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As usual, Thanksgiving boasted a wonderful meal. Some dressing
here, some sauerkraut there, some green bean salad in the corner,
potatoes everywhere, biscuits on top, and turkey.
Yum – turkey. And that was just my plate. This year, like every
year, did not dissappoint.

I’m thankful it didn’t. We held the annual meal at our home
this year, something that is rapidly becoming tradition.
The house dared to tempt the fire code as it was stuffed with
18 members of our family. That meant there was lots of
cleaning, lots of commotion, and, yes, lots and lots of
leftovers.

The direct result of that is that I’m very, very full. Day
old table scraps entered my gaping maw as we entertained some
close friends on Friday. On Saturday, we ran off to Pennsylvania
to partake of the leftovers of the wife’s sister. Sunday found
us back at home, cleaning the various containers in the fridge in
the hope that nothing goes to waste. In the last four days,
I haven’t seen a plate that doesn’t feature some mashed potatoes.
Four days after Thanksgiving, I’m still very thankful.

Of course, my gut probably can’t take much more of this.
I’m quickly starting to understand why bears hibernate
all winter. Thankfully, the supplies are finally running
low. In one day soon, lunch will again become a reality.
I’ll no longer spend my time lurching for the couch in a
tryptophan daze.

One last note: James Lileks wrote a great little blog

entry (you might have to scroll down to Thursday)
that just put me in the Thanksgiving mood at just the right time. If you
get a chance take a peek. I’d like add one more on my
personal list:

I hope everyone had a great Thanksgiving holiday.
May your belly be as full as mine.

Whoa – slow down there honey. It’s on its way.
I know more than you about it (which is essentially nothing).
It’s true. But settle down and just enjoy the ride (while
I enjoy the secret). The shower will be here before you
know it. Now “it” is.

The truth was that there wasn’t a shower – there were three. One was
filled by my family and folks from church, one was attended by
the wife’s family, and yet another was bursting with friends.
One took place last Sunday. The last two concluded this weekend.
It’s been a worldwind tour. It seems that every time we open
a door, we are greeting by shouts of surprise.

Presents are piled high in the baby’s room, while the wife
works furiously hard to clean and fold all the cute little
outfits, towels, and blankets. Toys are collected on the
dresser, whose once bare drawers are now nearly full.
The wife organizes, coos, and organizes some more.
Look at these cute little diapers.
I do the heavy lifting and building. Boy do I do the
building; doesn’t anything come preassembled?

I don’t know how I could possibly thank everyone enough.
The wife is very loved. We have so many people
that care for us, and by extension our coming child. All
the faces we’ve seen lately attest to that.

Just scant weeks ago, the baby’s room was empty and I could
count all the baby stuff we had purchased on two hands.
Now, the baby’s room is painted, the dresser is built,
and the crib is not only up, but stuffed with Noah’s
Ark sheets, comforters, and more. After a trip to
BabiesRUs
for some returns and necessity purchases,
we are nearly ready. It’s amazing how fast the
transition was. Someone pressed the
fast forward button.

Now we need to finish tending to our mountain of gifts.
It’s a great problem to have.

I’ve got a problem I just can’t seem to fix. I’ve been remiss
in my duties. I just can’t seem to stay in touch with those
who live outside the 15 mile radius surronding my home.

This problem has been exacerbated by the fact that I’ve
got such
good news to share. I have some very
good friends who don’t even know that I have a pregnant wife –
much less a wife who has only 3 months until she pops.
I desperately want to make sure that my father, who lives about
an hour away, is a large part of my child’s life but I have
trouble finding the time to pick up the phone and tell him
what’s going on inside my wife’s little belly. And I have
a sister, that I so dearly miss, who hasn’t heard from me
since Christmas. I should be ashamed.

And I am – a little bit. I’m also lazy – a lot lazy. I don’t
think that I can pretend to have a better excuse than,
“Well, they haven’t called me.” That’s no excuse. It’s no
excuse at all.

The fact that I’ve basically ignored my sister probably bothers
me the worst. Before she moved, I didn’t have a closer relative.
When I was a child, she was my protector (just ask the mean
kids in my old neighborhood). When I was young, she was my
second mother. When I grew up, she was a close friend – a
good friend to both me and my wife.

You could find the wife and I over at my sister’s house nearly every
weekend. Movies, board games, and card games usually filled the
docket. Crabs usually filled my stomach.
And let’s not forget the crab dip. Let’s certainly not forget the
crab dip.

But then she moved. The phone lines have been pretty silent ever
since.

I have to admit the first thing I noticed is that my hair grew
without abandon. I had lost my barber. No one else had cut the
mop on top of my head since I was a very young child. What do you
mean I have to go to a hair salon? The wife and I noticed the
big gap in our entertainment schedule. I missed my sister.

That’s why it was great to hear from her, even if it was only
in

comment form a couple of days ago. I hope she
can use this blog to keep in touch. Maybe it will encourage
me to pick up the phone a little bit more often. Maybe it
will encourage her to do the same. I miss you Deb. Let’s
stay in touch.

Taylor, I just wanted to wish you a happy birthday.

You asked for a little happy birthday and here it is. Through the miracles of the technology (I’m going to back date this one), I’ve even been able to wish you happy birthday on time.

I hope you had a good one. You’re a good kid and deserve it. I’ll even avoid telling you to study hard for one day (oops, I just did). Remind me next time you are up and you might even get a present.

Month 6. Two-thirds of the pregnancy is behind us; only 3 months remain.
A baby is most certainly on the way.

However, some may have noticed that the baby posts have thinned out a bit.
I suppose that this is because the baby hasn’t doesn’t anything especially
new for a while. Sure, it kicks the heck out of the wife. The stomach
rumbles to and fro, hinting a bit about the little life contained within.
Monthly visits to the doctors continue. A quick check-up and
a quick listen to the heartbeat assures us that everything is going
fine (Thank God).

Our recent past was filled with joyous announcements and surprises,
allowing us to share the good news with family and friends.
Doctor visits began. The first beats of the baby’s heart
were music to our ears; the first sonogram was a sight to behold.

Preparations for the future started in earnest.
Inventory was taken and a baby registry put in place.
(By the way, we are registrered at
Babies R Us. Email me
for a direct link.)
Colors and designs were chosen for the baby’s room.
Paint is sure to follow. The wife and I even got certified in
baby and infant CPR, gaining an incredibly important skill
that we pray we never need to use.

But things on the baby front are going through a bit of a lull. The giddiness
of discovery has been traded for reflection of the past and a long look
to our expectant future. We are in the middle of the calm before the
storm. We can take stock of the last six months and look ahead to
the coming weather. We are so lucky – so incredibly lucky.

The opportunity to rest won’t last much longer. I see baby showers on
the horizon. I see visions of our child in the clouds. I see the lightning
and thunder that signal the arrival of our new family member.

This little pause is something that we both need but will barely notice in
the overall scheme of things.
I’ll just enjoy it while I can. It may be the last time
I can sleep until 10:00 am on Saturday morning.

Take a peek at your hands; they really are incredible pieces of work. Five
nice long digits each, an extremely flexible muscular structure,
and more joints than you shake a stick at make up one of the most
impressive pieces of the human body and
one of the most impressive tools in existence. Add in that whole
opposable thumb thing and, well, what a cool thing I have attached to
each of my arms.

They are even more incredible when they are attached to your child and you
are peering at them for the first time through the wonders of a sonogram.
One of the first recognizable shots of my baby, in fact, included one
of those hands seemingly waving to and fro, welcoming some visitors
to its little world for just a couple of moments.

What a world it was. Images of our child faded in and out. There’s the
head. There’s the heart. Are those toes? Is that a foot? A frontal view
peered deeply into its eye sockets. A side profile was marked with a nose so
cute that it could only have come from my wife.

The thing that got me the most was the fact that it moved. The arms
moved. The legs moved. The heart pumped away. At one point, it covered
its face with its arms, playing a child’s game even then. This wasn’t some
abstract thing poking at my wife from inside her belly. This was a human being.
This was alive.

We were so happy to include the mothers in the experience. They quietly
stood by, oooing and aahing at all the right moments; eyes lost in the picture
on the screen. This just wasn’t possible when they shared the baby making
experience. Now that it is, neither lacked enthusiasm for seeing it first
hand (they both showed up about 45 minutes early). Moms, thanks for coming.

We wrapped up the session by attempting to determine the sex of the baby.
For those that have been following along closely, you may remember that
the wife and I
debated
on whether or not we really wanted to know.
In this one case, I prevailed (or at least she’s allowing me to think so).
Unfortunately, if I’ve passed anything on to the child at such an early
age, it appears that I’ve given it a bit of my stubbornness (or did it get it
from its mom?). We were ready and waiting for the announcement but the
little tike wanted nothing of the sort, crossing it legs in defiance (and
what cute little legs they were). Adjusting the position of the belly and,
by association, the wife didn’t change this.
Just my luck. I get my way and the baby takes her side!

We waited a couple of minutes and the wife happily removed the gallons of
water from her bladder, hoping the kid would move over and give us a good peek.
It did, but only a little bit, leaving the result as much guesswork as science.
Still, there was something there on the screen; something there that could
give us a look into the future. It looked like a fifth extremity. It looked like
a boy.

Last Saturday, the wife and I stayed in and watched the
NASCAR race,
which took place in Bristol, Tennessee.
Bristol, for the NASCAR
impaired, is a tiny track – about 1/2 mile in length – where they
crowd a field of 43 cars into a bowl and tell them to go.

If you don’t get the sport of NASCAR racing, Bristol is the place
to start. No room to run and lots of guys looking to do so.
Paint is traded in every turn, where bumping and grinding is not the
exception, but the norm. Cars spin, tempers flare, and more than one
driver gives another the one finger salute. The highlight of this
race was the fact that my favorite driver,
Jeff Gordon,
gave the leader a tap in the back with two laps to go, pushed him out of
the way, and finished up front for the

first time in a while.

But that was nothing compared to the bump that awaited me. See, the
quickening
has begun. It started just a couple of weeks ago, with the wife uttering
oohs and ahhs occasionally, spreading her eyes wide at the activity inside.
There was a time where she wasn’t quite sure if the movement she felt was
gas or child, but, as the weeks passed, the thumps and wallops inside her have
become more pronounced and more frequent.

The sad side of this, from the father’s perspective, is that I don’t get
to share in it. Whenever she feels any movement, the wife is quick
to grab my hand, place it upon her tummy, and anxiously await a signal from
me that I do, in fact, feel it.

Saturday that all changed. Laying down on the bed after the race, my wife
revealed her belly to me and placed my hand on it. We’ve been doing this
for a while and she had reported a recent spat of activity.

Lo and behold the child gave quite a bump to the center of her baby carrier.
I got to experience a kind of quickening of my own. Contact was made and
won’t soon be forgotten.

Jenn made the cute observation that the child was giving me a high five after
the race (if so, babe, we now know who his or her favorite driver is). Whatever
it was, I was just glad to be there. This baby thing becomes more real
every day.

During the monthly pregnancy check up with the OBGYN today,
my wife and I were confronted with an issue we have often discussed:
epidoral
or no epidoral;
drugs or no drugs.

Opinions vary widely on the uses and effects of the various available

birthing drugs. An epidoral isn’t the only choice but it looks to
be the best, providing comfort to the mother without passing much of the
same along to the child. Some drugs, which aren’t accompanied
with a big nasty
needle
that they stick in your back, can be
even scarier – offering
side effects
that two prospective parents can fear even more than the upcoming pain of
childbirth.

But to me (and seemingly to her as well), an epidoral is still a
very scary proposition. The idea of losing the feeling in the lower half
of my body gives me the creeps. There are other minor side effects
and risks as well (and did I mention the size of that
needle).
It will, however, take the pain away.

It comes down to her decision and her decision only. I’ll only offer an
opinion – no pressure and no judgement. I love her and want her to be
comfortable with the experience and comfortable with what she does to her
body. I’ll be there to hold her hand, regardless of what she decides.
If she does choose a natural childbirth, I’ll leave the other hand free to
block the random swings and curses that originate from soon-to-be
mother of my child.

Incidentally, the title of this blog refers to
a clever little moniker for the feeling a woman gets during birth.
Supposedly, you can get a simulation of
this sensation by grabbing the insides of your mouth and
stretching the two sides in opposite directions for several seconds.
Yikes, I bet that hurts.

The wife and I have our first disagreement with regard to our unborn child:
we don’t agree on whether or not we should discover the sex of the
child early.

The wife, bless her normally impatient self, doesn’t want to know. To her,
it seems, finding out the sex of the child during the birth is part of the
experience and part of the surprise. She worries that they might be wrong –
even in this day and age they can’t tell with 100% accuracy – and looks
ahead to the shower where she could end up with mountains of baby clothes
that happen to be the wrong color.

I, despite my normally patient nature, want to know. Medical science has
given us a chance to discover facts about our unborn child that would make
even our parents jealous. To me, it is part of the surprise, rather we find
out now or later. I want to dream about the patter of little feet and have
an idea about the shoes those feet will be wearing.

One proposition that was born from this disagreement is an interesting
one indeed. Let’s both be happy. The doctor can tell me but not her.
She will remain in the dark while I sit on a secret that I’ll just be bursting to
share. Somehow I just don’t think this one will work out in the end.

When it comes down to it, the answer is really irrelevant.
I’d be just as happy throwing a football around in the backyard with a boy
as I would be throwing a football around in the backyard with a girl.
It really, honestly, matters little to either of us. We are just happy to
get the chance to have one at all, even if we have to wait nine months
to find out the color of its socks.

Yesterday, I heard the beat of our child’s heart for the first time.
It’s one of those moments that I knew was significant when it happened,
but I don’t think I understood how much so at the time.
It was just another moment. Wasn’t it?

The wife got comfortable on the examination table, the doctor placed
her fancy little microphone on Jenn’s belly and ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum.
Tears formed in my wife’s eyes and, for a instant, I nearly
joined her (just a tear up, I swear). The little pressure cooker is
working overtime, just in case we had our doubts.

Jenn and I walked out of the hospital with more than a little euphoria;
another barrier passed, another bridge crossed. We again discussed
the reality of it all. Somehow the quick patter of the heartbeat
meant more than the fuzzy pictures we had seen so far. It may
have been just another moment in the day, but it is one I’ll reflect upon
for quite a while.

It seems that the clock is ticking, even if sounds of the pendulum were
slightly different than normal … ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum.