Friday, October 28, 2011
Building a future Cardinals fan
For the record, I would have been happy with whichever sex our child might be. But nights like tonight ... I can't wait to share them with our son.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Breaking news: Hilary will deliver baby in hospital after taking it easy
There is a great Chris Rock line from one of his stand-up specials (I believe Bigger and Blacker) where he says (and I'm paraphrasing): "You can drive a car with your feet if you want to -- that don't make it a good fucking idea!"
I am reminded of this line today because it seems like some women out there have gotten this notion in their head that having a baby isn't enough of an achievement. It isn't difficult enough, apparently, to push a newborn through your lady parts* -- you have to add a little spice into the gumbo.
*They went over all this in birthing class, but it left my brain almost immediately thereafter.
In case you missed it, last weekend a woman ran the Chicago Marathon while 39 weeks pregnant, then gave birth to a daughter several hours later.
This morning I read about an artist who plans on installing the birth of her first child as an art exhibit** at a gallery in Brooklyn.
**What hipsters are going to see this exhibit?
I am not here to judge these two ladies' choices. I imagine both care about the health of their baby*** a great deal. It's just hard to imagine doing anything that might make a complicated and taxing process even more so. Our idea of spicing up Hilary's labor is not packing a bag for the hospital until two weeks before the due date (and even that sounds unlikely).
***Running a marathon would seem the more obvious way to inflict physical harm on an infant, but I'm thinking being born in an art gallery would do more long-term psychological damage.
As humans, we seem predisposed to testing the limits of our capabilities, and in many ways it is that spirit that has transformed us as a species. Where we were once cave dwellers, now we are free to stare at TV and computer screens every waking hour. We've come so far.
I'm all for pushing ourselves to do the impossible, but I think Rock may be right on this one -- this don't seem like a good fucking idea at all.
I am reminded of this line today because it seems like some women out there have gotten this notion in their head that having a baby isn't enough of an achievement. It isn't difficult enough, apparently, to push a newborn through your lady parts* -- you have to add a little spice into the gumbo.
*They went over all this in birthing class, but it left my brain almost immediately thereafter.
In case you missed it, last weekend a woman ran the Chicago Marathon while 39 weeks pregnant, then gave birth to a daughter several hours later.
This morning I read about an artist who plans on installing the birth of her first child as an art exhibit** at a gallery in Brooklyn.
**What hipsters are going to see this exhibit?
I am not here to judge these two ladies' choices. I imagine both care about the health of their baby*** a great deal. It's just hard to imagine doing anything that might make a complicated and taxing process even more so. Our idea of spicing up Hilary's labor is not packing a bag for the hospital until two weeks before the due date (and even that sounds unlikely).
***Running a marathon would seem the more obvious way to inflict physical harm on an infant, but I'm thinking being born in an art gallery would do more long-term psychological damage.
As humans, we seem predisposed to testing the limits of our capabilities, and in many ways it is that spirit that has transformed us as a species. Where we were once cave dwellers, now we are free to stare at TV and computer screens every waking hour. We've come so far.
I'm all for pushing ourselves to do the impossible, but I think Rock may be right on this one -- this don't seem like a good fucking idea at all.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Junk in the trunk
 |
| What are you talking about Dad, there's plenty of room for luggage in there! |
* We have taken two classes in preparation for childbirth/rearing, and both involved ample images of women's naked breasts. It seems to me the hospitals providing the classes expect us to be adults about it, and outwardly I try to be ... but there is definitely a part of my brain that is still directing my eyes towards them like a sniper taking aim. I may be having a child, but it's clear to me I still haven't grown up.
Cleaning out my car? I didn't think I'd do that for anyone, let alone an infant. After all, who's he going to complain to? But I'm trying to start fresh here, so I set about to clean out my Camry for the first time since I moved to Atlanta in 2004. Oh who am I kidding -- this is the first true cleaning for this car since I got the damn thing in the summer of 2002**.
**What is wrong with me, you ask? It's not just that I'm messy, or even that I'm lazy, though I'm certainly both. It's more that I am ... unaware. If I took two seconds to look at the state of my car I might have done something about it at some point, but it honestly just never crossed my mind. If someone said to me, "What are you doing to do about the mess in your car?", I'd probably stare blankly at them like they'd just asked me what's the best method for growing cherry tomatoes.
I suppose I have cleaned bits and pieces of the interior of the car over the years for the sake of my passengers, but the one area that has been almost completely untouched, save a bunch of sporting goods, is my trunk. Junk, there be in my trunk.
And what
Take a look:
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Someone's going to have to teach our son to be a man, and that someone may be me
Once I found out we were having a son, most of my time spent imagining the future focused on all of the sporting events we would go to one day.
It was only recently it dawned on me that, in addition to teaching my son to swing, kick, shoot, and pass, I'm also going to have to teach him to be a man.
Only one problem with that -- I'm not sure I know how.
Oh sure, I can teach him some of the tricks of the trade: how to play cards, how to get unlimited extra men on Super Mario Brothers, how to treat a lady*.
*And I promise I will do it in a way that is less embarrassing than the instructions my father gave me, which mostly involved ordering for my female friends at Wendy's on the way to Mississippi State basketball games.
But when it comes to the real manly stuff, I am currently feeling a bit out of my depth.
I was reminded of this fact the other night, when Hilary discovered a snake in our garage. This snake wasn't anything for Samuel L. Jackson to shout about; it was perhaps a little over a foot long and maybe a few centimeters thick. It was basically an overgrown worm.
Still, it was a snake, and as the man of the house, it was my responsibility to resolve the situation.
So I did what I always do when faced with a difficult task, be it car, home, or serpent related -- I called my dad**.
** I could have asked my mom, but I have a feeling I already knew her recommendation. One time we were driving out to camp, and she swerved -- violently -- to avoid hitting a squirrel that had just run out onto the road. Several minutes later, a snake appeared on the road. My mom proceeded to run right over it, then backed up and ran over it again.
My dad is my safety net. And it occurred to me as I was preparing myself for man-on-snake combat, that someday my son may want to do the same thing, and I'm going to want to be able to give him helpful suggestions.
Based on my experience so far, this will consist of two simple words of advice: "Google it."***
***Which is entirely similar to my three-word medical advice: "Drink some water."
Googling has probably saved me well over $1000 dollars this year in repairs to my car and washing machine. But is it manly? I want to be my own Google, capable of providing answers without consult of the Internet. I'm just not sure how I'm going to make that happen, short of signing up for shop class at a local high school.
There is one thing I did learn from the snake-removal process though that I hope to pass along, but before I get to that let me give the play-by-play of how it went down.
My dad's solution to getting rid of the snake was to grab a big broom, then vigorously sweep the snake into the street. That seemed reasonable enough. But not knowing if the snake was poisonous (what am I, an ophiologist?), I wanted to protect myself first. I grabbed my hiking boots, then thought to get my work gloves, but realized they were in the garage. Past the snake.
Shit.
No problem though -- like MacGuyver (or at least MacGruber), I adapt. If I can't get my work gloves, I'll use the next best thing, or at least the next closest thing to me in the kitchen -- oven mitts!
Getting a good mental picture of my look? No? Ok, how about an actual picture:
Honestly, look at this poor bastard. That's your dad, kids!
Here's the thing though. It got the job done. The score read Micah 1, Snake 0, and I never let the fact that I looked like a complete imbecile slow me down, nor keep me from posting the above photo despite certain-to-follow ridicule. And that's the lesson I hope to impart to our son. If you are comfortable in your own skin, everything else can be dealt with.
Maybe I can't teach him how to build a deck, or rebuild a transmission, or grill the perfect burger (ok, that one I probably need to work on). But if nothing else, hopefully I can teach him to have self-confidence.
Google can take care of the rest.
It was only recently it dawned on me that, in addition to teaching my son to swing, kick, shoot, and pass, I'm also going to have to teach him to be a man.
Only one problem with that -- I'm not sure I know how.
Oh sure, I can teach him some of the tricks of the trade: how to play cards, how to get unlimited extra men on Super Mario Brothers, how to treat a lady*.
*And I promise I will do it in a way that is less embarrassing than the instructions my father gave me, which mostly involved ordering for my female friends at Wendy's on the way to Mississippi State basketball games.
But when it comes to the real manly stuff, I am currently feeling a bit out of my depth.
I was reminded of this fact the other night, when Hilary discovered a snake in our garage. This snake wasn't anything for Samuel L. Jackson to shout about; it was perhaps a little over a foot long and maybe a few centimeters thick. It was basically an overgrown worm.
Still, it was a snake, and as the man of the house, it was my responsibility to resolve the situation.
So I did what I always do when faced with a difficult task, be it car, home, or serpent related -- I called my dad**.
** I could have asked my mom, but I have a feeling I already knew her recommendation. One time we were driving out to camp, and she swerved -- violently -- to avoid hitting a squirrel that had just run out onto the road. Several minutes later, a snake appeared on the road. My mom proceeded to run right over it, then backed up and ran over it again.
My dad is my safety net. And it occurred to me as I was preparing myself for man-on-snake combat, that someday my son may want to do the same thing, and I'm going to want to be able to give him helpful suggestions.
Based on my experience so far, this will consist of two simple words of advice: "Google it."***
***Which is entirely similar to my three-word medical advice: "Drink some water."
Googling has probably saved me well over $1000 dollars this year in repairs to my car and washing machine. But is it manly? I want to be my own Google, capable of providing answers without consult of the Internet. I'm just not sure how I'm going to make that happen, short of signing up for shop class at a local high school.
There is one thing I did learn from the snake-removal process though that I hope to pass along, but before I get to that let me give the play-by-play of how it went down.
My dad's solution to getting rid of the snake was to grab a big broom, then vigorously sweep the snake into the street. That seemed reasonable enough. But not knowing if the snake was poisonous (what am I, an ophiologist?), I wanted to protect myself first. I grabbed my hiking boots, then thought to get my work gloves, but realized they were in the garage. Past the snake.
Shit.
No problem though -- like MacGuyver (or at least MacGruber), I adapt. If I can't get my work gloves, I'll use the next best thing, or at least the next closest thing to me in the kitchen -- oven mitts!
Getting a good mental picture of my look? No? Ok, how about an actual picture:
 |
| Snake removal attire (broom sold separately) |
Here's the thing though. It got the job done. The score read Micah 1, Snake 0, and I never let the fact that I looked like a complete imbecile slow me down, nor keep me from posting the above photo despite certain-to-follow ridicule. And that's the lesson I hope to impart to our son. If you are comfortable in your own skin, everything else can be dealt with.
Maybe I can't teach him how to build a deck, or rebuild a transmission, or grill the perfect burger (ok, that one I probably need to work on). But if nothing else, hopefully I can teach him to have self-confidence.
Google can take care of the rest.
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