Just because the world keeps moving faster and information keeps moving, doesn't mean we can't stop and marvel at things. Once in a century!

How fast will the world be moving when the LP is writing some blog about the Even Littler Poseur in some distant future?*

*Assuming, of course, we are not conquered by robots.

The LP probably won't have a problem with the faster and faster pace of the world. Will I be able to keep up with my child?

The Pickle Myth

I always thought the pickle thing was a myth. Sort of the go-to joke for hacky comedians when they run out of material about airline food.

Nope. Not a myth.

I grilled some hamburgers last Friday and when I was at the store getting meat and buns, I also picked up a jar of pickle stackers to put on the burgers. I put precisely one pickle slice on each burger, leaving the rest of the jar in the fridge.

By the next Friday, the pickles were gone. The pickle jar has since been replaced by another jar of pickles, which I'm pretty sure won't last the week. I've also discovered that the Posette downed a jar of pickles the previous week as well.

Now, I like pickles as much as the next guy. I enjoy a crisp dill spear with a sandwich.* I think my pickle consumption would be measured right at the national median, if tested by the Department of Pickle Consumption, one of the more obscure U.S. government agencies. In our pre-pregnancy days, a jar of pickles would stay in our fridge for about a few weeks, if not months. Now, we are going through pickles at an advanced rate.

*Ed Note -- However, I do love sandwiches. Sandwiches are easily my favorite food. They are incredibly dynamic - hot, cold, closed-faced, open-faced, with an almost unlimited number of toppings. The Posette often complains about my sandwich consumption, which is Dagwood-esque. Now, she's got an arrow in her anti-sandwich quiver.

Apparently, pregnant women are not supposed to consume cold cuts. I think this is just one of those made up rules, as our doctor seemed completely unaware of any reason for a cold cut prohibition. So I think it's a diabolical plan by the Anti-Sandwich lobby.

The Posette has also taken to drinking the pickle juice, once she has run out of pickles. You know, just to fight cramping in case the Cowboys ask her to play some in their dime package. Because that's the only reason I can possibly imagine someone to willingly ingest pickle juice.

She claims it is not a craving. She just likes pickles. Now, this could be true. That her heretofore dormant love of massive pickle consumption existed, but I never noticed since I'm too lazy to actually go to the grocery store. That is a possibility, I must admit.

But I don't think so. Buy stock in Vlasic. It may be the only safe investment in these troubled economic times.

A Glass of Scotch

Friday was my birthday. The Posette took me to a Brazilian steakhouse because, well, do I really need to explain that decision? People walk up to your table and give you meat. Almost continuously. It's a little bit what I imagine heaven to be like.*

*Or how a vegan imagines hell. It's all a matter of perspective.

Anyway, the Posette obviously can't have any alcohol right now. In the spirit of teamwork, I'm cutting back my own drinking, but I'm still going to enjoy a glass or two on my birthday. She says she doesn't mind, and it didn't feel like it was one of those girl traps.*

*Memo to guys: pretty much everything is a trap. If she wants to be mad at you, she has ample justification, and you really only have yourself to blame. She could just pick one of the many stupid things you have done at random from the very, very long list she keeps in her purse. You could go into her purse and steal that list, but A) you'd end up touching a purse, B) she's committed that list to memory anyway, and C) you will get caught. Men memorize baseball statistics, women memorize every event in their relationship. The lesson here, as always, is that men are stupid.

So, we're sitting in one of the greatest places on earth, and I decide to order a glass of scotch. I love scotch more than I probably should, and I was looking forward to a nice glass with my dinner. The waitress comes by to take my drink order. I ask for scotch and she offers me Crown Royal. Which is not a scotch.

I ask if they have any single malt scotches, and then the waitress informs me that she has never heard of single malt scotch and they don't have any. Now, I don't expect the waitress to be conversant with every drink on the menu, but how can you work in a steak restaurant and have never even heard of scotch? I can't be the first person to have ordered scotch, right?

Eventually, she has a conversation with a bartender, who gives her a drink menu, and I'm able to order a drink with a name starting in Glen. Which was delicious.

A new waiter delivered our drinks and then our food. In fact, we didn't see our waitress again for the rest of the meal. Hopefully, she was abducted by agents who sent her to a Scotch Re-education Camp. Maybe there she can learn the difference between scotch and Canadian whiskey.

I realize that going forward, I'm the least important person in this household. In a way, I'm really looking forward to that -- there is virtue in putting other people before yourself. Sure, I'll still have interests and personal goals and all that, but the family comes first. They are more important than I am, and I think that's really cool.

Which is why on my birthday, the one day on the calendar that is about me, I want my waitress to bring me a drink and not argue with me about the existence of single malt scotch. Yes, it exists. Yes, I want a glass. I don't think that's too much too ask.

Iggy X

Today we had our first Baby Name discussion. Now, as we don't even know the sex of the LP right now, this discussion is truly academic. But it's fun to throw out names.

We do seem to have our first philosophic schism, though. The Posette believes that the baby's name should be what we're, you know, going to call it. I believe that a person can have, in essence, two names -- their formal name that they have to put on applications and the name people actually call them.

For demonstration purposes, I will use my de facto Baby Name that I know for a fact I would never actually use: Ignatius Xavier.* The existence of this name allows me to occasionally reference the exploits of the future Iggy X.

*Ed Note -- Still, it's a good, solid, Jesuit name. Also, Iggy Pop is arguably the coolest person to ever exist. So Iggy is a better name than it gets credit for. Iggy is hardcore.

Image from Yahoomood.com. Seriously, you tell this guy he has a silly name.

Now, the Posette objects to Ignatius Xavier for all of the obvious reasons, while also conceding that Iggy Pop is really cool, because really, how can you argue against that proposition? But assuming the Posette was hit in the head with something heavy and actually agreed to call our child Iggy, she would still object to Ignatius on the grounds we would call the kid, "Iggy," so why not just name him that?

I argue that we could call him Iggy. Well, that is, after we made sure the Posette's head injury was okay and there was no hemorrhaging or anything. We could call him Iggy (in this example, the LP is a boy, because naming a girl Iggy is doubly cruel), but he could still have the name Ignatius for when he grew up and needed a real grown-up person name to put on his stationary.

Anyway, it is our first major difference, and it's creating problems on the naming front. Then again, we're still in the early stages. And one of the good things about suggesting Ignatius Xavier is that no idea seems all that bad after that.*

*Not entirely true. I'm already putting my foot down on Stripper Names. Any name that you can imagine being announced before some DJ plays "Pour Some Sugar On Me" is automatically a bad idea.

However, we have found some common ground. People, stop naming babies after characters in Twilight. That's just lame. If you must name your child after a character in a vampire move, please at least choose a good vampire movie. Or at the very least, The Lost Boys.

Because one day, your baby is going to grow up and actually see that movie. And, boy, is she gonna be pissed at you. But not as pissed as Iggy X will be at me.

Day Care

I dropped Elvis, the Official Dog of Poseur, off at day care today. The Posette is working late, and we didn't want him sitting in his crate all day, wondering why his people had abandoned him.

We pay for Elvis' day care in a block of ten appointments, which normally lasts about ten weeks. He goes in once a week, gets to play with his friends, and then come home and take a long nap on the couch. Our block ran out today, so I had to purchase a new block of ten days of day care.

Total cost? $180. $20/day with the tenth day free.

I have a hunch day care for a live human being is going to cost just slightly more than that.

Which is why I've decided I need to train Elvis to look after the LP. Elvis can fetch, lay down, and sit. He can even shake hands. He's a very good learner, and eager to please. So it shouldn't be too hard to teach him to care for a child, right?



This is Elvis. Look, this is a dog so functional that he can order a drink at a patio bar. and participate in a raffle!*

*Which, I'd like to point out, he won.


Think of the cost-saving opportunities! If Elvis can watch the LP, that reduces the need for day care, and thus, more money in my pocket. And I'm sure Child Protective Services would have no problem with this plan, and would be impressed by my Dog Whispering abilities.

There is no downside here. I mean, other than prison and likely divorce. But other than that... no downside. We start working on basic First Aid this evening.

Lawnchair

One of the biggest questions we’ve had to answer so far is whether to tell people about the pregnancy. Given that this blog exists, you can see how we answered that question, but it is one of those first “I hope I don’t screw this up” decisions.

They say that if something is going to go wrong in the pregnancy, it is most likely to go wrong in the first trimester.* This leads some happy, expectant couples to decide not to tell anyone until they navigate that riskier first month. Now, people are entitled to their own opinion and there’s no wrong answer here, but... those people are wrong.

*Ed. Note – Who the heck are “they” anyway? Where do they get off? Is there some secret council somewhere that dispenses conventional wisdom until the water supply?**

**Yes, I’m bringing back this joke from my old blog. Deal with it. I like footnotes.

First off, it’s not like you’re going to jinx things. It is scientifically proven that the only thing you can jinx by talking about it is a no-hitter. The proper procedure is to refer to the no-hitter as something else, like “lawnchair”. It is perfectly acceptable to say “Honey, change the channel to the Rangers game because Colby Lewis has a lawnchair through seven innings!” OK, Colby Lewis is not going to throw a no-hitter because he’s too inconsistent and has a tendency to leave the ball over the plate as he gets tired, but it’s just a hypothetical.

So, if you’re nervous about the whole jinx thing, just say that your wife has a lawnchair. We’ll know what you mean, and the Jinx Gods have been appeased. If it works in baseball, it’ll work in real life. Now, I realize this could cause problems if you and the missus actually purchased a lawnchair, which would lead to all sorts of confusion. If you are trying to get pregnant and also plan on purchasing patio furniture, perhaps you should use a different code word. The principle is still sound.

More importantly, it’s not like you’re going to be less sad if something awful happens. However, it’s a lot more joyous to tell people right now, and share in good news. It can be best expressed in two separate mathematical formulas:

Joy derived from telling people about pregnancy > Joy derived from not telling people

If something hideous and awful happens, then:
Sadness from telling people = Sadness from not telling people.

So why rob yourself of the joy? Telling the world increases the joy derived, at no risk of increased sadness. You only get to live life once, and constantly being afraid of things that might happen is just a way to prevent yourself from immersing yourself in the things that actually are happening.

And what’s happening right now is awesome. The Posette has a lawnchair through one inning, and is there any better feeling than going to a ballgame and silently keeping track of the potential no-hitter?*

*Ed. Note – Pregnancy is nine months. Baseball games are nine innings. Coincidence? Well, yeah. But methinks this may not be the last time we see this analogy. I’m also dreading the fact that the LP (Little Poseur) is probably going to be a Rangers fan. Rooting for the out-of-market (and dreadful) Orioles is going to be a tough sell, especially with the Posette and the Texas grandparents certainly promoting the local team and blocking any Orioles Indoctrination efforts I may try. But the LP will be the only Texan who knows, that’s right KNOWS, that Jim Palmer was a better pitcher than Nolan Ryan.

There’s a lot of joy in the world if we just let ourselves experience it. Getting the news that we’re going to have a Little Poseur was one of the few moments in life that was pure, perfect joy. Now, why wouldn’t I want to share that with everyone?

I'm Not Pregnant

"We're pregnant."

Well, not really. It's not like I have to incubate the baby for nine months, much less pass it through my, er, well, someplace uncomfortable. Saying "we're pregnant" is just a way we guys tag along someone else's hard work.

Sure, I'll take the slaps on the back and the obligatory "Way to go, big guy." Really, it was no trouble. Being congratulated for your wife's pregnancy by your in-laws is downright creepy when you think about it. They are congratulating me for having sex with their daughter. Not that I mind, but is not the normal way of things.

However, it's not like I'm not making any sacrifices or I have no part of this thing. Sure, the doctor performed a pretty damn invasive exam on her, not me. But I was at least in the room. They say 90% of anything is showing up, but...
Well, let's just say that other 10% seemed pretty damn significant to me. Sure, I cracked a prostate exam joke to the doctor, who politely laughed but no one is under any illusions here. That's a walk in the park compared to the exams the Posette has been and will be subjected to.

I'm a partner in this, but I'm not an equal partner. My role right now is limited to buying an instruction manual and figuring out our insurance plan. I'm already failing the second, though I did wander around a bookstore on Saturday and purchase a pregnancy book. I'm not gonna lie, those things are intimidating. Some of the books go into such excruciating detail of the medical procedures that I thought I had picked up the wrong book. I don't need to know how to perform the surgery. Hopefully, the doctor knows how to do that.

Still, she's got to do the bulk of the work. I'm just trying not to do anything stupid. Which, given my track record on this planet earth, is probably beyond my capacity. But I'll give it a go.

So what better way to start not doing something stupid than to restart the old Poseur blog? What you're reading as an attempt to keep y'all updated on the Posette's pregnancy. I'll be using pseudonyms for everybody because this is the internet and if someone wants my personal info, I'd like for them to have to put forth a decent effort to get it. Besides, this is an excuse to crank up the old Poseur HQ.

Yay, we're pregnant!