Of Thoroughbreds, Artistes, Drafthorses, and Enigma(e)...

Lounging on the couch this Sunday past, watching my Iggles screw up yet again by winning now that they've been eliminated from playoff contention (thereby costing precious draft position) I heard the sound I've learned precedes nothing good.

Tap, tap, tap, tap.

I knew it was going to be a long afternoon, because my wife has an interesting habit, or tic, depending on how you look at these things. When irritated to the point of fury, she taps her foot. Forcefully. Rhythmically. Continually. Her students recognize this as a sign they have gone too far. I've come to recognize this as my last chance to get the hell out of her way for a while. She's generally not an intimidating woman, all five feet and two inches of her petite self, but having survived the crucible of inner-city high schools, she can command a room. She can also flay the flesh from your bones should your transgression warrant it.

This was my situation; I had done something to stoke the fire of her fury, the trick was figuring out what I had done to quickly diffuse the situation before hell was unleashed.

"What is it, Boo?"

"You didn't buy molasses. We need molasses to make the cookies. You also didn't get enough flour, sugar, and eggs to double all the recipes."

Setting aside for the moment the fact that "we" weren't making cookies, that this was in fact yet another Quixotic quest she insists on making every year, I shifted into lawyer mode. Recognizing a false premise when one stares me in the face, I aimed to undermine the substance of her argument that I had failed her, somehow.

“Well, hon, did you put the molasses on the list, and how much of everything are we short?”

Well, to make a long story short, the problem came to differing definitions as to what “doubling” meant. Silly me, I though it meant you’d take everything and multiply by a factor of two; hence “double.” Using my “old math,” we did in fact have everything we needed, considering that we’d made one batch of each cookie the previous weekend. With the raw materials on hand, we could make another single batch of each dough, thereby raising our total production to double that of the original recipe.

Apparently, she wanted to make ANOTHER double batch, effectively tripling the recipe. This she neglected to mention, choosing instead to rely on my highly evolved mental abilities to pluck that single word out of her active dura mater. I am a great many things, psychic I am not. I long ago stopped trying to read her mind, choosing to instead rely on actual communication, be it spoken or written. I am happy to serve as her own Sancho Panza, but I need to know where we’re heading to do so. We each operate differently, and there’s nothing wrong with that, but a recognition of our preferred modes of operation is critical to effectively getting along

Thus, we reach the tie-in with the post title. I am a Drafthorse; my wife, an Artiste. I look to the things to be accomplished, see what needs to be done in order to efficiently accomplish everything without killing myself, organize what I need in order to accomplish the task as quickly as possible, drop my shoulder and push to get it done, mostly so I can get back to entertaining myself or relaxing. I don’t tend to get distracted, but then again I tend to miss a lot of the minutiae that may become important later. It gets done quickly and cleanly, but it’s not going to be Monet, Manet, or any other –et for that matter. The important thing, to my mind, is that it’s done and I can move on. Good enough is often just that. That’s a Drafthorse in a nutshell.

My wife, on the other hand, is an Artiste; everything must be just so for her to begin her work, and then the work only begins if the muse has struck her appropriately. Details tend to get worked out during the course of getting the job done; planning often overlooks or fails to take into consideration exactly everything that’s required. Procrastination often raises it’s ugly head, and that’s exacerbated by the fact that she insists on taking on entirely too much. She wants to make everyone happy, and when she’s done, the results are remarkable; you will have a work of art on your hands, and nine times out of ten it’s worth the wait. Maybe not the drama in getting there, but definitely the wait.

That got me thinking about the types of people in this wide world, and a few moments of contemplation distilled into four categories; the afore mentioned Drafthorses and Artistes, the Enigmas and Thoroughbreds.

You instantly recognize an Enigma any time you’re prompted to think “how the hell did they pull that one off?” This happens a lot in law school. I have a few Enigma friends, some who know they are and happily live with that knowledge, and others who simply have no clue. About anything. Nevertheless, there they are succeeding, while the rest of us gape and wonder WTF?

We all know thoroughbreds. They’re the asses who excel at absolutely everything, inspiring envy, wonder, and sometimes hatred simultaneously. Run a marathon in their spare time, rebuild engine blocks, file taxes for senior citizens, leap small buildings in a single bound, you know the type. More impressively is the fact that they do all of these things effortlessly. Bastards.

So, it all about recognizing not what other people want, or what you want other people to do, but how you need to communicate what you need. It turns out that there was nothing more than a simple miscommunication between the two of us. Nothing on the level of parsing he meaning of the word “is,” but a significant miscommunication nonetheless. I’d like to think that this moment of clarity will help our relationship grow and mature as we enter this next stage of life together.

But it didn’t save me from heading out to get more eggs.

Things That Are, and Aren't

Most of us are at least passingly familiar with the litany of changes that accompany pregnancy. The obvious alteration of outward appearance, weight gain, hormonal changes, various pains and discomforts. From what I understand, the mother-to-be also experiences some kinds of side effects owing to her role in the pregnancy.

I kid, I kid.

In all seriousness, all of us have friends, or family members, who have gone through this who verify that yes, there's a lot of stuff that goes along with the obvious. For whatever reason, and I am furiously knocking on what I hope is wood while typing this, my wife has experienced none of these. Yet. Did I just jinx myself? To review:

1) Morning Sickness. Have heard this is terrible. In fact, it can, in extreme cases (hyperemesis gravidarum) lead to profound dehydration, even death. That’s what led Merrell Dow to develop Bendectin, people with deformed babies who took Bendectin to blame Merrell Dow, Merrell Dow to subsequently remove it from the US market (while it remains FDA approved, is widely available outside of the US, and the US has no effective treatment for morning sickness available), and the Supreme Court to issue my favorite opinion related to the law of evidence, Daubert v. Merrell Dow Pharmaceuticals. Up yours, Frye! I know. I have serious issues. My wife, however, does not, at least regarding this particular side effect, except for;

2) Appetite Alteration. The baby hates coffee. At least that’s what the wife thinks, since the only time she has “retention issues” is immediately following her morning half-cup of coffee. And before you militants out there get indignant (“COFFEE! WHILE SHE’S PREGNANT? UNFIT! UNFIT!!), the wife has EXPLICIT APPROVAL from HER BOARD-CERTIFIED OBSTETRICIAN. The conversation, to which I was not privy, in relation went something like this:

Wife: “well, what do I need to avoid, now that I’m pregnant?”
Doc: “Well, is there anything in particular you’re concerned about?”
Wife: “I really like wine, and I really need coffee.”
Doc: “Eh, nothing wrong with a cup every morning, and a glass every now and then.”
Wife: “Really?”
Doc: “Is lying to you really worth losing my license, given that your husband is an fear-inducing and omnipotent attorney? I just peed myself a little thinking about him.”

OK, I made that last part up, but everything else is a fair approximation of what actually took place. By and large, we (meaning American parents) have transmogrified into a bunch of whining pussies hell-bent on protecting our kids from as many ill as possible. For the love of god, my mother drank a beer a day while breastfeeding me – common medical wisdom of the time holding that brewer’s yeast was good for lactation. Or maybe my mom was a lush, I’m really not sure. I am, and I think our doc is as well, of the Benjamin Franklin school of parenting; all things in moderation. Stop and think before you act, but don’t develop a complex about it. If you don’t approve of my methods, see yesterday’s post.

Oh, the kid doesn’t like ice cream, either. What the hell is wrong with them? This better not be a trend.

3) Internal Movement. This one is a little discomfiting. Because we’re still relatively early in the process, the Wife not feeling the kid moving around isn’t that odd; after all, they’re the size of a peanut at this point (giving rise to perhaps what is destined to be their unfortunate nickname once born) and can’t move a lot of their surroundings. However, and the ultrasound bears this one out, they’re swimming like a fish. That son-of-a-gun was turning somersaults while the Wife was watching. She felt nothing, though. That’s not gonna last, is it?

4) Hormonal Changes. OK, here’s where the Wife is manifesting her pregnancy. Not so much with the mood swings, for which I remain profoundly grateful, but with her complexion. The Wife is a beautiful woman, who is constantly and consistently mistaken for someone at least ten years her junior. Now that she is nearly constantly broken out with facial acne, we could probably go for twenty years her junior. I don’t notice these things (Heck, I hardly notice when she gets a haircut; not because I don’t care, but because I’m not looking for it. And I don’t care.), but she has officially begun Freaking Out About It. It’s temporary, right? Either the acne or the freaking out? Please? Bueller?

All things considered, it’s been smooth sailing so far. My fingers are crossed, I’m thinking about breaking my Church Ban to light a candle, and I may stop by a farm to butcher a goat as a sacrifice to keep it that way. My best efforts aside, I can’t help but feel it’s not really up to me.

Word's Spreading, So Now What?

Well, now that the first trimester threshold has come and gone, we're comfortable letting those outside of our immediate family know about what's going on. Some have been told, and others have discovered independently (like, by reading these posts and knowing who I am). Universally, congratulations and support flow into our small yet growing family. Multilaterally, and thankfully NOT universally, unsolicited advice follows.

We are happy to hear about your experiences as a parent, since we've never done this before and it’s a little scary. However, and the wife agrees with me on this point, that does not mean that we want your advice or guidance as to how we should live our lives, unless we are so forward as to ask for it. So, kindly, kindly, keep your advice to yourselves unless and until we ask you, and then don’t be offended if we completely ignore you. We’re reasonably intelligent, observant, inquisitive, and thorough adults, gifted with the security and independence that robust careers and education provide. We appreciate the value of comparable experience, and are more than willing to accept advice thoughtfully given. However, we are not you, and needn’t live our lives according to your plan or template. We’d like to at least attempt to handle this, as much as we are able, on our own. That being said, we understand our limits and are hardly too proud to seek help when its needed.

That time is not now; we’ll let you know when it is.

It’s a complex world out there, and sometimes, particularly for those kinesthetic learners among us, we need to get our hands dirty before we “get it.” That’s OK, because neither I nor my wife are dumb enough to put our little one in jeopardy in order to learn a lesson on parenting. Are we going to make mistakes? Hell yes, but then so does everyone. That’s life, and your mistakes teach you in a way nothing else can; through experiencing the pain of failure, subsequent success is sweetened. Mmm…alliteration…

Everyone is different, leads different lives, and has a different perspective on how to approach things. That’s a huge benefit of being a parent yourself; within certain (extraordinarily broad) bounds, we get to raise our kids however the hell we want. Maybe our son will take ballet. Maybe our daughter’s first toy will be a construction set. Maybe we’ll all learn to play the bagpipes and fire them up in our backyard at 5 AM on a Tuesday.

Our kid, and we’re entitled to a little leeway in how we raise them. If you keep your mouth shut, I’ll do the same. Something my father told me about people in glass houses and all…

And for the love of god, don’t touch a pregnant woman’s belly unless she consents. Otherwise, that’s battery. I know, I’m a lawyer, and I’d have no compunction about haling your ass into court to make a point.

And I "Need" That Why, Exactly?

So, now that the immediate family knows of our impending parenthood, and couldn't be happier or more surprised, we've entered a new phase of our relationship. The one where everyone in the world starts giving us advice. As novice parents-to-be, to a certain extent this is great; I have no idea what's going on, so a little friendly guidance is much appreciated. That my mother was a nurse for the better part of 30 years (as well as a mother of two), and my sister is a licensed occupational therapist makes their insight even more persuasive.

However, I don't need a dissertation of all the things I'll need to do, look out for, or for damn sure have to go out and buy, at least at this particular juncture. Needless to say, that hasn't stopped everyone from doing it anyway. As the first of what I'm sure will be an ongoing series, I give you "Modern Childrearing Implements You Never Knew Existed."

Exhibit 1: The "Boppy"
Don't ask. Apparently, it's to support the kid while feeding, and to help muscle development when they're learning to sit up. Me? I thought it was a neck pillow.

Exhibit 2: The "Baby Bjorn"
Those crazy Swedes. What will they think of next? The adorably boxy Volvoes of my youth, the frustratingly odd location of the ignition on all cars Saab, lutefisk, and now this; You know, for kids. Apparently, it's for carrying your kid around, either in the "puke on me" (facing inward) or "puke on you" (facing outward) positions.

Exhibit 3: The Car Seat
Apparently, even though I'll only have one kid, I'll need three of these; one "infant," one "toddler," one "booster." If you ask me, this can all be avoided by the liberal use of bubblewrap and duct tape. Of course it's legal; I'm an attorney.

It's going to be a long seven months.

Ends, and Beginnings

It's been a crazy couple of months; finishing law school, taking (and passing) the bar exam (two of them, actually), packing, moving, and unpacking again, then learning that mere months from now I receive the coveted title of "Daddy." From what little I know, the whirlwind is just beginning, but something tells me that the things that got me through the past few will serve me well in the coming months. I have an incredible wife, supportive family, and amazing friends.

The last group, in particular, has been critically important of late. Regardless of how wonderful family is, unless they've been through the wringer of law school and the bar kafuffle thereafter, they just don't get it. They simply can't. No event in the entirety of human existence quite compares to law school and the bar exam. Sadly, not everyone emerged unscathed. Brilliant classmates have fallen victim for reasons not quite understood by them or me, but they soldier on; for that reason alone they have my undying respect. The accomplishments of those who passed stand on their own; the efforts of those yet to pass stand as a testament to hard work and perseverance. You'll get it next time.

To all my peeps in DE, PA, NJ, and NY, particularly those who doubted they could; you did. I'm proud of you.

Words I'm looking forward to saying ad infinitum, ad nauseam for the rest of my life. After all, isn't that part of a Daddy's job?

Down the Rabbit Hole

Life often sends us little signals that we recognize immediately, identify only in hindsight, or miss altogether. The events surrounding my wife telling me she was pregnant falls into that vast grey area in the middle.

She didn’t tell me “we” were pregnant, because let’s face it, after sending my boys on their way, my work was done; I am no longer part of the equation. She was pregnant, and while the coming physiological effects are certainly limited to her, my life as I knew it was over. What did I do? What any Irish recovering-Catholic attorney would do; I poured myself a drink and sat down to figure out what the hell this all means.

We discussed having a child, so this wasn't out of left field, but the conversations always stayed in the hypothetical. For some reason, at some point in time, I thought it was a great idea, but come on, really? The MONTH my wife goes off birth control, I knock her up? Really? I’m 34, and she's 37; conventional wisdom tells us to wait six months to a year before we really start worrying about conception or the lack thereof. I figure that either I have super-sperm or my wife is the second coming of the Fertile Crescent. Regardless, my life as I know it has officially ended. In pace requiem.

That isn’t to say that there weren’t signs, omens if you will, that should have alerted me to this impeding upheaval. From what little I currently understand about the process, and I may be mistaken here, pregnancy wreaks havoc on a woman’s body. My wife doesn’t usually complain all that much about bloating, cramping, and other GI unpleasantries, nor do I ordinarily bear witness to any of the secondary indicia; stinking up the bathroom is my job. Not these past few weeks. I just handed my funky crown to her. I bet they don't tell you that in "What To Expect."

More subtle were the subconscious signs. Can men pick up on biochemical shifts in their spouses, akin to the menstrual synchronization phenomenon of college dorms? Someone needs to look into this, because this past week I’ve 1) had dreams about us finding out we weren’t yet pregnant, planning out the consolation I would need to provide in order to earn the access necessary to try again; 2) experienced a sudden inexplicable urge to read “daddy blogs” documenting parallel experiences of others; and 3) become convinced that doing it myself was just the greatest idea ever.

So when I got home from the office the other night, I found a card (seriously, does she keep a stack of these hidden somewhere, and more disturbingly, some ass at a greeting card company felt the need to make ‘congratulations, you’re pregnant’ cards? That must be a sign of the downfall of western civilization), endearingly enough informing me “my swimmers hit their target.”

......

Did I know without knowing, or is this all an impermissible application of hindsight? More importantly, does this mean I have to buy a minivan and a car seat, or can that wait? At the end of it all, I have to say I really don’t want a minivan

It's Official

We got the call last night, and it appears that we're along than we thought. Obviously, more details will emerge as the pregnancy progresses, but they're assuming we're at about the two month mark. That means it's probable that THE WEEK my wife went off birth control, I ably performed my manly duties.

Once again, rough guesstimations and the best laid plans of mice and men have drastically gone astray. Conventional wisdom can suck it.

Now, I may just be nitpicking here, but when the doctor's office calls to give you "the news," why do they assume a positive result should be congratulated? In our particular situation, certainly, but we're just one couple. I can imagine a whole spectrum of circumstances where an additional mouth to feed may not be the greatest news in the world, or may in fact be the dawning of a woman's nightmare.

I'm not talking about the fact her new jeans won't fit for much longer. What if the woman in question had been raped, was ill, or had significant medical history that made a "normal" pregnancy unlikely if not impossible? Setting aside all of the complications that can arise even in the best of situations, with the purest of intentions, becoming a parent isn't getting a new job, or car, or even like anything else in the world. Wouldn't "I hope you're ready for this" be a more equitable segue into this particular piece of life-altering news?

And We Have Liftoff?

I hope I'm not tempting fate by typing this before we get the official, M.D.-endorsed confirmation (due sometime today), but I saw with mine own eyes the business end of the home test the Lovely Wife peed on; Pregnant. Much easier simply reading the word than having to figure out "is it blue?"

I understood why she felt the need to hold onto this particular item for the more than the hour it took me to get home from the office, but it still slightly disturbed me. She wanted confirmation, and she wanted to share it with me, but she peed on it. Then put it on my dresser.

Two words, dear; Ziploc, Bag.

Another part of me also understands that we're not out of the woods yet. From what little I know of the whole "process" (and I broke down this weekend, doing what I promised I would not: buying for my hypochondriac, OCD wife the modern day Necronomicon; "What to Expect When You're Expecting"), largely derived from friends who have gone through the same ordeal, it's touch-and-go until she's got three months under her belt.

Then again that's all part of the joy, and terror, of being a daddy-in-waiting. Stay Tuned!