Thursday, July 14, 2011
Monday, April 4, 2011
What if...
I was thinking about how I would already take a bullet for this kid and it's not even 12 weeks yet. I mean, obviously it's hard for me to love something that isn't even fully developed...but in a weird way, I am already so protective of it. I just want it here already so I can stop worrying and waiting...even though the worrying never stops I'm sure.
I worry about the next week...then the next 3 months...if we'll hear a heartbeat...if it'll come out with an arm spewing from it's forehead. What if it's ugly and I know it's ugly but I have to love it. And I have to pass people on the street knowing they're looking at how ugly my kid is and then looking at me as if to say, "wow, that kid is ugly. you poor poor parent. do you know how ugly your child is? you have to know. But you probably don't because you're in denial over producing something as hideous and inappropriate as that..." And then they'll continue and reach their destination and tell their friend, "I just saw the world's ugliest baby..." Eventually, I'll catch up with them, passing by the window and the woman's eyes will widen and she'll point and exclaim, "There it is...there's the thing I was telling you about...the world's ugliest baby." And they'll stare and I'll know. My kid sucks.
And that's the other thing...what if it's dumb as fuck? And not in a re re sort of dumb...that's a whole other issue I have to worry about. But what if it's just terribly stupid? "Mommy, I want pasgetthi," it says. "It's spaghetti. And I'm your father. And you're sixteen..."
And then of course...what if it does have certain issues? Like it's down with the syndrome. Or reads at a fifth grade level in the twelfth grade. What if it eats poop? Or wets the bed until it's 30 and never meets someone because of their bed wetting issues, which makes them extremely anti social...like they throw fits when contacted by another human...or they end up living in the basement, clicking on pictures of naked children while sipping on a capri sun...a capri sun I brought them because they said they were thirsty and I feel responsible for their "condition" because one time, when they were five, they walked in on me masturbating in the bathroom even though I swear I locked the door.
These things go through my head. Not: can i afford it? what if i lose my job? there's so much to buy for it...just...what if it ends up with a fourth nipple on its forehead...which means there's a third somewhere else...
I think about how I'd react if I found out we were having twins...conjoined twins...connected at the dick so when they pee, they pee into each other so we'll have to have some weird contraption that hangs around their waist to filter the piss from the rest of their body.
But all that pales in comparison to the fact that for the rest of this kid's natural life, it'll have to tell people it's a Wachstein. That's the scariest thing of all.
I worry about the next week...then the next 3 months...if we'll hear a heartbeat...if it'll come out with an arm spewing from it's forehead. What if it's ugly and I know it's ugly but I have to love it. And I have to pass people on the street knowing they're looking at how ugly my kid is and then looking at me as if to say, "wow, that kid is ugly. you poor poor parent. do you know how ugly your child is? you have to know. But you probably don't because you're in denial over producing something as hideous and inappropriate as that..." And then they'll continue and reach their destination and tell their friend, "I just saw the world's ugliest baby..." Eventually, I'll catch up with them, passing by the window and the woman's eyes will widen and she'll point and exclaim, "There it is...there's the thing I was telling you about...the world's ugliest baby." And they'll stare and I'll know. My kid sucks.
And that's the other thing...what if it's dumb as fuck? And not in a re re sort of dumb...that's a whole other issue I have to worry about. But what if it's just terribly stupid? "Mommy, I want pasgetthi," it says. "It's spaghetti. And I'm your father. And you're sixteen..."
And then of course...what if it does have certain issues? Like it's down with the syndrome. Or reads at a fifth grade level in the twelfth grade. What if it eats poop? Or wets the bed until it's 30 and never meets someone because of their bed wetting issues, which makes them extremely anti social...like they throw fits when contacted by another human...or they end up living in the basement, clicking on pictures of naked children while sipping on a capri sun...a capri sun I brought them because they said they were thirsty and I feel responsible for their "condition" because one time, when they were five, they walked in on me masturbating in the bathroom even though I swear I locked the door.
These things go through my head. Not: can i afford it? what if i lose my job? there's so much to buy for it...just...what if it ends up with a fourth nipple on its forehead...which means there's a third somewhere else...
I think about how I'd react if I found out we were having twins...conjoined twins...connected at the dick so when they pee, they pee into each other so we'll have to have some weird contraption that hangs around their waist to filter the piss from the rest of their body.
But all that pales in comparison to the fact that for the rest of this kid's natural life, it'll have to tell people it's a Wachstein. That's the scariest thing of all.
11 Weeks
When was my last post? Awhile ago. Not that it matters. Not that anyone reads this but me and I already know what the hell's going on. So, I guess this is basically just an online diary of what the fuck's going on inside me lady's stomach. So, we're at 11 weeks. Pretty much 11 weeks. Wednesday will be 11 weeks exactly. Which means a lot has happened in the past six weeks since I last did anything on here. A lot to the baby has happened, growth wise. To us? Not so much.
Up until about a week ago, Sil was sick as shit every day. Barely able to move. Trying to teach fourth graders math and science and whatever the hell else fourth graders learn that they'll never use or forget the minute they jump on that school bus. They should teach them social skills. Or how to deal with life. Like here's an equation: two people go in for a job interview. One is black. One is white. Who gets the job? Answer: Trick question. Neither get the job. There was no job. Because the economy sucks a giant d-bag. The black guy just held the white guy up for cash. But little did the black guy know...the white guy is covered in explosives, ready to enter a bank or office building...or wherever white people commit their high society crimes. Great time to bring a baby into the world.
The baby: It's got all its internal organs. And teeth inside its gums. It's starting to look more and more like an actual human. Which is good because some of those images were making me sick.
We got a midwife. I didn't know what those were until we got one. I understand them now. The reassurance of having a familiar face with you the entire time instead of a doctor storming in at the last minute, grabbing for the head and ripping the kid out of your vagina, wiping it off and then storming out without as much as a congratulations. That's probably a little far-fetched. I'm sure the doctor washed their hands after. And possibly nodded. But the midwife is like a doctor but without the lab coat. And the God complex. Only our midwife is amongst a team of midwives. A midwives club if you will. So, she might be there on baby day. Or one of the other midwives might. It's a toss up. I'm not sure I know how I feel about all that. So, now Sil's looking into a doula. I thought they were all Indian. They are not all Indian. I thought they were going to chant very loudly and excercise their tongues like they're about to enter battle but they don't do that either. They're like a big sister program. A big sister that supports you while you're pregnant. While you're giving birth. And after the whole deal's over.
So, what am I supposed to do during all this? Whatever the fuck she says. Because I've also seen a ton of videos now on what it actually looks like to give birth. What an awful, awful sight it can be.
We watched one woman on all fours droppin a kid like a strung out addict heaving out its life onto the pavement. I was scared. Scarred. Both. The woman's husband was standing behind her, naked. Like doggy style. But there was no fucking. Only pushing. And screaming. Lots and lots of screaming. And then a kid just fell out. Like I drop deuces, this woman crapped out a kid. And then everyone went about their lives.
Sil wants natural so I want natural. Then we watched "The Business of Being Born" and I want her to give birth in a bathtub at home. Just because it looks nicer. And I can be at home, playing video games while the midwife and doula do their thing. I'm kidding. I won't play video games. I'll be curled up in the fetal position on the bed, rocking back and forth. Muttering something about God and Satan. Trying to ignore the screaming. But there will just be so much of it.
We go in tomorrow to hear the heartbeat. I'm nervous about this. We're reaching the end of the first trimester. The 'mester where anything and everything can go wrong. The scary semester of trying where you either fail or succeed. She's still nauseous at times. And tired. And her tits are sore. So all we need now is to hear the little fucker's heartbeat and I'll feel a lot better about all this.
That is, of course, until the next round of worrying begins. Because it never stops. Just like the screaming.
Up until about a week ago, Sil was sick as shit every day. Barely able to move. Trying to teach fourth graders math and science and whatever the hell else fourth graders learn that they'll never use or forget the minute they jump on that school bus. They should teach them social skills. Or how to deal with life. Like here's an equation: two people go in for a job interview. One is black. One is white. Who gets the job? Answer: Trick question. Neither get the job. There was no job. Because the economy sucks a giant d-bag. The black guy just held the white guy up for cash. But little did the black guy know...the white guy is covered in explosives, ready to enter a bank or office building...or wherever white people commit their high society crimes. Great time to bring a baby into the world.
The baby: It's got all its internal organs. And teeth inside its gums. It's starting to look more and more like an actual human. Which is good because some of those images were making me sick.
We got a midwife. I didn't know what those were until we got one. I understand them now. The reassurance of having a familiar face with you the entire time instead of a doctor storming in at the last minute, grabbing for the head and ripping the kid out of your vagina, wiping it off and then storming out without as much as a congratulations. That's probably a little far-fetched. I'm sure the doctor washed their hands after. And possibly nodded. But the midwife is like a doctor but without the lab coat. And the God complex. Only our midwife is amongst a team of midwives. A midwives club if you will. So, she might be there on baby day. Or one of the other midwives might. It's a toss up. I'm not sure I know how I feel about all that. So, now Sil's looking into a doula. I thought they were all Indian. They are not all Indian. I thought they were going to chant very loudly and excercise their tongues like they're about to enter battle but they don't do that either. They're like a big sister program. A big sister that supports you while you're pregnant. While you're giving birth. And after the whole deal's over.
So, what am I supposed to do during all this? Whatever the fuck she says. Because I've also seen a ton of videos now on what it actually looks like to give birth. What an awful, awful sight it can be.
We watched one woman on all fours droppin a kid like a strung out addict heaving out its life onto the pavement. I was scared. Scarred. Both. The woman's husband was standing behind her, naked. Like doggy style. But there was no fucking. Only pushing. And screaming. Lots and lots of screaming. And then a kid just fell out. Like I drop deuces, this woman crapped out a kid. And then everyone went about their lives.
Sil wants natural so I want natural. Then we watched "The Business of Being Born" and I want her to give birth in a bathtub at home. Just because it looks nicer. And I can be at home, playing video games while the midwife and doula do their thing. I'm kidding. I won't play video games. I'll be curled up in the fetal position on the bed, rocking back and forth. Muttering something about God and Satan. Trying to ignore the screaming. But there will just be so much of it.
We go in tomorrow to hear the heartbeat. I'm nervous about this. We're reaching the end of the first trimester. The 'mester where anything and everything can go wrong. The scary semester of trying where you either fail or succeed. She's still nauseous at times. And tired. And her tits are sore. So all we need now is to hear the little fucker's heartbeat and I'll feel a lot better about all this.
That is, of course, until the next round of worrying begins. Because it never stops. Just like the screaming.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Dishes. Nutritions. Blogs. And Dogs.
One week since the test showed up double lines. Five weeks since the first day of her last period. A few days away from six. According to an app, the baby book, and a few sites (Obsessed? Might be.) the zygote is now an embryo. And looks like a veiny dick being squeezed like a water balloon. There's a dot where the eye will go and nubs where fingers will form. By Monday, it'll have a heart beat.
Side note: This will blow your mind. The fingers form by cells basically going kamikaze and sacrificing themselves for the better cause of human development. So, as the cells off themselves, spaces form, which separates parts of the nub and thus forming a hand. How it knows to do this? No clue. It just does. Which means human making is far more interesting than I ever thought.
I turned into a hypo again today. Not for me. For the whole process. She texts me that she feels weird. Not nauseous. Just weird. And shaky at times. I immediately panic and hit every source I can. My brother (his wife is 3 months pregnant), Tara, websites. The app. They all say basically the same thing. Low blood sugar. She needs to eat more. Try some fruit. I text this back to her frantically. Followed by another text to relax. Followed by another text to see if she got the first two texts. I do more research. And finally get a text back. She says she's not worried. She was just telling me. That if she feels pain, I should know she feels pain. It's the least I can do. I immediately calm down. And spend the rest of the day thinking of ideas that my boss will most likely ignore. He can't help it. He tries. And sometimes he even lets me play. But usually his ADD keeps him from focusing on one thing for more than a few seconds. Unless it's his idea. And then we'll spend an hour online. He'll spend an hour. I'll be on my phone. Looking at baby sites.
Do I have a problem? Yes. Am I surprised? Not at all. I haven't been depressed in a while. I fear the universe feels it's time I did. Or maybe I should just loosen the fuck up. Probably the latter.
She's nauseous as shit when I get home. Lying on the couch. She looks like a zombie. There's an empty bowl of what looked like cereal and a glass of water on the coffee table. House Hunters is on. We're not buying a house anytime soon. The dog's jumping all over me because it's always about the dog. So, I humor her. And then realize I need to give the woman growing our child inside her a kiss. She wants to puke. I ask her not to puke in my mouth. We stop kissing. She tells me she's felt like shit all day and then asks if I want to go for a walk. The word walk sends the dog into a panic. She jumps high enough to paint the ceiling with her ears. I tell her to calm down and then tell Sil that I need to go to Costco to pick up my Chantix prescription. My second month on it. Third time taking it in the past three years. It's gonna work this time. Unfortunately it's at Costco. And i fucking hate Costco. But I have no choice. I tell her I'll pick us up some Chipotle since we got a buy one get one free coupon in the mail. Then I kiss her and the dog goodbye and head for the warehouse from hell.
The pharmacist tells me it'll be thirty minutes. Thirty minutes later, they hand me my script. The pills are housed in a blue box and placed in a bag. I say thanks and wonder why it took thirty minutes to place an already packaged box in a bag. This would have really pissed me off in the past. For now, I had a pukey pregnant woman at home waiting for food and a walk.
As soon as I walk inside the apartment I remember the coupon. The whole reason I even went to Chipotle. Oh well. At least we both really like Chipotle. Oh, wait, not anymore. She takes one bite and spits it out. "This is disgusting," she spews. I tell her to try mine. She does and says the same thing. But she eats hers anyway because it's the only thing we've got. Well, she kind of eats it. Forces it down her throat was more like it. I devour mine and then ask the dog if she wants to go for a walk. She responds by flipping out.
The walk is quick. Sil feels like shit and at one point tries to sit down on a bench but then quickly stands up claiming that sitting makes her feel worse. Her face looks like she's sucking on a lemon the entire way home. When we return, she goes for the toilet. I go for the kitchen. One started off disgusting. The other ends that way. I decide to take a few hits from the bowl for old time sake. I figure it'll be a nice treat while I clean the kitchen. Plus, once that kid pops out, it's goodbye high.
Cleaning the kitchen was actually entertaining. Probably because of the pot. Rearranging the dishwasher to maximize dish space became a puzzle. An art. At one point I pretend an audience is watching. That I'm in some kind of contest. Best Husband While Wife is Pregnant Contest. She'll be so proud that I remembered to wash the saucer the coffee spoon rests on. And the sponges. That's gotta be like bonus points. Who remembers to put the sponges in the dishwasher? I remembered. And I stacked that washer chock-full of kitchenware. The stove is next. And I go to town on it. It looked like Chef Boyardee puked all over it. I think I do an ok job. She would have done better. But that's ok. That dishwasher and clean sink say it all.
I join her on the couch and start this up. We start talking about her appetite. What she eats. What she should eat. I open a document she needs me to print for her at work. "In color!" she adds. It's a breakdown of how much of what she should eat per day, per trimester according to her weight and age. "2 cups of fruit" it says. "How much is two cups?" she asks. I look it up. Turns out an apple equals a cup. Six baby carrots equals half a cup. Half a cup of green beans and half a cup of sweet potatoes? Yup, one cup. "Can i eat too much fruit?" she asks. I look it up. On one site, a woman asks if she eats a ton of vegetables when pregnant if her kid will love vegetables. I mock this idea to Sil and then read the doctor's response. Turns out a new study claims that eating a ton of vegetables could in fact cause your unborn child to love them once they escape the womb. Guess I'm the asshole.
She's asleep now. So is the dog. I've kept a treat in my pocket the entire time I've been writing this. To teach her to calm down. The dog, not Sil. I give the dog a small piece when she actually listens. So far, it's been working. We can't have an anxious, overly excited dog around a newborn baby. It just wouldn't be healthy.
Maybe I should start eating dog treats.
http://www.fruitsandveggiesmorematters.gov/what/index.html
http://www.medicinenet.com/script/main/art.asp?articlekey=54296
Side note: This will blow your mind. The fingers form by cells basically going kamikaze and sacrificing themselves for the better cause of human development. So, as the cells off themselves, spaces form, which separates parts of the nub and thus forming a hand. How it knows to do this? No clue. It just does. Which means human making is far more interesting than I ever thought.
I turned into a hypo again today. Not for me. For the whole process. She texts me that she feels weird. Not nauseous. Just weird. And shaky at times. I immediately panic and hit every source I can. My brother (his wife is 3 months pregnant), Tara, websites. The app. They all say basically the same thing. Low blood sugar. She needs to eat more. Try some fruit. I text this back to her frantically. Followed by another text to relax. Followed by another text to see if she got the first two texts. I do more research. And finally get a text back. She says she's not worried. She was just telling me. That if she feels pain, I should know she feels pain. It's the least I can do. I immediately calm down. And spend the rest of the day thinking of ideas that my boss will most likely ignore. He can't help it. He tries. And sometimes he even lets me play. But usually his ADD keeps him from focusing on one thing for more than a few seconds. Unless it's his idea. And then we'll spend an hour online. He'll spend an hour. I'll be on my phone. Looking at baby sites.
Do I have a problem? Yes. Am I surprised? Not at all. I haven't been depressed in a while. I fear the universe feels it's time I did. Or maybe I should just loosen the fuck up. Probably the latter.
She's nauseous as shit when I get home. Lying on the couch. She looks like a zombie. There's an empty bowl of what looked like cereal and a glass of water on the coffee table. House Hunters is on. We're not buying a house anytime soon. The dog's jumping all over me because it's always about the dog. So, I humor her. And then realize I need to give the woman growing our child inside her a kiss. She wants to puke. I ask her not to puke in my mouth. We stop kissing. She tells me she's felt like shit all day and then asks if I want to go for a walk. The word walk sends the dog into a panic. She jumps high enough to paint the ceiling with her ears. I tell her to calm down and then tell Sil that I need to go to Costco to pick up my Chantix prescription. My second month on it. Third time taking it in the past three years. It's gonna work this time. Unfortunately it's at Costco. And i fucking hate Costco. But I have no choice. I tell her I'll pick us up some Chipotle since we got a buy one get one free coupon in the mail. Then I kiss her and the dog goodbye and head for the warehouse from hell.
The pharmacist tells me it'll be thirty minutes. Thirty minutes later, they hand me my script. The pills are housed in a blue box and placed in a bag. I say thanks and wonder why it took thirty minutes to place an already packaged box in a bag. This would have really pissed me off in the past. For now, I had a pukey pregnant woman at home waiting for food and a walk.
As soon as I walk inside the apartment I remember the coupon. The whole reason I even went to Chipotle. Oh well. At least we both really like Chipotle. Oh, wait, not anymore. She takes one bite and spits it out. "This is disgusting," she spews. I tell her to try mine. She does and says the same thing. But she eats hers anyway because it's the only thing we've got. Well, she kind of eats it. Forces it down her throat was more like it. I devour mine and then ask the dog if she wants to go for a walk. She responds by flipping out.
The walk is quick. Sil feels like shit and at one point tries to sit down on a bench but then quickly stands up claiming that sitting makes her feel worse. Her face looks like she's sucking on a lemon the entire way home. When we return, she goes for the toilet. I go for the kitchen. One started off disgusting. The other ends that way. I decide to take a few hits from the bowl for old time sake. I figure it'll be a nice treat while I clean the kitchen. Plus, once that kid pops out, it's goodbye high.
Cleaning the kitchen was actually entertaining. Probably because of the pot. Rearranging the dishwasher to maximize dish space became a puzzle. An art. At one point I pretend an audience is watching. That I'm in some kind of contest. Best Husband While Wife is Pregnant Contest. She'll be so proud that I remembered to wash the saucer the coffee spoon rests on. And the sponges. That's gotta be like bonus points. Who remembers to put the sponges in the dishwasher? I remembered. And I stacked that washer chock-full of kitchenware. The stove is next. And I go to town on it. It looked like Chef Boyardee puked all over it. I think I do an ok job. She would have done better. But that's ok. That dishwasher and clean sink say it all.
I join her on the couch and start this up. We start talking about her appetite. What she eats. What she should eat. I open a document she needs me to print for her at work. "In color!" she adds. It's a breakdown of how much of what she should eat per day, per trimester according to her weight and age. "2 cups of fruit" it says. "How much is two cups?" she asks. I look it up. Turns out an apple equals a cup. Six baby carrots equals half a cup. Half a cup of green beans and half a cup of sweet potatoes? Yup, one cup. "Can i eat too much fruit?" she asks. I look it up. On one site, a woman asks if she eats a ton of vegetables when pregnant if her kid will love vegetables. I mock this idea to Sil and then read the doctor's response. Turns out a new study claims that eating a ton of vegetables could in fact cause your unborn child to love them once they escape the womb. Guess I'm the asshole.
She's asleep now. So is the dog. I've kept a treat in my pocket the entire time I've been writing this. To teach her to calm down. The dog, not Sil. I give the dog a small piece when she actually listens. So far, it's been working. We can't have an anxious, overly excited dog around a newborn baby. It just wouldn't be healthy.
Maybe I should start eating dog treats.
http://www.fruitsandveggiesmorematters.gov/what/index.html
http://www.medicinenet.com/script/main/art.asp?articlekey=54296
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Time. Worry. And Nausea
I worry every second. It's in my nature to worry. I stopped for awhile thanks to Lexapro. And I'm not so much worried about how I'm gonna afford this. If the kid will come out looking like a Jackson Pollock painting or anything like that. Right now, it's more about Sil having a miscarriage. Maybe it's on my mind because one of her friends just recently had one. I just need to get through these first few months.
But that's like a lifetime for someone like me. Someone extremely impatient. I couldn't even last until June to ask Sil to marry me. I couldn't wait. So, I asked her in January. January. June. I knew last April I wanted to marry her. But this is nine months. Ten if you count the month you don't even know you're gonna have a kid. So, you keep smoking and drinking and inhaling pot smoke and then BAM. Pregnant. No more cigarettes. No more pot smoking. One glass of wine maybe. Then you start wondering if that last cigarette you had is gonna be the one that kills the kid even though it's technically not a kid yet. Just a bunch of cells quickly dividing to form a living, breathing creature.
You try not to stress out because then she gets stressed out and stress can cause just about anything to go wrong. I ask her if she's tired or nauseous because being tired and nauseous means everything is fine for the time being. I read that in a pregnancy book. She got "Your Pregnancy Week by Week" by Glade Curtis. Everyone else gets "What to Expect When You're Expecting" but when my wife was in the baby store, two women who just had children told her that book scared the shit out of them, so they recommended another one. And that's the one she got. I think they all pretty much say the same thing. I think it's just that the scary book is trendier.
I want to tell everyone. My friends. People I work with. People that are neither my friend nor my coworkers. Just some guy on the train. "Hey, I'm gonna have a kid!" "Would you like mustard on that?" "No, I hate mustard. But you know who might not hate mustard? My kid. Because I'm gonna have one." He'd probably put mustard on it anyway because people at subway don't listen to you.
But most people don't care. I know that. Because I used to be most people. I used to not understand what the big deal was. "Big deal," I'd say. "Just another kid in an already overcrowded world." A future murderer. Drug-addict. Just another nothin' in a know nothin' world. When my friend Jon's wife, Tara got pregnant I was happy for them. I didn't quite get it. But I was happy. Now I get it. And I want to tell everyone. But I can't. Because of the chance it won't happen.
But I'd probably tell these people anyway. That it didn't happen if it doesn't happen. So, why not just tell them now and keep them along for the ride, when or if it ends? Am i jinxing it? Is there such a thing? I told everyone that I couldn't have a kid because I probably had a broke dick from smoking too much weed. But that didn't hold up. So, why not tell. I asked Tara today how long she waited. She told me you're supposed to wait twelve weeks but she couldn't wait that long. And then I was about to tell some of my coworkers when she added that she waited twelve weeks to tell her coworkers.
I don't even know how many weeks it's been. Five probably. Five weeks from the first day of Sil's last period. That's how you measure. And what's really weird is that I read from our not-so-trendy book that pregnancy actually starts before the woman's even pregnant. Because every month the woman releases an egg into her fallopian tube. And then one of my guys comes swimming along, buys the egg a few drinks, makes some really bad jokes like, "boy is my tail tired" and then he penetrates the outer covering of the egg and implants itself inside the egg. But only the head of the sperm. The tail is released, like when space shuttles drop their boosters. Fertilization has occurred. And the cells start working on constructing a human. So, while it's been five weeks since all this started, fertilization might have begun three weeks ago.
In any event, it's still way too early for us to tell tons and tons of people, but not too early for me to worry every second of the day.
Good thing I quite pot.
But that's like a lifetime for someone like me. Someone extremely impatient. I couldn't even last until June to ask Sil to marry me. I couldn't wait. So, I asked her in January. January. June. I knew last April I wanted to marry her. But this is nine months. Ten if you count the month you don't even know you're gonna have a kid. So, you keep smoking and drinking and inhaling pot smoke and then BAM. Pregnant. No more cigarettes. No more pot smoking. One glass of wine maybe. Then you start wondering if that last cigarette you had is gonna be the one that kills the kid even though it's technically not a kid yet. Just a bunch of cells quickly dividing to form a living, breathing creature.
You try not to stress out because then she gets stressed out and stress can cause just about anything to go wrong. I ask her if she's tired or nauseous because being tired and nauseous means everything is fine for the time being. I read that in a pregnancy book. She got "Your Pregnancy Week by Week" by Glade Curtis. Everyone else gets "What to Expect When You're Expecting" but when my wife was in the baby store, two women who just had children told her that book scared the shit out of them, so they recommended another one. And that's the one she got. I think they all pretty much say the same thing. I think it's just that the scary book is trendier.
I want to tell everyone. My friends. People I work with. People that are neither my friend nor my coworkers. Just some guy on the train. "Hey, I'm gonna have a kid!" "Would you like mustard on that?" "No, I hate mustard. But you know who might not hate mustard? My kid. Because I'm gonna have one." He'd probably put mustard on it anyway because people at subway don't listen to you.
But most people don't care. I know that. Because I used to be most people. I used to not understand what the big deal was. "Big deal," I'd say. "Just another kid in an already overcrowded world." A future murderer. Drug-addict. Just another nothin' in a know nothin' world. When my friend Jon's wife, Tara got pregnant I was happy for them. I didn't quite get it. But I was happy. Now I get it. And I want to tell everyone. But I can't. Because of the chance it won't happen.
But I'd probably tell these people anyway. That it didn't happen if it doesn't happen. So, why not just tell them now and keep them along for the ride, when or if it ends? Am i jinxing it? Is there such a thing? I told everyone that I couldn't have a kid because I probably had a broke dick from smoking too much weed. But that didn't hold up. So, why not tell. I asked Tara today how long she waited. She told me you're supposed to wait twelve weeks but she couldn't wait that long. And then I was about to tell some of my coworkers when she added that she waited twelve weeks to tell her coworkers.
I don't even know how many weeks it's been. Five probably. Five weeks from the first day of Sil's last period. That's how you measure. And what's really weird is that I read from our not-so-trendy book that pregnancy actually starts before the woman's even pregnant. Because every month the woman releases an egg into her fallopian tube. And then one of my guys comes swimming along, buys the egg a few drinks, makes some really bad jokes like, "boy is my tail tired" and then he penetrates the outer covering of the egg and implants itself inside the egg. But only the head of the sperm. The tail is released, like when space shuttles drop their boosters. Fertilization has occurred. And the cells start working on constructing a human. So, while it's been five weeks since all this started, fertilization might have begun three weeks ago.
In any event, it's still way too early for us to tell tons and tons of people, but not too early for me to worry every second of the day.
Good thing I quite pot.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Whatever Happens...I'll be Outside
I've been looking at a lot of pregnancy websites now. Because that's what you do when your wife is pregnant. I'm calling her my wife now because in less than two months she will be. Might as well get used to saying it.
Just like I might as well get used to saying that I'm gonna be a father.
That was weird. Even though I didn't exactly say I was gonna be a father. Because I wrote it. It's still the first time I manifested those words in a communicative-type way. My head almost exploded at the thought.
Probably because of the brain aneurysm.
The hypochondria has gotten substantially worse since finding out that I will now be responsible for someone else's life. That I will now have to stop smoking. Cigarettes and weed. Because they both will kill me. And cost a lot of money. Money I now need to put towards baby clothes, diapers, a crib.
Although, I really do think Fall Out: Las Vegas will help get me through all this...
I need to talk to my health care provider about family coverage. Because I'm gonna have a family.
What. The. Fuck. Are you goddamn serious about this plate of shit I just served myself? Ferris Bueller is on right now. Ferris Goddamn Bueller. Wasn't I just watching this in the movie theater with my mom? When I was six.
Why did my mom take me to go see this movie when I was six?
She asks me if I'm freaking out. My wife. Not my mom. She just tells me how I should feel. Which is why I ignore her calls. But my wife asks me if I'm freaking out. I'm not freaking out. But it's only been three days. Ask me in three months. Or tomorrow. Or in a few hours. I'll probably be freaking out about the brain aneurysm.
Just like she freaked out yesterday at her friend during lunch. I wasn't there. I was washing the dishes, taking out the garbage and cleaning the cat litter. Because now that she's incubating a slowly dividing group of cells, like something out of a goddamn horror movie, I have to actually get off my ass and help out. I figure it's the least I can do. Take out the garbage while she pisses fifty times a day, feels like puking her guts out at least thirty times a day, changes personalities at least twenty times a day, and asks me if I'm worried at least ten times a day.
But again, it's only the third day of knowing. The fifth week of it actually...plotting. There's still plenty of time to go. Or not. It could get stuck in the fallopian tube and have to be extracted. She could wake up in a puddle of blood and miscarry because the kid ended up time traveling. I could end up going out for a pack of smokes and just never returning...
Am I jinxing it by not keeping it a secret or should I just embrace the fact that one of my little missile launchers was actually smart enough to penetrate one of her eggs, and whatever happens after that, as Daniel Faraday says, "happens"?
Who needs a goddamn cigarette?
Friday, February 18, 2011
There's Something Growing Inside Me
"I'm pregnant." She told me at 5:00 in the morning.
I shielded my eyes from the hallway light and asked her how she was sure.
"There's two lines. Two lines means pregnant. There's something growing inside me."
Then she walked into the kitchen to let the dog out. I rolled over on my stomach. "My dicks not broke." This made me smile.
Not that there had been any tests done to prove that it was broken. It was just one of those things I thought would happen. Because I always wanted to have a kid. Because being a kid was so much fun, I figured having one would be, too.
I shielded my eyes from the hallway light and asked her how she was sure.
"There's two lines. Two lines means pregnant. There's something growing inside me."
Then she walked into the kitchen to let the dog out. I rolled over on my stomach. "My dicks not broke." This made me smile.
Not that there had been any tests done to prove that it was broken. It was just one of those things I thought would happen. Because I always wanted to have a kid. Because being a kid was so much fun, I figured having one would be, too.
Plus, I'm a hypochondriac.
"What?" she screamed back.
Other than me.
Judd Wachstein knows nothing about anything
I wanted to see the test. I had always wanted to see a test. I saw them on tv shows. And movies. Different scenarios. Some people ecstatic. Others...not so much. Inside we were ecstatic. On the outside, it was 5:00 in the fucking morning.
I went into the bathroom. And looked at the tester with pride. And then focused on how light the second line was.
"The second line isn't really there." I screamed.
"What?" she screamed back.
"The second line...It's not really there."
"That means I'm pregnant." Then she walked in and kissed me. Then she walked back out. I stayed where I was. There was a pregnancy test on my bathroom sink. My bathroom sink. And there were two lines. Two lines on a kid tester sitting on my sink. That was just pissed on by my soon-to-be-wife. Whom I met a year ago. And has made me so goddamn happy, it's hard to imagine I'm not inventing it.
"That means I'm pregnant." Then she walked in and kissed me. Then she walked back out. I stayed where I was. There was a pregnancy test on my bathroom sink. My bathroom sink. And there were two lines. Two lines on a kid tester sitting on my sink. That was just pissed on by my soon-to-be-wife. Whom I met a year ago. And has made me so goddamn happy, it's hard to imagine I'm not inventing it.
So, that's that. Guess we'll see what happens.
Dear God, there's gonna be a kid runnin' around here soon...
Other than me.
Judd Wachstein knows nothing about anything
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