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.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Sunday, September 25, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
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.
Monday, September 5, 2011
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.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
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?
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