I like chocolate.
My love of chocolate is independent of everything except for milk. I can have chocolate at anytime, any place, and in any position, but always with a glass of milk. I like sweet things, and my demon is cacao (Kuh-KOW!), so far so that if served another type of dessert (which I will eat), I will still seek chocolate.
Yesterday at the store I thought long and hard about what type of chocolate I should get. I finally found my limit.
The Redhead just emerged from another relatively successful yet grueling performance of putting the kid to bed. I don’t tell her enough, but she’s doing an incredible job. I can’t be too much fun to begin with, what with the constant moping about cleaning the bathroom and the propensity to stub my toe on every freaking baby thing imaginable because they’re all over the GOD DAMN FLOOR, add to that the little mumbling drool monster, and she’s got a pretty heaping plate full. In spite of all this, she still found the time to record a TV show with a really fat cat to show me.
Truth be told, it is a very fat cat. Still, I’m not sure why this is business that applies to me. I am not a pet person, having had 2 younger siblings, and am even less so a cat person. She thought it was of note. As she stated, “How could you not DVR that?” Just so. However, upon seeing my slightly blank response to the DVR’ed cat video, she started to cry. My poker face is a little out of practice, but I was still bewildered by that reaction. It’s just a fat cat. Then she really cried.
She felt for the cat. The video was never meant to be humorous, but I’m pre-programmed to view everything as a joke. She felt bad for a poor cat that, okay, has packed on a few pounds during the winter months and is now being paraded in front of some woman named “Hoda” on network television (like that means anything anymore). I would have found this odd, but she’s been a little kooky lately. By “little” I mean a lot, and by “kooky” I mean fucking crazy. The other day I handed her a styrofoam cup, but before I could insert the straw in the lid for her, she felt the need to spin 360 degrees. This is my wife, not my daughter. The straw was in my other hand, and she felt she needed to reach that hand more easily, by the three-lefts-make-a-right logic, I suppose. She is clearly delirious, exhausted, and scatterbrained during this period of child rearing and family insanity, and I love her for it. I couldn’t love her more.
Thank you, honey. You are the most fascinating, weird, beautiful creature I have ever encountered, and everyday I fall in love with you more. Don’t worry so much. While we can sometimes feel like we’re drowning, we’ll be there for each other, using the buddy system like at Lake Anawanna, to keep each other afloat and prevent cramps. You’re top shelf.
And that was a fat cat.
Okay, so yesterday I talked about this. I’ll sum it up quickly: did we leave our baby at home with a babysitter for a 6 hour event or bring her along? We did both. We’re out of the box thinkers. Keep that in mind, because rather than writing TWO blogs on a Sunday, the Sabbath, I’m also going to talk about the torrential rain pour in Hollywood today.
(For those of you who are visual thinkers, this box would not do well in today’s rain.)
We brought the babysitter along with us. She didn’t mind. She’s a friend anyway. In fact lately, she’s one of the top 3 people when it comes to getting Fyona to sleep. (She’s not number 3, either.) So off we went into the night: The Redhead, Me, Fyona, and our babystitter buddy, Ashandra. Meanwhile, it’s seriously, seriously raining in Los Angeles. Like, hard core. Our deck may overflow on account of a drain clog.
While the Redhead and I were stuck on stage doing a script reading, Ashandra and Fyona headed out into Bergamot Station to check out some art, a band, and some Goth kids. Meanwhile, the wind just blew over one of my trees.
The Redhead and I are a part of a staged script reading tonight, requiring us to ponder a tough decision: whether or not we should leave our baby at home without us for the first time.
(I really had no choice when it came to a picture.)
I realize that this may sound crazy to people since our baby is 3 months old, and I realize by crazy you could be thinking either of the following: “you haven’t gone out alone in 3 months??!” or “you’re going to leave her with a babysitter for 6 hours??!” In fact, you may have even been thinking, “you have a baby??!!”, but only if you haven’t been here in a while.
Understand: The Redhead and I have been doing this alone for 3 months. Most people have a cousin or sibling or parent or multitude of all of those in town and nearby. We have nobody. We have friends, sure, but a lot of them don’t have kids or kid experience and are still a little upset they can’t pass out on our couch at 3 AM anymore. They help a lot, but up until tonight (and possibly through tonight, since we may just bring her with) we have always been present. Fyona is quite social but like most babies, she prefers her parents to most. Okay, she prefers her mom to most, but I like to try to include myself.
So as the day unfolds before us we sit locked in stalemate, each of us 50/50 on what to do. Our babysitter could come with (and bringing Fyona along adds the bonus opportunity for her to poop on my former boss’s desk), but Fyona could singlehandedly tear down the whole damn script reading with one cry that would send Mom and Dad bolting from the stage, possibly knocking over chairs and audience members in the process. While that makes for fascinating live theatre, it’s not a part of the script, and I have been expressly told to stay “on book.” (Which was insulting. I know how to partake in a script reading, thank you very much.)
Oh, parenting sucks. No, wait. That’s not true. (Yes it is.) Parenting is awesome. (Most of the time.)
The other day the Redhead and I did something we didn’t think we’d ever do: we brought our baby to an acting audition. It’s bad enough having two people in the family that live or die on the whim of an unshaven intern holding a clipboard; adding a third only seems cruel, and ultimately an unsafe bet.
(The safe money bet is in teaching the kid mathematics or something useful.)
Truth be told, it was actually an audition for the Redhead where she held a baby, and If that baby happened to be her own baby, all the better. It’s not like we’re “Toddlers and Tiara’ing” the kid, but I’ll say this right now: anything my child earns is hers. (Although this may be readdressed if she’s got $900k in the bank and we still live in a one bedroom apartment.)
Anyway, Mom and baby went in to the little room, and I waited in the larger room with about 6 other babies and moms. Then it happened.
It’s not our first choice, nor our third or fifth or twenty-sixth, but tomorrow we’ll be flying on a plane with an 8 week old. A family emergency has forced us to face one of the worst circles of hell new parents can imagine: air travel with an infant. There was talk of leaving Fyona at home since somebody has to water the trees, but ultimately we decided she should tag along.
(Pictured but not included: joy.)
This ain’t no puddle jump, either. We’re going coast to coast with a transfer. I tried for non-stop, but with the purchase being made 24 hours before, I decided to only spend Fyona’s braces fund rather than our new car fund. Thanks for negotiating that bullshit, Shatner.
While I’m at work, the Redhead often attends to some simple, day to day errands. These are simple tasks that befit her abilities as a very pregnant woman. She’s also pretty easy on the eyes, if I say so myself.
Yesterday her journeys brought her to a couple of local businesses, the Drycleaner and the Cobbler. They both saw her belly, and they both had something to say. Despite their lack medical training, they seemed to know the score.
Throughout our journeys during pregnancy, we have received all sorts of tidbits, advice and words of encouragement. Some of it has great value. Some of the rest, not so much.
For instance, a few people have recommended to us that we videotape the entire labor and delivery. This will not be happening. We will not bring in a cameraperson, nor will I spend the entire time with a Flip in my hand. After a rather short discussion, since we both arrived at the same conclusion quickly, we decided there will never, ever be a moment in the future where we’ll want to sit down and rewatch the sloppy, slippery birth (and afterbirth) of our child.
We don’t even want the mirror that’s offered. The Redhead has long stated that if possible, she would prefer to take a pill or be knocked out in some way, then gently woken up and handed a baby. I concur. It’s not that we don’t want to experience the miracle of birth, but once per kid is enough. We won’t watch it in HD surround sound with a bowl of popcorn. We’re also not interested in water births, Sade music or any other hippie crap. Sure, people have been giving birth in caves for thousands of years, but modern medicine is pretty advanced. We won’t deny it its ability to keep everybody alive.
And if the Redhead gets to take some drugs, I think I should be entitled to some, too.
With the plane about to take off and return my In-Laws from whence they came, the Redhead and I are now done with visitors and travels until baby time. That’s it, folks. No more road trips or outdoor adventures until our household numbers 3.
Sure, we’ll go to the store, or perhaps a park, but nobody will be coming here and nobody will be getting out. We’re soon to enter “The Vacuum,” that lock down state of existence where our world reflects around trying to sleep, trying to stay calm, and trying to wrap our brains around the changes due to arrive on Christmas Day (or thereabouts). The Redhead will soon be home from work, experiencing an even stricter form of sequestration than me. I at least will get to escape to a desk for 12 to 14 hours a day. (Lucky me!)
So goes the final trimester of procreation. We’ll welcome visitors in the new year after the guest of honor arrives. Until then, it’s me and her, and her.
Saddle up.
I love Coca-cola. I mean, I love it. Name the time and place, and I will beat you in a Pepsi Challenge. I can smell an open Coca-Cola from 20 paces away, and I’m all classic, baby. No Zero, no Diet, no Cherry: the red can ALL the way (okay, I’ll occasionally add a real lemon, but I will never reach for the lemon infused fake flavored ones).
(The Redhead pours me a glass of that delicious, delicious gut rot.)
But then, there’s Pepsi. I don’t particularly hate Pepsi, because that’s just stupid. I find it fascinating that at 2 different times in Pepsi’s history it has been run by a former Coke Exec out of spite and strictly for the purpose of destroying Coke. They failed.
Now a new chapter has been opened in the Cola Wars with Pepsi Throwback. Pepsi Throwback uses real sugar instead of corn syrup. It’s uuhh-MAZING. It reminds me of the Pepsi cans I would get at Aunt Betty’s* in my youth. Coca-cola does have a sugar based option, known as “Mexican Coke” or Mexi-Coke, but they are foolishly and stubbornly refusing to sell it in ‘Merica. They say that it infringes on the distribution rights of American bottlers, and while that is a very valid point, it totally blows. You can find it, but the locations are few and far between. The market is demanding the real thing! We want our real Coke! Sure, it may rot our teeth, but corn syrup is rotting our spirit.
Step it up, Coca-Cola. I will never wander far from you, but Pepsi just scored a major victory. Mexico would like to buy the world a Coke. Let them.
*Aunt Betty’s was a candy store across from my grammar school. She was not my real aunt. In fact, I’m not sure if there ever even was a “Betty.” It later became “My Grandpa’s Store,” which threw even more questions into the “Who is Betty?” investigation.
“If you want trouble… find yourself a Redhead.”
Someone, and I’m not naming any names (because I don’t actually know who did it), gave us something they thought was a gift. They probably thought that it would be the perfect little treat for a pregnant woman and her husband. Instead, they have cursed us with guilt, shame, and tummy aches. The 10 pound box of See’s Candies was a horrible, horrible present.
(Imagine this, but about 20 times bigger.)
I know what you’re thinking: that’s an awesome gift. Well, it isn’t. We’re not talking an extra large box of assorted treats. We’re talking a brown shipping box FULL of dark chocolate buttercreams, totaling approximately 750 pieces. This is not a snack, or a treat. This is a straight up challenge.
When you have such a massive amount, no dent you make feels overindulgent or even gluttonous. Eating them like popcorn seems to be what the large quantity suggests. Both the Redhead and I have been almost skipping meals, sitting with the box in between us, peeling the wrappers and dropping them at our feet like peanut shells. For her being pregnant, these are like crack. For me, they may be a temporary solution to my unplanned weight drop (I got a lot on my mind right now, Internet) but a bad way to make pants fit again. I’m sure my dentist would have a thing or two to say about it as well.
So thank you, mystery person, for smuggling a case of giveways from a promotional event into our hands, but also curse you for smuggling a case of giveways from a promotional event into our hands. Next time, try to get us a case of apples.
The Redhead and I spent a lovely Sunday yesterday in the midst of babyness. Kids were everywhere at the IHOP, ranging in size from small and little to small and fat. There are some fat kids out there.
As per usual, I’d like to point out at this time that any promises or plans we make regarding parenting will probably be thrown out the window as soon as the kid actually arrives. That being said, we ain’t raising a fatty. When a child at IHOP has free reign to grab any of the 4 table syrups and just go to town on a waffle, a parent should step in. This one kid should have had a bowl rather than a plate to hold his syrup and waffle soup. I tried to give him a sour expression to express my dismay at the display. I figured any older person (e.g. adult) should be able to hold even a small shred of authority, especially when the kid knows he’s doing something he shouldn’t.
We’re gonna stay away from sugars. Healthy cereals will be par for the course. If the kid begs and pleads enough, maybe she can graduate to Honey Nut Cheerios when she’s 15. Superman ate Cheerios and he turned out pretty well, though a little condescending sometimes. I guess that comes with the territory when you can simply reverse the rotation of the Earth and fix any problems that got away from you.
Anyway, no sugars, no fatties.
Today I found out. Today I know. Today marks the beginning of my hair’s descent into Steve Martin white. Come Christmas, our expected due date, the Redhead and I will welcome another redhead into the house: my daughter.
It’s a girl! Lord almighty, it’s a girl. I have never felt more frightened and excited at the same time. While a boy may have been slightly easier in my opinion, since I could just make him mow the lawn and stuff, a girl is a totally different thing. Now I have to buy a gun to show any boy who dares come within 50 feet of her. Now I have to pay for a (another) wedding. Now I have to begin working on the bell tower she’ll be locked in until she’s 25.
She’s already won me over. I’m powerless. I’m a dead man.
