From the Icy Mountaintop....

Coming to you from 7000 feet above sea level at the in-laws, it's the post-Christmas review....

...or something.

So yeah, we did the Christmas thing at Amy's brother's. He's a decent fella; hard-working, roll-up-your-sleeves, shut-the-hell-up-and-get-it-done kind of guy, much like his father. He's got a kiddo, neat lil' dude about two years old. Most anyone who reads this probably already knows him. His mom and pop are very devoted to him, and it shows. (The in-law tradition of uberparenting continues; I refer to them as in-laws for some small degree of internet anonymity.)

Came to realize one of the impending signs of my parenthood - I found myself not enjoying Christmas for my own sake, but looking forward to The Ornery One's arrival - and doing silly stuff for that one's Christmas enjoyment. (Sidebar thought: Is this the sign of one's adulthood - when one becomes more interested in - or looks forward to - the enjoyment of one's children above the enjoyment of one's self? If so, some parents are not adults - and some non-parents are still adults. End of sidebar.)

Let's face it - for adults, like it or not, Christmas is STRESSFUL. (Thank you, Captain Obvious.) Even when we tell each other we have no expectations, the self-respect and personal desire to impress one's peers still push us. Kids, on the other hand, absolutely rejoice for the holiday. They get free stuff that they really want, and that's it. Now we could go on about how Christmas is intended as a religious holiday, but let's face it - the vast emphasis of the holiday is commercial and "gifty." I'm not condemning that - I'm simply pointing it out.

Christmas is basically a kid's holiday. What's the most favorite Christmas tale? Sorry, but it's not "The Greatest Story Ever Told" - it's "A Christmas Story," Red Rider BB Gun and all. Yeah, sure, it's a time for families to get together, but there's a reason kids get all the presents - we're trying to instill in them the magic of the holiday that we ourselves have let go of to some degree. Adults love Christmas because of the kids; our vicarious enjoyment of their rapture. Me, there's a second motivation - my own Christmas history involved going to a large, drunken gathering of skydivers and packing parachutes in the afternoon while getting presents in the morning. Great way to wrap up the day, fa la la. I want my own kid to love the day and not have any reservations on it.

Easter's the same way, if you think about it. Valentine's, not so much - kids love their candy, but Victoria's Secret is the big retailer on that day. (Rawr.) Halloween is kind of split down the middle; kids love it, but lemme tell ya, the guys don't mind seeing the ladies in the getups most choose to wear on that day. (By which of course I only mean my dear and darling wife.)

I'm not sure I have much of a point, here. More of a rumination on holidays in general. Christmas is need. It's a lot more neat with kids. I think I must be - on some level - mentally preparing to become a dad, because I start thinking in terms of what this holiday means to kiddos.

On another note, it's just started snowing here in Ruidoso. It's a day late, but it's a sort-of-white-Christmas. Heh. Hopefully there'll be enough and it'll stick so that we can see how ol' dogface Lily reacts to it tomorrow. Maybe I'll post two blogs in two days. Oooh. Exciting.

-MT out

Tis the Season to be....something or other

Christmas is a rough season of the year for me. I'm one of those people that associates negative memories more so than positive ones with the holiday, largely due to the…. Unusual nature of my childhood. Being a teacher, it also tends to be more tiring and stressful. Being an expectant father, it is even more of both. (Seriously - expectant father and teacher, at Christmas-time, who has had lousy Christmas-pasts, and feels like he has to fit in with The Perfect Family now - I ought to just check myself in to a loony bin, neh?) Right now I feel more at my wit's end than I have since my first year of teaching at Christmas, so this blog may very well be more pathetic than usual. It will be filled with self-doubt, pessimism, and discouragement. Attach a big fat "DEPRESSING" to the top and move on with your ho-ho-ho'age if that's your desire. Don't blame you. Go drink egg nog and put on Nat King Cole and close this thing.

One of my students routinely comes by at the end of the day during my last planning period to do her homework. She's a student aide during that time, and she's never needed in that role. (Why the hell this means she can't go take Art or Drama or learn SOMETHING during that time is beyond me, but I suppose she benefits from…something or other.) She sits, she does her work, and we talk about life, liberty, and so on. Today she saw the fatigue on my face and looked pretty surprised - she assumed (as most kids do) that teachers are made of steel and stone and feel nothing. Meh, she's nearly in high school, ought to know better. Fine, whatever. I explained that this time of year tended to be exhausting - more so for me in this case. She's got this play tomorrow night that Amy and I are attending since it's at the wife's school, and I did my usual grumpy-grouse routine about it interrupting my day, rescheduling my dinner, and so on - and she was quite surprised that Amy and I ate together at vaguely regular times. We got to talking about her schedule, and how all her friends had similar schedules with a million events going on at all times. Seems that's pretty strange these days among kids, families eating together at normal times.

I know Amy and I want that for our child. I also wonder if, by insisting they have some spare time to hang with the fam, I'm damning my child to the same life of being-different-from-day-one that I was cursed with. People look at me and the fact that in high school and college I didn't party, that I was nose-to-grindstone, the good little student, and say "It's good, it's the right thing, it's noble, etc, etc, etc"

Strangely, this doesn't do a damn thing to make me feel better about the fact that I didn't do what everyone else did. While I'm proud of the fact that my attention to learning is pretty clear (Couldn't control my overuse of knowledge and grammar if I wanted to) it's also pretty damning. I don't know about popular television - don't care; can't develop any attachment to obviously predictable storylines. I couldn't give two craps about pop-anything. I have no idea what most party beverages are - I never "learned the taste" in college to fit in. I'm as categorically boring-square as they come. I am, in every measurable way, different. Different interests, different viewpoint, different priorities, different sense of right and wrong. Some of it's tragically old school, some of it wildly, rebelliously new and different. I struggle with that a lot, but I accept it with a certain stoic pride; I like my life, I like who I am, and I like what I stand for. I don't fit in, and I'm proud of that.

Problem is, I sure as hell don't like how I got here. I think about what I'm planning on raising my kid by: regular family meals, not a million different after school activities so they can be a kid, demanding the best teachers and the best schools, not letting them stay out at a party till 4am, expecting a regular, checked-on, regulated bedtime…. and it hit me today how massively, profoundly different that is than most kids - including the very kids I teach, the best of the best, the ones I imagine my child mixing with in due time.

Am I condemning my own child to the hell of my youth? To the absolute certainty - before the child is even born - of being not a little different like their mother, but PROFOUNDLY, "wow, you're WEIRD" different like their father, because of not only who they are (and having Amy's "love the world" and Jesse's "eye the world with arrogant, bitter scorn" for parent role models, the kid is GOING to be a bit odd) but because of how they are raised? Will my kid be the one who has to go home and miss out on things because their weirdo parents want to have dinner with them, AGAIN? Will my kid be the one not in the clubs everyone else is in, be the one not at the party everyone else goes to because I don't want to pointlessly endanger them? Will my kid be the one that wonders what they missed while they studied and stayed in because I care about their grades? And if all that's true, will my kid be glad for it? Or will some small part of them always wonder if the sacrifices they made were worth it?

And most importantly - will they thank me for that choice that I made for them? The one and only good thing I give my mother is that she, for the most part and with one strict exception, allowed me to make nearly all my own choices growing up. I willingly embraced my elitist, arrogant, I-turn-my-nose-up-at-social-gatherings,-for-I-am-a-scholar place in the world.

By demanding my child be well-raised, well-educated, well-cultured and well-balanced, am I damning my child to social isolation and marginalism? Is being a good parent so unusual now that good parenting is in and of itself damning to the child?

For me, knowledge and control are bread and butter. Being ready, being prepared, understanding the situation and all it encompasses are my goals. I sacrificed huge amounts of my life and time making sure I had them - and it, for the most part, has paid off big. I'm doing exactly what I want with my life right now, even if I'm not being paid properly for it.

I'm coming to realize that for all I supposedly know… I don't know a damn thing about what matters most. Just like every other parent, I haven't a clue if I'm going to raise my child well, or ruin them. Just like every other parent, I am utterly witless in this situation.

Pregnancy: the great intellectual equalizer. Those people who see me as arrogant must be crowing right now.

So why the hell did I not go out more in college again?

Man, I hate the holidays. Next blog will be full of cheer and pre-parental joy. Promise.

-MT out.

Sadists, Car seats, and in-laws.

Pull up a chair, ladies and germs - it's time for MT to do a wee bit o' rantage. The end of the post is non-rant, but you're going to read a fair bit o' flame-and-fire beforehand. So. Forewarned, forearmed, half-an-octopus, here we go:

I'm a first-time parent as most everyone reading this knows. This means that - by my nature as a rookie - I'm very likely to listen attentively to any and all comments on the subject of children, birth, child-rearing, pregnancy, the joys of breast feeding, and the implications of the sudden and dire need of the female to pee. Not only am I likely to listen, I'm rather inclined to take such information, when delivered, to heart - or at least consider it seriously. I'm going to make the apparently either massive and fallacious or accurate-and-yet-naive assumption that most people know this, or remember a similar state of mind from their own experiences as a first-time-parent.

SO what in the HELL are people THINKING when they TELL YOU HOW HORRIBLE THEIR PREGNANCY/CHILDBIRTH/MARRIAGE/CHILD IS?

Seriously? WTF is the thinking there? This is the same bovine stupidity and unthinking behavior that humans display when they go "Wow, this tastes horrible....try it." No thank you, I don't want to share in your misery. Misery may love company, but I'm a whole hell of a lot happier NOT sucking along with you, thanks. So why in the hell do people think "Gee, here's someone going down the road for the first time, let me increase their stress, discomfort, and fear as much as I reasonably can with anecdotes of woe." Is that the goal? Do people genuinely WANT to see someone else's suffering? Is the average schmuck so sadistic that they, knowing someone else must be vulnerable, feel the roaring need to give them a swift spiritual and emotional plant in the cojones? What kind of sick, twisted bastard tells stories about extended childbirths, raging psychopathic wives, and children who don't let them sleep for weeks on end? It's not like I can take back the pregnancy at this point. Do they want to see me a miserable, unhappy parent that produces an unbalanced child? Is their goal to further the entropy quotient in the human race? What the hell is wrong with you people?

The next time you see a first-time parent, tell them a good story. Tell them how you made it through just fine. Lie if you must, but for chrissakes, don't add to their stress - people have imaginations of their own, y'know? Show some empathy instead of stupidity, and the world would be a better place. That's a message for the masses in all realms.

And while I'm at it, don't friggin offer me your nasty drink in the future. K? K.

Second rant. Less of a rant, more of a "WT...?"

We've got this car seat in the garage someone gave us. Nifty car seat, don't get me wrong. Eddie Bauer. (Since when did Eddie Bauer get into the car seat fashion biz? Anyhow.) Here's what I don't get. The seat is rated for infants - but the dimensions are as follows:

Up to 52 inches in height, up to 100 lbs.

For those following at home, that's FOUR FEET FOUR INCHES tall and THE WEIGHT OF SOME SMALLER FEMALE ADULTS. Dear lord. What child is anywhere near that size and still in a car seat? I've got a student or two in eighth grade who meet those dimensions - do we seriously intend to make them ride in infant seats? Can you imagine that?

"I know we're driving to your friend's 13th birthday party, but hold still while I strap you into your car seat, dear. Next year we'll let you put your high school bumper sticker on the side - won't that be fun?"

Can you imagine the psychological trauma? 52 inch, 100lbs ain't an infant, folks - and it sure don't ride in Eddie Bauer's finest. I'm forced to wonder if the engineer(? advertising agent?) who specced that thing seriously considered the dimensions of the occupant at the high end.  Personally, about the time you cross four feet, I'm-a let you ride in the back seat normal, k? Sounds good.

Finally, a reference to something positive. Amy's in-laws just left this morning. (Ooops. That's not the positive bit, I swear.) They're good people. Unlike most stories (that's another one - why the nasty in-law stories, people? We're stuck with them, don't make it worse?) about nasty in-laws, these two are pretty cool folk. They're still together after umpteen crazy years (seriously, we're talking, like, fifty or more or thereabouts) and they still giggle at each other and I swear she might even think he still hangs the moon. They have their differences, sure, but we all do. The thing is, they're really encouraging and really scary all at the same time. 

I've never been the most socially comfortable person to begin with - I always feel weird around 90% of the planet, for whatever reason, because I feel like I can't relate - but with these two, it's something else. They're like, the UBER parents. Dad's a housing contractor builder guy - the man built three of the homes Amy grew up in with his own friggin hands. How much more awesome-dad can you get than that? His only requirement of me is that I make his daughter happy, and he means it. He's straightforward, honest, speaks his mind and works until he sweats, and that's when he calls it fun. There may be five mechanical devices on the planet he doesn't know how to repair without thinking about it, but I'll be damned if I can figure out what they are. His innate mechanical handiness makes my own macho self-image curl up in a corner and cry out for momma.

His wife, Amy's mom, is the same way. She cooks. She sews. She housekeeps. She mows the friggin lawn, and keeps the books for the family biz. The woman leads a group outside of the home in her town, and she even finds time to talk with Amy every other day or so and play with her grandkid a lot. She and Amy get along better than anyone I've ever seen - they have half-hour gigglefits with no apparent reason or sanity behind them - and she is literally one of the most "I can make the world better with a hug, a smile, and apple pie" people I have ever met. She raised a woman I consider to be one of the wonders of the world (I mean, c'mon, Amy puts up with ME, y'know?) and a son who by all accounts is pretty friggin impressive himself - he's never given me cause to complain.

The perfect housewife, the uber-house-building all-American dad, two kids, dogs, and they'd have a picket fence if it made any sense where they lived. 

Yeaaaahhhh...... and I'm gonna raise a kid to fit into that world. Me. The product of a dead biker and a drug-dealing-child-abuser-who-teaches-bitter-community-college-courses. Suuuuuure. I don't even say the Texas pledge, folks - my All-American ends with the first 30 seconds of the school announcements every day. How in the world am I supposed to resemble (forget compete, I ain't even in the minors for that league, sucka) anything like the kind of parent Amy's dad is? Now Amy, she's the spitting image of her ma and will no doubt continue to the family tradition of Uber-Momness.... but she sure ain't got another version of her dad carrying the other side of the load. My idea for fixing something is to give it a swift kick and buy a new one. I'll work up a sweat working, but don't expect skilled labor.

They're great people, but dang - talk about a high bar. At least when my kid decides he loves his grandparents better than his parents (c'mon, they all do that for awhile) this one will have a reason, neh?

Eh. Long post. Sorry about that. Sadistic people who tell you horror stories about their life suck. Be encouraging or shut up. Car seats need a dose of realism. I'm never going to be half the parent Amy's parents were, and it makes me a little nervous and in awe every time I'm around them.

MT out.

Shabot shalom? and other mysteries I'll never uncover

So Amy likes doing social things. I got invited to a bar-mitzvah (probably mangled the spelling there; Jewish coming-of-age-ceremony) by one of my students quite some while back, agreed to come, and promptly filed it away in the back of my head under the category of "if by some miracle I actually feel like it on the day of, and remember, and have clean clothes of the appropriate type, and don't have to pick my nose, yeah, sure, that'd be cool."

Unfortunately, being married to a socialite means when you accept social committments... you're actually expected to go. 

Dude. No one mentioned this in the fine print. (Okay, I lie. I've always known, but I continue to protest.)

So off we went. Lot of my students there, too. They seemed surprised to see me, and I was a bit surprised to see some of them. I guess they're a little surprised that one of their teachers feels a personal connection and commitment to them - and I guess I was a little surprised that they felt that kind of committment to each other. And let me tell you, two hours of people singing in a language you don't understand to notes they know and you don't is a gut check; you gotta like someone to wait that out. They did. We did. I'll also deny making any jokes in my wife's ear over the proceedings. I am NOT, repeat NOT irreverent. Really.

So the kid in question - I have to admit, as kids go, this dude's pretty clean-cut, honest, wholesome. He's the one I'll mention in my substitute notes as "the kid to ask for an honest answer on whatever issue." He says sir out of habit, and really is just a strikingly well-behaved dude. Don't get me wrong. He's still a teenager and loves his mischief and is a goof - but his heart is as clear as I've ever run into at that age. It's pretty impressive. I wouldn't bring this up so much except that, as teachers, you kind of eyeball kids and wonder which one yours will be like. Physically, there's just no way - he's neither heavily built nor tall, and Amy has both in her bloodline, and I'm the midget in a clan of giants by way of chemical interference during puberty, so there's no doubt that my 5'11" height is "fake." But this kid's parents apparently have some pretty sharp insights on how to raise a proper boy. It's funny... parents often come to their children's teachers on advice for how to handle their children.  Truth is, in some cases, I'd rather go to them.  Think I just may, too, when the time comes.

"Hey. Your kid possesses the impressive and unique qualities of neither being a freak nor a complete reject. How'd you pull that off?"

Flattering in its own way, I guess?

So Miss Amy's bump is starting to become noticeably more pronounced; the ball is picking up speed down the mountain, as it were. If I'm just glancing at my gorgeous wife, she doesn't look any different, but I don't have to inspect her long to pick it out anymore. I imagine before too long, even my permanent-mental-image-of-gorgeous-Amy will be able to pick out the changes on a glance. Part of me wonders what this will do on the hormonal level; I strongly suspect that any guy who says he finds his wife sexier when she's immensely pregnant is lying. Those qualities which most men find sexy are, by natural process, gone late in the pregnancy. That doesn't mean I won't still find her attractive for who she is, what she means to me, and so on, but it will obviously change some qualitative factors. I don't know by how much - it hasn't changed anything yet - but I'll admit I'm curious about it. I'm very analytical and "cold-minded" about the world around me, but I'd be a fool not to recognize I'm a creature of my body's own chemicals, too. Should be interesting to see how the two very different sides of Medieval Teacher react to the changes ahead.

Unlike the false alarm that Amy was coming out of the yuck phase earlier this month - heh, I wish - she really does appear to be coming out now. This arriving at the same time as we're both getting over a bout of coughs and icky stuffs, it works out well for everyone. Tip for fellows: Wives can't take the majority of aggressive anti-sickness drugs when pregnant. This means they stay contagious longer, greatly increasing your chance of getting sick. So wash more often, take preventative stuffs, etc, because unless your wife is uber-friggin-stinkin-cool like mine, she won't want to take care of you while she's pregnant and miserable. This will probably frustrate you, and while that frustration may be justified, her position of "I'm miserable too" is equally justified. Bear this in mind and avoid sickness when she is as much as possible.

Thanksgiving is due up fairly soon. I'll probably post something about that. I keep meaning to post more often in this thing, but the early stages of this pregnancy bit are a bit slow-going, and honestly, I didn't want to dwell unduly on the misery of the first trimester. I'd hate for my blog, as my students call it, to turn "emo."

Life continues onward. Mental note to talk about the strange and various gear you get when babies are on the way, including the biology-defying car seats.

MT out.

Dreams, Social Events, and Life in General

So life continues onward.

Had my first "baby dream" last night, I guess - the ones that actively involve you, your wife, and some infant-presence. In this case, I was being presented with The Unknown One (sounds much more impressive than "the baby") for the first time, and The Unknown One decided to demonstrate his very new masculinity by peeing on me. Apparently this is in point of fact a fairly common parental experience; my subconscious must take delight in tormenting me with "joys" yet to come. (Seriously - who the hell dreams of getting peed on? In any context? WTF is that about?)

Wife's becoming wife again. That isn't to say that the pregnabeast isn't making occasional appearances and she's not in psychohormone mode about cleaning or some other randomness, but at the very least morning sickness is now more of a weekly occasion than a daily one. This is having the expectable effect on the rest of our lives, which is a good thing. Still no sign of the most famous change of the second trimester (Heh, you wanted to know that, right? Hey, I'm writing this thing for posterity and future poor schlubs like me who have to figure out what's going on with their wives. Deal.) ...but I'm holding out a bit of hope.

So we went to a party this weekend, Halloween shindig one of my coworkers put together at her place. Normally I'm not keen on parties - in what I'm sure is another "Thank you Captain Obvious" moment for those who know me, I'm really not very social at all -  but I have to admit I had an okay time at this one. Part of the problem I have relating to...well...ALL.... of my coworkers, and indeed 99% of the teaching population in general is that I have absolutely nothing in common with them.

Average Teacher:

- Conservative

- Churchgoing

- Football Watching

- Sports-Loving

- Non-Academic-Fiend

- Non philosophical-debater-type.

- Probable Greek in College

- Watches television as a major pastime

- Believes video games are a major contributor to the misbehavior of children

Me:

- Independent Semi-Liberal

- Non-Atheist, but my views on religion, belief, and Church (three different things) are more complicated than the US Tax Code

- I'll watch one football team, ever, and only if I see it on by accident

- Interested only in unorthodox sports (fencing, archery, dodgeball, extreme sports)

- I'm quite content to discuss academic topics ad naus

- I'm also quite content to debate world topics (not politics) extensively, but people seem to drag any debate on the world back to tired old partisan politics

- Vehemently anti-Greek in College

- Hates most television, believing it to be a major contributor for the misbehavior of children

- Plays video games, and is actively involved in the development/creation of same

....so you might say that the average teacher - 99% of the teaching population - and I have NOTHING to talk about after the weather and "children-in-school-these-days."

It seems I finally have a commonality with some teachers, though: this whole pregnancy bit. The wife did most of the talking, but here was a subject I could also add to/contribute with and not either be making stuff up completely, or be totally certain my views were "the enemy." I actually found myself enjoying talking to people that historically I've always felt very awkward around; not because I had anything against them or because of their conduct - far from it, they seem to think I'm a decent fellow for some reason - but because I actually had some common ground. Me, the Yankee-Born, Beach-Bred Non-Conformist, in the middle of the heart and soul of Red-Blooded Biblical Conservative America.

So at the end of the party, something truly bizarre happened - the wife wanted to leave before I did. Granted, the pregnancy probably played a huge part in that, and I'm sure I'll be back to my anti-social self before terribly long, but it was a strange evening.  I guess the whole point of this segment of blogging is this: having a kiddo gives you things to talk about with people you never really would've felt comfortable around before.

So life continues onward...dreams of getting peed on and all.

The Grind

So it's been awhile since I actually posted on this thing. Partially, this is because I'm a schoolteacher and well, that's a busy job, last I heard. Partially, this is because life has been somewhat-to-significantly uncomfortable.

Yes, I said that. Fellas reading this in advance, just accept it now - it's fairly likely, especially if you haven't been married for an extended period of time, that the first trimester of your first child will be the low point of your marriage up to that point. (The second one will be when she discovers your Asian pr0n collection you thought was properly hidden! HAR!)

I never understood the phrase "When Momma ain't happy, ain't nobody happy" until recently. While I still find it mildly offensive and overly glorifying, at least for situations when someone is just being cranky to exert power, there's some truth to it here. Amy's not happy. She doesn't want to do lots of the things that made us both smile. No Rock Band. No Diablo. No...uh...well, you get the gist. We still talk, but the talks aren't soul-sharing. They're damage-control. Keeping us from killing each other while we weather this storm, because I've had to bite my tongue REALLY hard a few times, and I imagine being married to a snarky, sarcastic, arrogant bastard like me means she's probably got a permanent dental impression on her tongue, too.  I don't blame her for that, and it's entirely expected, but it still means that most (scratch that, ALL) of the things we did that bonded us together aren't being done. All the things we did to dissolve stress between us aren't being done. And even in a frighteningly sweet and idyllic marriage - which is what I would term mine, prior to this point - after three months, a toll begins to take effect. (I sometimes wonder if the rumored...uh... "zest"... in the second trimester is nature's way of trying to balance out the damage it does to the mated pair, as it were.)

The point of the above info isn't to scare you off the whole pregnant thing; I'm still game. It's to pass on this advice: it's okay to take a break. Amy's mom was here and the two of them went gallavanting off to Hell (a.k.a. Fredricksburg, Texas, but that rant is for another day) for the weekend, and I didn't miss a beat - there were four dudes playing video games, telling dirty jokes, eating pizza, and watching people beat the crap out of each other on TV all day Saturday. I felt better on Sunday morning that I'd felt in ages. Truth be told, I could use another two or three weekends like that - now that things have returned to "normal" (just Amy and I and .25 extra Fletchers) the toll I mentioned above is still very much there and still very much growing... but there's nothing wrong with seeking solace in yourself and your own luxuries during the first trimester. (Just make sure the lady is doing the same, 'cause it's a safe bet that she's hypersensitive to her own crankiness and probably has noticed the distance building between the two of you, too.)

Now in theory, all this distance will close and repair itself after the first trimester passes. I hope so. At the very least, I hope it closes after the kiddo's born. (Saw the second sonogram two days ago, by the by... very cool stuff. Lil' booger's in there wiggling around, flailin', kickin' and otherwise being a teeny tiny kid. I dunno about personality, but you can definitely see a person doing very-young-person-stuff in there. I haven't quite sorted what that experience is doing to my views on abortion yet.) Anyhow - I'm hoping that Amy will want to make up for lost family time in some form once all the dust settles from this, and I'm a little worried it won't happen because of the new booger in our lives at that point. I try not to think that far ahead, and I try not to wonder if I'm being selfish in hoping that there will still be an "us, you-and-me" after it's all said and done. 

But anyhow. I'm hoping this will be my last "wow, this shit REALLY sucks" type post. They say the misery of the first trimester starts bleeding off around 12 weeks, and we just passed that mark. I'm sure there will still be plenty of insanity in store, but I'm kind of hoping that in some form, I'll get my wife back.

If not.... I may have to start renting old UFCs and paying for plane tickets for Amy, and that'll get expensive.

MT out.

"We're" Pregnant And Other Misstatements

I'm not, as a rule, afraid to take credit where it's due. (Yes, thank you captain obvious, I know.)

However, I have something of a pet peeve: the guys who say "We're pregnant" or allow others to tell them "So, you're pregnant, eh?"

No. No, I am NOT pregnant. In point of fact, it is physically impossible for me to BE pregnant, last I checked. I lack the proper equipment for that job.  "Oh, but you're married to your wife, the two of you are a team" I hear people say. Rubbish. When the quarterback fumbles the football, they don't say the TEAM fumbled. They make it quite clear WHO fumbled as soon as they know. Same thing with scoring goals in hockey, or anything else. Yes, I am on Team Fletcher, but if I want to extend the sports metaphor, I've already hiked the ball. My job here is done. All I do now is stand there and block stressors in her life from time to time. That's not nearly enough work for me to claim credit on something as awe-inspring as "I'm pregnant."

I wonder if other guys feel like that. Sure, I'm supportive, sure, I'm around - but I'm no life-support system, and I sure don't have the super power of growing people inside of me. In fact, for a guy like me, who likes to feel like he has some sway over events, some control over his life, and some general command of the direction things are going... I do damn little in what matters most at the moment.

Can't say that I like it much, honestly. Frustrates me to watch my wife yack - we're up to about 1.5 times a day in the last week, uberbad - and know there's nothing I can do to prevent it happening. Frustrates me to watch her exhausted and know I could do every chore in the house and it wouldn't matter. Frustrates me a LOT to get chewed out for minor or non-existent misunderstandings which are entirely pregnant-hormone-irritation-explosions (AKA, "The Pregnabeast") and know that were I Rico Suave, or the King of Diplomacy, it wouldn't make a bit of difference.

This whole dad thing. I'm looking forward to it, but for the first time in my life, I'm totally on the bench... and yeah. Not keen.

Other mis-statement worth brief note: Fairs. They aren't. There's nothing "Fair" about them. "Fair" means "acceptable" or at least "agreeable." Those mob-crush, fried-food-orgies are nothing of the sort. They're "Sucks" followed by "Mehs" with the occasional "Neat!" wrapped in. Texas State Fair should also have a "ripoff" written in it somewhere. I guess "Texas State Suckmehneatripoff" would have all kinds of misunderstandings and bizzare connotations to it, though... not to mention the possibly unpleasant side effect of someone's manhood getting mangled. Eek.

Closing now.

I'm not pregnant. My wife is. I want to help more. I can't. Fairs aren't. End of blog.