Cooper,
You're not a baby anymore.
I don't know when it happened exactly, but I know it did. You're a little boy now. Not a little baby boy. Just a little boy.
A couple of weeks ago, after spending a couple of months carefully making your way around every piece of furniture and every wall in our house, you finally decided to go hands free. True to your Wooldridge roots, it took the promise of something you shouldn't be getting in the first place, much less as a bribe, to entice you into taking the leap. But you did it! A couple of steps, followed by a couple more, and still you hadn't fallen, even as your little giraffe legs flexed and bowed. Step, step, step, until you reached your destination and claimed your prize. And then proceeded to walk all over creation like you had been doing it your entire life.
Baby boys don't walk like that, Cooper.
You're talking more, too. You are becoming so, so good at telling everyone what you are thinking. Every morning, like clockwork, as I step out of the shower, I am greeted with "Juuuusssss?" Some days you can't even be bothered to drink it, but you never miss a chance to request it. Later in the morning, as you enjoy some oatmeal ("Yum-MEES?"), you punctuate every spoonful with a "Biiiite?". If I'm not fast enough, it's followed up with a "More?" and then a "Please?" You are so smart that you know sign language for "please" is to tap your chest. On mornings when you are particularly hungry, which is coincidentally most mornings, you beat your chest enough to make it turn red. Clearly, your mother's sense of patience. You also point out every door ("Doe-orrrrr?"), and every light ("ite"), and insist on opening, closing, or switching every one that you encounter.
Baby boys don't talk like that, Cooper.
Baby boys don't yet know that it's funny when daddy farts, and they certainly don't know to laugh when they fart themselves. They don't yet know that horseplay with Daddy is what comes after the evening bath. They don't understand what it means when you tell them to only drink a little milk instead of having it all at once. They don't yet know how to position their toys as steps so they can climb onto the couch and pull the cat's tail.
Baby boys don't know those things, Cooper. But you do.
You know all that and so much more. You know how to wave and say "bye-bye" when someone is leaving. And you know to put your arms up when Daddy is about to take your shirt off. You know to keep your eyes closed when your hair is being washed in the bath, and you even know how to say "bath". Babies don't know how to make that "th" sound, Cooper. But you know how.
Because you're a little boy now. No longer a baby.
Except, except, for my favorite time of the entire day. The time when my little boy is all played out and walks sleepily over to me and puts his head in my lap and waits for me to pick him up and rock. It's just about the only time you'll allow yourself to be held, Cooper. You snuggle down and get comfortable, and just like that, until the morning, at least, it's back to how it's always been. No walking. No talking. No critical thinking skills. Just a cherubic little open mouth and a sweaty mess of blond curls.
Not a little boy. A baby boy. My baby boy.
Did I mention it's my favorite part of the day?
Good night, L.W.! I love you!
BW
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
52 Tuesdays
Cooper,
It is the evening of July 19th. Exactly one year ago right now, I was doing exactly what I am doing right now. Sitting in the same house, looking into the same computer, and writing on this same blog. That's about where the similarities stop, darling boy.
I remember, after I finished writing you your last letter before we met, that I laid in bed and wondered what it would be like. I knew I needed to go to sleep, but that was impossible. I will never, ever forget that feeling of impending change. I'd certainly never felt it before. Not before my wedding. I don't anticipate that I'll feel it quite the same way before our next child, either. I really do feel like, right then, I was experiencing an emotion that maybe a human only experiences once in their life. The beginning of responsibility. True responsibility.
I knew that your mother and I would love you. We already did. I knew that we would have love and support from our family and our friends. I knew that I probably would not have to watch Juno for a very, very long time.
But you could fill the ocean with what I didn't know, Coop. And that's what makes THIS night, exactly one year later, a million, billion, trillion times better.
I didn't know that you'd sleep with your butt straight up in the air. Sideways, in our bed, kicking me in the ear. With two pacifiers that you would swap out in your sleep, or cry bloody murder for if you couldn't find either one. 52 Tuesdays ago, I didn't even know they made glow-in-the-dark pacifiers. I do now. And I am soooooo thankful for them.
I didn't know that Gerber onesies were sized small, and that compared with your Amazonian length, it would cause me to feel a bit of concern that you were outgrowing 12 Mos. clothes at three months. You've been in 24 Mos. in Gerber for a couple of months now, kid. Just so you know.
I didn't know that I would get to sing you to sleep every night. That it would become my favorite thing in the world to do. I didn't know that it would be the strongest bond between you and your daddy, out of all the strong bonds we've developed. That's our thing, Cooper, and I LOVE IT SO. Mommy is your favorite, and I am so ok with that, but you like to go to sleep on me. You always have, and I'll let you even after your feet are dragging the floor.
I didn't know that you would eschew your pointer finger in favor of your middle finger. You flip us all off, Cooper, all the time. You point with your middle finger. Open and shut cabinets with it. Scratch, poke, and wag. All the while unwittingly telling the world what you think of them. It's impossibly cute.
I didn't know that you would still be on breastmilk, one year later. You did a great job, little boy, but you really need to thank your mom. She sacrificed so much to make sure you stayed on the good stuff for as long as possible. She filled up a seven cubic foot freezer full of nothing but your nourishment. And I dated, organized, and rotated within the freezer every single six-ounce bag. I am so, so proud of your mom for doing what she did for you. I know you are thankful, too.
I didn't know how completely exhausted I'd be. All the time.
Most of all, though, I had no idea we'd smile and laugh this much. Every single morning. Every single meal. Every single bath. And every single lullaby. And just about every minute in between. We smile.
So. Now I know. Thanks for the lessons. I can't frickin' believe you're almost a year old. How do you feel about staying just exactly like you are right this second for a little while. Cool with that?
Think on it and get back to me.
I love you!
Daddy
It is the evening of July 19th. Exactly one year ago right now, I was doing exactly what I am doing right now. Sitting in the same house, looking into the same computer, and writing on this same blog. That's about where the similarities stop, darling boy.
I remember, after I finished writing you your last letter before we met, that I laid in bed and wondered what it would be like. I knew I needed to go to sleep, but that was impossible. I will never, ever forget that feeling of impending change. I'd certainly never felt it before. Not before my wedding. I don't anticipate that I'll feel it quite the same way before our next child, either. I really do feel like, right then, I was experiencing an emotion that maybe a human only experiences once in their life. The beginning of responsibility. True responsibility.
I knew that your mother and I would love you. We already did. I knew that we would have love and support from our family and our friends. I knew that I probably would not have to watch Juno for a very, very long time.
But you could fill the ocean with what I didn't know, Coop. And that's what makes THIS night, exactly one year later, a million, billion, trillion times better.
I didn't know that you'd sleep with your butt straight up in the air. Sideways, in our bed, kicking me in the ear. With two pacifiers that you would swap out in your sleep, or cry bloody murder for if you couldn't find either one. 52 Tuesdays ago, I didn't even know they made glow-in-the-dark pacifiers. I do now. And I am soooooo thankful for them.
I didn't know that Gerber onesies were sized small, and that compared with your Amazonian length, it would cause me to feel a bit of concern that you were outgrowing 12 Mos. clothes at three months. You've been in 24 Mos. in Gerber for a couple of months now, kid. Just so you know.
I didn't know that I would get to sing you to sleep every night. That it would become my favorite thing in the world to do. I didn't know that it would be the strongest bond between you and your daddy, out of all the strong bonds we've developed. That's our thing, Cooper, and I LOVE IT SO. Mommy is your favorite, and I am so ok with that, but you like to go to sleep on me. You always have, and I'll let you even after your feet are dragging the floor.
I didn't know that you would eschew your pointer finger in favor of your middle finger. You flip us all off, Cooper, all the time. You point with your middle finger. Open and shut cabinets with it. Scratch, poke, and wag. All the while unwittingly telling the world what you think of them. It's impossibly cute.
I didn't know that you would still be on breastmilk, one year later. You did a great job, little boy, but you really need to thank your mom. She sacrificed so much to make sure you stayed on the good stuff for as long as possible. She filled up a seven cubic foot freezer full of nothing but your nourishment. And I dated, organized, and rotated within the freezer every single six-ounce bag. I am so, so proud of your mom for doing what she did for you. I know you are thankful, too.
I didn't know how completely exhausted I'd be. All the time.
Most of all, though, I had no idea we'd smile and laugh this much. Every single morning. Every single meal. Every single bath. And every single lullaby. And just about every minute in between. We smile.
So. Now I know. Thanks for the lessons. I can't frickin' believe you're almost a year old. How do you feel about staying just exactly like you are right this second for a little while. Cool with that?
Think on it and get back to me.
I love you!
Daddy
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
L.W.,
Something happened on Sunday. When you are older, I imagine that you will read about it in history class. I won't go into it much right now, except to say that a very bad man hurt very, very many people some time ago, and on Sunday something happened that will keep that man from ever hurting any more people, ever again. Nobody else. Never, ever again.
That means you, Cooper.
And so the world gathered when this news was announced. In front of televisions, and on the internet. We talked about it, and texted about it. Facebooked and tweeted about it. More than anything else, though, we rejoiced.
That means me, Cooper. You mother and I rejoiced that this particular bad man will never have the opportunity to hurt you. Anyone else, for that matter. But especially you.
Since then, some people have begun to wonder if celebration was the proper response. Whether jubilation was really appropriate. Is relief not sufficient? Would satisfaction not do? It's a fair question, Cooper, and one I've given some thought over the past 48 hours. The best answer I've come up with, and I can speak for only myself, is that I can speak for only myself.
That very bad man personifies some ideas and emotions that in a perfect world I would never have to introduce or explain to you. Certainly at not yet ten months old, you're not ready for them. Nor will you be at ten years old. And yet, nearly a decade ago, the actions of this bad man forced this premature lesson on thousands of ten-year-olds across the United States. Worse than that, after prompting this rude awakening of ten-month-olds and ten-year-olds and every other age of an entire generation, he cruelly denied some even the chance to learn about it from their parents. I cannot even fathom.
As Sunday's news spilled over into Monday, and then into today, I reflected on the actions that bad, bad man took to cause pain to so many. I recalled wondering why. Even now, a decade later, the same question reverberates. There is no sense to be made from it. No character to be built. It's nice to think that our country is stronger by having gone through something so awful, but if it is, that strength was forged in a fire fueled by a determination to seek retribution. To enact revenge. To serve justice.
It's not something I'm easily comfortable with, Cooper. Certainly not an emotion that I want you to rely on regularly. I understand the sentiment of those uneasy with the jubilation. At the end of the day, though, what I return to is the certainty that this very bad man can never, ever, EVER hurt you. After witnessing the hurt he is capable of producing, relief or satisfaction will not suffice. I will rejoice that you will only read about Osama bin Laden in history books. I will celebrate it. Unabashedly.
Sleep soundly, L.W. I love you!
BW
Something happened on Sunday. When you are older, I imagine that you will read about it in history class. I won't go into it much right now, except to say that a very bad man hurt very, very many people some time ago, and on Sunday something happened that will keep that man from ever hurting any more people, ever again. Nobody else. Never, ever again.
That means you, Cooper.
And so the world gathered when this news was announced. In front of televisions, and on the internet. We talked about it, and texted about it. Facebooked and tweeted about it. More than anything else, though, we rejoiced.
That means me, Cooper. You mother and I rejoiced that this particular bad man will never have the opportunity to hurt you. Anyone else, for that matter. But especially you.
Since then, some people have begun to wonder if celebration was the proper response. Whether jubilation was really appropriate. Is relief not sufficient? Would satisfaction not do? It's a fair question, Cooper, and one I've given some thought over the past 48 hours. The best answer I've come up with, and I can speak for only myself, is that I can speak for only myself.
That very bad man personifies some ideas and emotions that in a perfect world I would never have to introduce or explain to you. Certainly at not yet ten months old, you're not ready for them. Nor will you be at ten years old. And yet, nearly a decade ago, the actions of this bad man forced this premature lesson on thousands of ten-year-olds across the United States. Worse than that, after prompting this rude awakening of ten-month-olds and ten-year-olds and every other age of an entire generation, he cruelly denied some even the chance to learn about it from their parents. I cannot even fathom.
As Sunday's news spilled over into Monday, and then into today, I reflected on the actions that bad, bad man took to cause pain to so many. I recalled wondering why. Even now, a decade later, the same question reverberates. There is no sense to be made from it. No character to be built. It's nice to think that our country is stronger by having gone through something so awful, but if it is, that strength was forged in a fire fueled by a determination to seek retribution. To enact revenge. To serve justice.
It's not something I'm easily comfortable with, Cooper. Certainly not an emotion that I want you to rely on regularly. I understand the sentiment of those uneasy with the jubilation. At the end of the day, though, what I return to is the certainty that this very bad man can never, ever, EVER hurt you. After witnessing the hurt he is capable of producing, relief or satisfaction will not suffice. I will rejoice that you will only read about Osama bin Laden in history books. I will celebrate it. Unabashedly.
Sleep soundly, L.W. I love you!
BW
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Coming In Like a Lion...
L.W.,
The wheels on the bus go round-and-round. That's what they do. Round-and-round. Round-and-round. And when they do, your eyes turn to mine and you just stare at me.
Watching.
You stare while the wipers go swish-swish-swish. You stare while the doors go open-and-shut. You stare while the windows go up-and-down. All through the town. You stare.
If I'm lucky, the first crack comes while the people on the bus get off-and-on. You blink, and those eyelids hitch the tiniest bit on their way back up, and I know I have you. But there's still more staring to do.
After you learn about each and every component of the bus, we go the bribery route. Daddy's gonna buy you a mockingbird. A diamond ring. A mirror. And on. And on. And on. After purchasing you every conceivable item known to man, I decide to give up because every single thing has some freak tragedy befall it. Whoever heard of a mockingbird that won't sing? Those things never shut up!
At this point, though, you're starting to fade. Those eyes are still big, and they're still staring, but your breathing is deep and you're blinking more often. And you're not even concerned with looking around for Callie the Cat anymore. I pull out my hole card.
The states and capitals.
The capital of Florida is Tallahassee. And the capital of Georgia is Atlanta. And the capital of South Carolina is Columbia. Up the eastern seaboard, all the way to Maine. Then skipping over to Wisconsin, across the Great Lakes to Michigan, then to the Ohio Valley. The Southeast. Once we get west of the Mississippi, I snake my way up and down each row, reciting each state and its accompanying capital with a cadence that hasn't changed in seven months. My eyes are drooping when we reach Mountain Standard Time, and by the time we roll through Olympia, Washington, my head is lolling and my voice is no more than a whisper. I finish up with Alaska and Hawaii and I look down and I am met with a sleeping little boy. Mouth agape. Pacifier perched precariously on your chest. Snoring so softly and sweetly that it should be called something else.
Out. Like a lamb.
I love you, Cooper. Good night!
B.W.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Happy Birthday!
L.W.,
Today you are exactly six weeks old. You are celebrating by screaming, crying, and pooping your pants. It's pretty freaking adorable, especially considering your mommy gave me a pass to come upstairs and blog about you.
My last letter to you was written hours before your mommy and I went to the hospital, now seven Tuesdays ago. We woke up at 3:30 a.m. that morning and got ready to leave coupledom behind, and begin a new chapter as a family. With you! Your Pops graciously came over to take pictures of the occasion.
We got to the hospital and checked in at 5:00 a.m. There is a lot of paperwork involved in bringing a new person into the world, and we sleepily filled that out while waiting for the nurse to come see your mommy. We didn't know it at the time, but "waiting" would become the theme for the day. Around 7:00 a.m., they set your mom up with an IV, and began giving her medication that would induce labor. Around 7:30 a.m., Dr. Simmons came in and introduced himself to me, and we all prayed together. Then he broke your mom's water, and we were off!
Except we really didn't go anywhere. Things happened pretty slowly. Truth be told, we just watched a lot of bad daytime television. We had a few visitors. You received a few gifts. The hours languished by without anything really happening. Your mom was a trooper as her discomfort increased in the afternoon hours. Her labor went from being very passive to something that we were all definitely aware of. She was working! And it was hurting! Finally, around 5:00 or 6:00, after finding out that she was the lone remaining holdout without an epidural, her nurse Karen convinced your mom to take some relief. Once your mom's pain subsided and she was able to relax a bit, things started happening more quickly.
Your Uncle Bryant brought your dad some dinner around 9:00, and I stepped out into the waiting room to eat and visit with family and friends. When the gaggle of females who were visiting with your mom returned, they sent me in a rush back to the labor and delivery suite with the news that it was almost time for Stephanie to push!
Almost time.
When I got back, I encountered a different version of your mom than I had seen all day. She was in a great amount of discomfort, and I could tell she was a little scared. The nurse checked her out and told us that you were turned "sunny-side up", which means that you were looking up at the sky, instead of face-down like most babies. You still like to look up at the sky!
Your mom was in so much pain that she thought she wanted to push, but it turned out she just wasn't ready. Try as she might, she could not get you to a position where you would be able to make it out. She was so exhausted at this point that she was convinced she wouldn't be able to deliver you, but the nurses and Dr. Simmons asked her to give it one more try. Like the tough momma that she is, she gave it her best, but you just wouldn't come down, Cooper! Dr. Simmons reluctantly decided that he would have to deliver you via Cesarean delivery.
Well, LW, I can tell you that I have been in some lonely places before. I got stranded on the beach in a storm once, and that was very lonely and scary. And I felt soooo alone during my first night in my upstairs bedroom away from my mom and dad when I was a little boy. But I have never felt more alone than I did when I was sitting outside the operating room while they prepared your mom for surgery. A cold, sterile hallway, left alone to me and my thoughts. I was terrified.
Finally, you were prepped and the nurse came and got me. A partition had been set up, and I was seated behind it, beside your mommy's head. I could look at her and talk to her and hold her hand, but her belly was hidden from view. Dr. Simmons began working, and I worked to, trying to keep your mom and myself calm as everyone did their part to get you out.
Everything seemed to be going as it was supposed to go. Because these things, when they FINALLY come, seem to happen in an instant, we very quickly got to the climactic moment. The anesthesiologist, behind the curtain with me and your mom, motioned for me to stand up and watch as Dr. Simmons extracted you from your mom's uterus. Of course I did. I was so excited!
Dr. Simmons reached into your mom's belly and pulled...and nothing happened. He pulled again, grunting with exertion this time. Nothing happened.
I sat back down in order to keep an eye on your mom. I assume they were widening the abdominal incision on your mom, but I'm not sure. I do know that Dr. Simmons tried once more to pull you out, and was unable to. At this point, he asked the nurse for forceps. I have NEVER heard of using forceps in a c-section. I'm not even sure they were prepped. Anyway, I'll never forget what I heard next.
The nurse asked Dr. Simmons what size. And he replied "Whatever size you can get QUICKLY!"
She retrieved them, QUICKLY, and he fit them around your head and pulled and pulled, and finally was able to get your noggin out of your mom's belly. But just your noggin. The rest of you was still stuck, but I could finally see your beautiful head. Your big, fat beautiful head.
Do you want to know your daddy's first words to your mommy when he finally saw you for the first time?
It's not recorded or anything, but I'm pretty sure I said "Oh my God, Stephanie, I am sooooo sorry. It's all my fault. His head is gigantic!"
So there you have it.
Dr. Simmons managed to pull the rest of you out, and everyone in the room gasped. Your head wasn't the only big thing on you. EVERY part of you was huge! But there was one last surprise.
There was a knot in your umbilical cord. What the doctors and nurses called a "true knot". I looked it up, and it apparently happens in less than 1% of babies. It can be extremely dangerous, and makes me so grateful that your mom didn't continue to keep trying to push you out. If that cord pulled taut before you were out, it could have gotten very bad for you, LW. We thank God for how things worked out every day.
They rushed you over to a table to start cleaning you up, and I stared after you, intent on soaking up every detail. Finally, I was able to come over and see you. I had my iphone and a digital camera. One of the nurses graciously commandeered the camera and started snapping.
Everyone remarked how big you were, and I commented that I was 10 lbs at birth. They assured me that you were big, but not 10 lbs big. Probably close to nine. Finally, they put you on the scale....
10 lbs 6 oz!!! Can you believe that. You were huge, baby boy! 22.5 inches long, as well. No wonder your mom had been so uncomfortable for the past few weeks. She had a two month old inside her!
As they finished cleaning you and were preparing you for me to hold for the first time ever, I snapped a picture and got off a facebook post with your information. To this day, I get chided about that, but I cannot think of a BETTER application for new media.
Finally, after a 20 hour day, your mom was able to look into your eyes and tell you that she loves you. She hasn't stopped saying it since.
At some point, we were transferred back to the labor and delivery suite. Dr. Simmons went outside to visit the family and inform them everything went well. He told them that you had the broadest shoulders of any baby he had ever delivered, and that we should contact Coach Petrino in Fayetteville immediately to set up a scholarship for you in his 2028 recruiting class. That's my boy! We love Dr. Simmons!
Cooper, your dad was so exhausted at this point that it's impossible for him to write intelligently about what happened. It honestly is all a fog. I can promise, however, that you were surrounded with love. The love and support that your mom and I have received from our families from the moment you were born, and every moment since, has been such a blessing to us. We have been able to enjoy all the intense joys of being new parents, with very few of the obstacles. For that, your parents are both very humbled and very thankful. We know you're thankful, too.
So that's the story of your birth, LW. What do you think? Pretty cool, huh? The crazy thing is, as amazing and incredible as the story of your birth is, you never fail to amaze us in a new way every single day. And as your daddy and your Big Wooly, I knew that would happen, and yet it still floors me every single day.
Just what will you do tomorrow? I can't wait to find out!
I love you,
BW
Today you are exactly six weeks old. You are celebrating by screaming, crying, and pooping your pants. It's pretty freaking adorable, especially considering your mommy gave me a pass to come upstairs and blog about you.
My last letter to you was written hours before your mommy and I went to the hospital, now seven Tuesdays ago. We woke up at 3:30 a.m. that morning and got ready to leave coupledom behind, and begin a new chapter as a family. With you! Your Pops graciously came over to take pictures of the occasion.
We got to the hospital and checked in at 5:00 a.m. There is a lot of paperwork involved in bringing a new person into the world, and we sleepily filled that out while waiting for the nurse to come see your mommy. We didn't know it at the time, but "waiting" would become the theme for the day. Around 7:00 a.m., they set your mom up with an IV, and began giving her medication that would induce labor. Around 7:30 a.m., Dr. Simmons came in and introduced himself to me, and we all prayed together. Then he broke your mom's water, and we were off!
Except we really didn't go anywhere. Things happened pretty slowly. Truth be told, we just watched a lot of bad daytime television. We had a few visitors. You received a few gifts. The hours languished by without anything really happening. Your mom was a trooper as her discomfort increased in the afternoon hours. Her labor went from being very passive to something that we were all definitely aware of. She was working! And it was hurting! Finally, around 5:00 or 6:00, after finding out that she was the lone remaining holdout without an epidural, her nurse Karen convinced your mom to take some relief. Once your mom's pain subsided and she was able to relax a bit, things started happening more quickly.
Your Uncle Bryant brought your dad some dinner around 9:00, and I stepped out into the waiting room to eat and visit with family and friends. When the gaggle of females who were visiting with your mom returned, they sent me in a rush back to the labor and delivery suite with the news that it was almost time for Stephanie to push!
Almost time.
When I got back, I encountered a different version of your mom than I had seen all day. She was in a great amount of discomfort, and I could tell she was a little scared. The nurse checked her out and told us that you were turned "sunny-side up", which means that you were looking up at the sky, instead of face-down like most babies. You still like to look up at the sky!
Your mom was in so much pain that she thought she wanted to push, but it turned out she just wasn't ready. Try as she might, she could not get you to a position where you would be able to make it out. She was so exhausted at this point that she was convinced she wouldn't be able to deliver you, but the nurses and Dr. Simmons asked her to give it one more try. Like the tough momma that she is, she gave it her best, but you just wouldn't come down, Cooper! Dr. Simmons reluctantly decided that he would have to deliver you via Cesarean delivery.
Well, LW, I can tell you that I have been in some lonely places before. I got stranded on the beach in a storm once, and that was very lonely and scary. And I felt soooo alone during my first night in my upstairs bedroom away from my mom and dad when I was a little boy. But I have never felt more alone than I did when I was sitting outside the operating room while they prepared your mom for surgery. A cold, sterile hallway, left alone to me and my thoughts. I was terrified.
Finally, you were prepped and the nurse came and got me. A partition had been set up, and I was seated behind it, beside your mommy's head. I could look at her and talk to her and hold her hand, but her belly was hidden from view. Dr. Simmons began working, and I worked to, trying to keep your mom and myself calm as everyone did their part to get you out.
Everything seemed to be going as it was supposed to go. Because these things, when they FINALLY come, seem to happen in an instant, we very quickly got to the climactic moment. The anesthesiologist, behind the curtain with me and your mom, motioned for me to stand up and watch as Dr. Simmons extracted you from your mom's uterus. Of course I did. I was so excited!
Dr. Simmons reached into your mom's belly and pulled...and nothing happened. He pulled again, grunting with exertion this time. Nothing happened.
I sat back down in order to keep an eye on your mom. I assume they were widening the abdominal incision on your mom, but I'm not sure. I do know that Dr. Simmons tried once more to pull you out, and was unable to. At this point, he asked the nurse for forceps. I have NEVER heard of using forceps in a c-section. I'm not even sure they were prepped. Anyway, I'll never forget what I heard next.
The nurse asked Dr. Simmons what size. And he replied "Whatever size you can get QUICKLY!"
She retrieved them, QUICKLY, and he fit them around your head and pulled and pulled, and finally was able to get your noggin out of your mom's belly. But just your noggin. The rest of you was still stuck, but I could finally see your beautiful head. Your big, fat beautiful head.
Do you want to know your daddy's first words to your mommy when he finally saw you for the first time?
It's not recorded or anything, but I'm pretty sure I said "Oh my God, Stephanie, I am sooooo sorry. It's all my fault. His head is gigantic!"
So there you have it.
Dr. Simmons managed to pull the rest of you out, and everyone in the room gasped. Your head wasn't the only big thing on you. EVERY part of you was huge! But there was one last surprise.
There was a knot in your umbilical cord. What the doctors and nurses called a "true knot". I looked it up, and it apparently happens in less than 1% of babies. It can be extremely dangerous, and makes me so grateful that your mom didn't continue to keep trying to push you out. If that cord pulled taut before you were out, it could have gotten very bad for you, LW. We thank God for how things worked out every day.
They rushed you over to a table to start cleaning you up, and I stared after you, intent on soaking up every detail. Finally, I was able to come over and see you. I had my iphone and a digital camera. One of the nurses graciously commandeered the camera and started snapping.
Everyone remarked how big you were, and I commented that I was 10 lbs at birth. They assured me that you were big, but not 10 lbs big. Probably close to nine. Finally, they put you on the scale....
10 lbs 6 oz!!! Can you believe that. You were huge, baby boy! 22.5 inches long, as well. No wonder your mom had been so uncomfortable for the past few weeks. She had a two month old inside her!
As they finished cleaning you and were preparing you for me to hold for the first time ever, I snapped a picture and got off a facebook post with your information. To this day, I get chided about that, but I cannot think of a BETTER application for new media.
Finally, after a 20 hour day, your mom was able to look into your eyes and tell you that she loves you. She hasn't stopped saying it since.
At some point, we were transferred back to the labor and delivery suite. Dr. Simmons went outside to visit the family and inform them everything went well. He told them that you had the broadest shoulders of any baby he had ever delivered, and that we should contact Coach Petrino in Fayetteville immediately to set up a scholarship for you in his 2028 recruiting class. That's my boy! We love Dr. Simmons!
Cooper, your dad was so exhausted at this point that it's impossible for him to write intelligently about what happened. It honestly is all a fog. I can promise, however, that you were surrounded with love. The love and support that your mom and I have received from our families from the moment you were born, and every moment since, has been such a blessing to us. We have been able to enjoy all the intense joys of being new parents, with very few of the obstacles. For that, your parents are both very humbled and very thankful. We know you're thankful, too.
So that's the story of your birth, LW. What do you think? Pretty cool, huh? The crazy thing is, as amazing and incredible as the story of your birth is, you never fail to amaze us in a new way every single day. And as your daddy and your Big Wooly, I knew that would happen, and yet it still floors me every single day.
Just what will you do tomorrow? I can't wait to find out!
I love you,
BW
Monday, July 19, 2010
T-minus... One
L.W.
It was a Tuesday that I found out about you. 36 Tuesdays. 258 days. Tomorrow will be the 37th Tuesday. The 259th day. There have been so many changes in that time, nearly all of them in preparation of you.
This is what your mom and dad looked like back then. Just a few days before that wondrous Tuesday, in fact. You were the size of a poppy seed back then! Or, since you probably don't know what a poppy seed is yet, the size of the period at the end of this sentence. Just that big. Isn't that amazing? You have really grown! And because your mom and daddy would NEVER let you do anything alone, we've grown too. Your dad has grown a little bit, and your mom.... well, she's grown a little, too.
There she is at 17 weeks...
And here she is at 22 weeks...
And at 27 weeks... Still growing...
And her at 35 weeks...
Here she is at 39 weeks...
And finally, here we are two days ago, at 41 weeks. I've grown out of a couple pairs of shorts. You've grown to the size of a pumpkin. And your mom... well, there she is. Isn't she beautiful?
However, at 41 weeks, you are late, son. That's something we'll work on in the future, but we'll let you slide for now. We are, however, so very anxious and excited to meet you that the doctors are going to help you come out and greet the world tomorrow. In just a few hours, in fact. In a few minutes, I am going to put this computer up, and in about six hours we are going to be driving to the hospital to start the process. If everything goes the way that we hope and pray it does, by this time tomorrow, I will be holding you in my arms and maybe even reading you your first bedtime story from this blog. Or you'll be screaming. Either way. It'll be wonderful.
In the past 258 days, L.W., we have done everything possible to prepare for your arrival. Your mommy has prepped and planned and vitamined and prenatal-ed, and your daddy has put together more things than he has ever put together in his life... all for you. We have read and we have prayed and we asked those who know better than us. We have gotten so many answers, but what we don't know is so much greater. So just remember, as you are learning, so are we. You will be teaching us. Fortunately, we got the most important lesson out of the way about 36 Tuesdays ago. You won't have to waste any time teaching us how to love you... we took care of that one early. So no matter what we screw up over the next 258 days... 258 weeks...258 months, and even beyond that, just know that it was motivated out of pure, unadulterated, sometimes blinding love.
Love. Always.
Get some rest, L.W. Tomorrow is a big day.
I love you!
BW
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Happy July!
L.W.!
B.W. here. Just checking in. How are things going in there? I know you're feeling a little cramped. Your momma is, too. We are both anxiously awaiting your arrival, so please hurry!
How am I doing? Well, I'm currently somewhere that you will become familiar with very soon. Your home...and more specifically, your chair! I'm sitting in the chair where your mommy and Gangi and Nana will rock you to sleep. And me too, of course! It is so very comfortable. Your mom picked it out, and it is a magic chair. It can put anyone to sleep, no matter how much they fight it or how awake they seem to be when they sit down in it. This may aggravate you at first, but I promise that you will grow to love it as much as your mommy does. Well... I promise you'll grow to love it a lot.
So, anyway, I'm sitting here in this chair and I just realized that we are about to close the books on June. Just another hour or so. That means you are almost certain to be born in July! I have a friend named Scott that believes not in celebrating birthdays or birthweeks, but instead birthmonths. Why celebrate for 24 lonely hours, when you can go a full 30 days! I like it. And you will, too. So Happy July! It's a great month to be born in, and you get to share it with some really special friends. Your Nana Mel was a July baby. So was your cousin Jackson. And last but not least, you get to share your birthmonth with your country! Yep, the United States was born in July, too. Your dad cannot wait to teach you all about it.
Best of all, though, July is MADE for little boys. If a month could be a person, July would totally be a little boy, and truth be told, he'd probably be your bff. You see, July is nothing less than a clean slate. It's a month made for you to fill, and nobody can pack stuff into something like a boy. June is busy with finishing school and getting your summer started off with a bang, and August is when people get frazzled trying to cram that last bit of fun in before the drudgery returns. But July, son... July is lazy. That's not always a good thing, but for July, it just works. Days upon days where little boys wake up and see nothing but a blank canvas. Let me tell you, it's amazing how much happens when there's nothing else to do.
Do you want to know what July was like when I was a little boy? I would wake up practically at a dead run, throwing on shorts and a shirt and tennis shoes. Inevitably, I'd be called back to brush my teeth. Tie my shoes. Eat breakfast. Ugh...everything my mom could think of to slow me down. When I FINALLY made it outside, I would meet up with my friends and we would play baseball. Where was always an adventure. Equipped with only a couple of tennis balls, one aluminum bat, and a set of orange plastic bases, we had to be pretty discerning. A backyard might work, but the thicket right of first base ensured that any foul ball over there meant game over. The street sometimes was decided on, but a tennis ball will roll forever on asphalt, and besides, what's a home run with nothing to hit over? The ideal spot for us was a vacant lot a block away. It was perfect. A neighbors storage shed provided a backstop for errant pitches. A small row of 20-foot pines in left provided us with our own Green Monster. The only drawback was the Rottweiler that was usually chained up at the house next to the lot. He wasn't friendly, and more than once he wasn't chained, and we'd be chased back all the way back to our house.
When we weren't playing baseball, we were playing golf. Your Nana would drop me off at the course, and I'd be there until dark. We would walk 18 holes, have lunch, and then walk some more. Sometimes even a setting sun couldn't dictate the end of our day. I remember receiving more than one lecture from a worried parent after putting out in what could only generously be called twilight. After making it home for a quick dinner, me and my friends were back outside, stringing up the floodlight to illuminate the basketball goal in our driveway. We knew that the thump-thump of that rubber ball on the pavement of my driveway had to drive our neighbor lady crazy, but we didn't care, and you won't either.
When it was really hot, a dip in my friends' pool was the only cure. I remember passing the requisite half-hour after dinner, and thinking that somehow the clock was actually moving backwards. When you ask me why I am making you wait, Coop, I'll tell you it's because you'll cramp. But really, it's just because I had to. I have no idea. Sorry, pal. If I had to wait, you gotta wait. It builds character, or something. We'd play Marco Polo and have cannonball contests and run around the outside of the pool and jump on each other...everything that the lifeguard will blow his whistle at you for, which happens to be all the fun stuff.
When I got a little older, we'd follow swimming up with Spades. I will teach you how to play, L.W. And then me and you can beat your mom and whoever she can wrangle up to be on her team. It'll be a blast! Anyway, I remember sitting in my friends' house, playing spades at the kitchen table. The open window behind me pushing a sticky breeze into the room that was still somehow refreshing. It smelled like summer and competed with the popcorn in the microwave for olfactory dominance. We would drink Coca-Cola and eat salty popcorn and play cards until what would be way, way past my bedtime in the school year. Finally, I would sprint home, precisely the length of three front yards, and bolt breathlessly through the front door.
After a night chock full of energy-renewing sleep, I'd awake the next morning to a chasm of opportunity only a hazy, lazy July day can present. A day so open and free that it could only be met with one initial thought: Where did I take my shoes off last night?
I hope you enjoy your birthmonth as much as I do, L.W.! I can't wait to celebrate it with you every year!
I love you!
B.W.
B.W. here. Just checking in. How are things going in there? I know you're feeling a little cramped. Your momma is, too. We are both anxiously awaiting your arrival, so please hurry!
How am I doing? Well, I'm currently somewhere that you will become familiar with very soon. Your home...and more specifically, your chair! I'm sitting in the chair where your mommy and Gangi and Nana will rock you to sleep. And me too, of course! It is so very comfortable. Your mom picked it out, and it is a magic chair. It can put anyone to sleep, no matter how much they fight it or how awake they seem to be when they sit down in it. This may aggravate you at first, but I promise that you will grow to love it as much as your mommy does. Well... I promise you'll grow to love it a lot.
So, anyway, I'm sitting here in this chair and I just realized that we are about to close the books on June. Just another hour or so. That means you are almost certain to be born in July! I have a friend named Scott that believes not in celebrating birthdays or birthweeks, but instead birthmonths. Why celebrate for 24 lonely hours, when you can go a full 30 days! I like it. And you will, too. So Happy July! It's a great month to be born in, and you get to share it with some really special friends. Your Nana Mel was a July baby. So was your cousin Jackson. And last but not least, you get to share your birthmonth with your country! Yep, the United States was born in July, too. Your dad cannot wait to teach you all about it.
Best of all, though, July is MADE for little boys. If a month could be a person, July would totally be a little boy, and truth be told, he'd probably be your bff. You see, July is nothing less than a clean slate. It's a month made for you to fill, and nobody can pack stuff into something like a boy. June is busy with finishing school and getting your summer started off with a bang, and August is when people get frazzled trying to cram that last bit of fun in before the drudgery returns. But July, son... July is lazy. That's not always a good thing, but for July, it just works. Days upon days where little boys wake up and see nothing but a blank canvas. Let me tell you, it's amazing how much happens when there's nothing else to do.
Do you want to know what July was like when I was a little boy? I would wake up practically at a dead run, throwing on shorts and a shirt and tennis shoes. Inevitably, I'd be called back to brush my teeth. Tie my shoes. Eat breakfast. Ugh...everything my mom could think of to slow me down. When I FINALLY made it outside, I would meet up with my friends and we would play baseball. Where was always an adventure. Equipped with only a couple of tennis balls, one aluminum bat, and a set of orange plastic bases, we had to be pretty discerning. A backyard might work, but the thicket right of first base ensured that any foul ball over there meant game over. The street sometimes was decided on, but a tennis ball will roll forever on asphalt, and besides, what's a home run with nothing to hit over? The ideal spot for us was a vacant lot a block away. It was perfect. A neighbors storage shed provided a backstop for errant pitches. A small row of 20-foot pines in left provided us with our own Green Monster. The only drawback was the Rottweiler that was usually chained up at the house next to the lot. He wasn't friendly, and more than once he wasn't chained, and we'd be chased back all the way back to our house.
When we weren't playing baseball, we were playing golf. Your Nana would drop me off at the course, and I'd be there until dark. We would walk 18 holes, have lunch, and then walk some more. Sometimes even a setting sun couldn't dictate the end of our day. I remember receiving more than one lecture from a worried parent after putting out in what could only generously be called twilight. After making it home for a quick dinner, me and my friends were back outside, stringing up the floodlight to illuminate the basketball goal in our driveway. We knew that the thump-thump of that rubber ball on the pavement of my driveway had to drive our neighbor lady crazy, but we didn't care, and you won't either.
When it was really hot, a dip in my friends' pool was the only cure. I remember passing the requisite half-hour after dinner, and thinking that somehow the clock was actually moving backwards. When you ask me why I am making you wait, Coop, I'll tell you it's because you'll cramp. But really, it's just because I had to. I have no idea. Sorry, pal. If I had to wait, you gotta wait. It builds character, or something. We'd play Marco Polo and have cannonball contests and run around the outside of the pool and jump on each other...everything that the lifeguard will blow his whistle at you for, which happens to be all the fun stuff.
When I got a little older, we'd follow swimming up with Spades. I will teach you how to play, L.W. And then me and you can beat your mom and whoever she can wrangle up to be on her team. It'll be a blast! Anyway, I remember sitting in my friends' house, playing spades at the kitchen table. The open window behind me pushing a sticky breeze into the room that was still somehow refreshing. It smelled like summer and competed with the popcorn in the microwave for olfactory dominance. We would drink Coca-Cola and eat salty popcorn and play cards until what would be way, way past my bedtime in the school year. Finally, I would sprint home, precisely the length of three front yards, and bolt breathlessly through the front door.
After a night chock full of energy-renewing sleep, I'd awake the next morning to a chasm of opportunity only a hazy, lazy July day can present. A day so open and free that it could only be met with one initial thought: Where did I take my shoes off last night?
I hope you enjoy your birthmonth as much as I do, L.W.! I can't wait to celebrate it with you every year!
I love you!
B.W.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Happy Paisley Tie Day!
L.W.!
Thank you so much for my Fathers Day gift! And like any great gift, I just had to put it to use as soon as I could. Since actually putting it on you wasn't really a viable option, I had to settle for the next best thing. You're underneath there somewhere, just waiting to come out. According to me, at least. According to your momma, you're underneath there everywhere, and in no hurry whatsoever to come out. Details. I think that's a beautiful picture of you and your mom and your sweet gift for your daddy. So thank you again!
I know you might be a little sketchy on exactly how you earned the accolades I'm giving you, so I'll catch you up to speed. You see, everybody in this country gets a holiday. Some get a day...others a week...some even get a month. The American culture is very big on gift giving and the acknowledgement of a job well done, and for all of our exclusionary attitudes toward other things, we don't want anyone to be left out when it comes to greeting cards. Your mom and dad both get their own day. Mothers Day is in May, and Fathers Day is in June...both are on Sundays. On Mothers Day, little children and their dads make a big fuss over mommy, and bring her breakfast in bed and lavish her with compliments, flowers, chocolates, and everything else that makes women happy. The whole day is geared toward giving her whatever she wants. Fathers Day is pretty similar to that, except it starts off with a gift for Dad. The rest of the day is a blissfully exhausting session of Dad trying to figure out exactly what it is that Mom wants him to want, so he can ask for it, she can supply it, and he can get everything "he" desires on "his" special day. Nevermind the fact that Five Guys really did sound pretty darn delicious to him, and On The Border after that, but in the end, Chili's was "his" choice, what "he" really wanted, and it was very good. But I'm not bitter or anything.
So, yeah, that's how this stuff typically goes.
One thing, L.W., that your dad really does love to do is to watch the United States Open Golf Championship. The U.S. Open. It is always held on the weekend of Fathers Day, and your mommy has always been very good about letting me watch it in peace. I really love golf, Cooper, and I hope that you will love it, too. I hope that we can watch the U.S. Open together every year on Fathers Day, just the same as I did with my dad. Maybe one day we could go and watch it in person. Together. Maybe one day you'll even play in it. That is a big maybe, but you never know. Today, a young man by the name of Graeme McDowell won. And just as soon as his final putt rolled into the cup, Graeme's father was rushing out onto the green. He gave his son the most joyous hug, and kept repeating the keenest phrase. Instead of saying how proud he was, which is how most of these scenes go, the elder McDowell kept saying "You're some kid!",
"You're some kid! You're some kid! You're some kid!" It reminded me of E.B. White's Charlotte the Spider, who I will introduce to you later, if your Nana Mel doesn't beat me to it. Anyway, I thought it was a very sweet and a very neat father-to-son exclamation on the 18th green of the Pebble Beach Golf Links. I wonder if Graeme's father ever dared to dream of his son winning the U.S. Open. It must have seemed like a gargantuan maybe to him, as well, but it turned out to be one that miraculously played out. Maybe we'll be so lucky. Probably not, but that's okay. I know just as certainly as Mr. McDowell does about his son, you're some kid, just the same.
I love you, L.W.!
BW
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Story time!
Cooper, I think it's time that you meet some of the friends that are very, very excited and anxious for you to get here. Just like your mommy and daddy and the rest of your wonderful family, these friends CANNOT WAIT for you to get here. You are going to have so much fun with them! Are you ready?
This guy is Mischief the Monkey. He is very excitable, and will always seem to be the one behind the adventures you'll go on. He is always FULL of energy. Do you know how hyper you are after Momma Wooly eats a bowl of Cocoa Puffs? Well, Mischief is like that ALL of the time. He talks a lot, too. If you are anything like your dad...or your mom, for that matter, you will probably give him a run for his money in that department. Even though it will seem at times that Mischief likes to do nothing but run his monkey mouth, it's important to remember that Mischief is also very smart. His brain works just as quickly as his mouth, and he is very good at coming up with plans. Even when it looks like he is goofing off (which is most of the time), he is always paying attention, and he doesn't miss a thing. If you let him, Mischief can teach you that having fun and being silly doesn't mean you have to stop learning from the world around you. Hopefully, your mom and dad can help out with that, too.
This pretty giraffe is Grace. As wild as Mischief can be, Grace is just that calm. A stark contrast to her monkey friend, Grace is all legs and neck. Believe it or not, she looks very much like your dad did when he was your age. I'm not sure about the neck, but I was certainly all legs. Right now your mom is hoping otherwise, but all indications are that you will take after your dad and be a long, lean baby.... just like Grace. One thing I hope that Grace teaches you is to always be comfortable with who you are. Sure, she may look a little bit different with her long legs and long neck, but Grace just focuses on the positives. Living a happy life is all about how you look at things, and Grace takes advantage of her different vantage point. The fruit at the top of the tree is never picked over, and she gets the sunshine before anyone else. What's not to be happy about?
The last of the triumvirate that I want you to meet is Tireless the Turtle. The first thing that you'll notice is that Tireless is very, very slow. He prefers to be called meticulous, but he's really, honestly, just slow. Glacial, even. You'll learn that's no surprising characteristic for a turtle. What may surprise you is how much Tireless LOVES to race. He lives for it. He challenges Mischief to a race every single day....and Mischief beats him every single day. That doesn't keep Tireless from finishing the race, and challenging Mischief again the next day. When you are older you will learn about words like perseverance and determination, but those are pretty fancy words that you will learn to pronounce and write long after you know their meaning. What you will see in Tireless is that he isn't worried about never quitting, but instead he focuses on finishing. As long as you are working toward getting done what you want to get done, not quitting will be the least of your worries. Who has time to worry about that when you are busy accomplishing things?
So there they are. Mischief and Grace and Tireless. They are all best buds, Cooper, and they are all very excited about adding a fourth to their little group. There are so, so many things that they want to teach you, and so, so many adventures they want to go on with you. I made them promise, though, that no matter where they take you, that no matter how great the adventure is, they always bring you back safe and sound. And they told me not to sweat it, Big Wooly. That if I keep you safe during the day, they will always watch over you at night.
So we've got that going for us, which is nice.
I love you, LW. Goodnight!
BW
This guy is Mischief the Monkey. He is very excitable, and will always seem to be the one behind the adventures you'll go on. He is always FULL of energy. Do you know how hyper you are after Momma Wooly eats a bowl of Cocoa Puffs? Well, Mischief is like that ALL of the time. He talks a lot, too. If you are anything like your dad...or your mom, for that matter, you will probably give him a run for his money in that department. Even though it will seem at times that Mischief likes to do nothing but run his monkey mouth, it's important to remember that Mischief is also very smart. His brain works just as quickly as his mouth, and he is very good at coming up with plans. Even when it looks like he is goofing off (which is most of the time), he is always paying attention, and he doesn't miss a thing. If you let him, Mischief can teach you that having fun and being silly doesn't mean you have to stop learning from the world around you. Hopefully, your mom and dad can help out with that, too.
This pretty giraffe is Grace. As wild as Mischief can be, Grace is just that calm. A stark contrast to her monkey friend, Grace is all legs and neck. Believe it or not, she looks very much like your dad did when he was your age. I'm not sure about the neck, but I was certainly all legs. Right now your mom is hoping otherwise, but all indications are that you will take after your dad and be a long, lean baby.... just like Grace. One thing I hope that Grace teaches you is to always be comfortable with who you are. Sure, she may look a little bit different with her long legs and long neck, but Grace just focuses on the positives. Living a happy life is all about how you look at things, and Grace takes advantage of her different vantage point. The fruit at the top of the tree is never picked over, and she gets the sunshine before anyone else. What's not to be happy about?
The last of the triumvirate that I want you to meet is Tireless the Turtle. The first thing that you'll notice is that Tireless is very, very slow. He prefers to be called meticulous, but he's really, honestly, just slow. Glacial, even. You'll learn that's no surprising characteristic for a turtle. What may surprise you is how much Tireless LOVES to race. He lives for it. He challenges Mischief to a race every single day....and Mischief beats him every single day. That doesn't keep Tireless from finishing the race, and challenging Mischief again the next day. When you are older you will learn about words like perseverance and determination, but those are pretty fancy words that you will learn to pronounce and write long after you know their meaning. What you will see in Tireless is that he isn't worried about never quitting, but instead he focuses on finishing. As long as you are working toward getting done what you want to get done, not quitting will be the least of your worries. Who has time to worry about that when you are busy accomplishing things?
So there they are. Mischief and Grace and Tireless. They are all best buds, Cooper, and they are all very excited about adding a fourth to their little group. There are so, so many things that they want to teach you, and so, so many adventures they want to go on with you. I made them promise, though, that no matter where they take you, that no matter how great the adventure is, they always bring you back safe and sound. And they told me not to sweat it, Big Wooly. That if I keep you safe during the day, they will always watch over you at night.
So we've got that going for us, which is nice.
I love you, LW. Goodnight!
BW
Monday, April 19, 2010
Cooper shows his face!
L.W.
Today, through the miracle of 3d sonography, I saw you! Yep, me and your mommy and your Gangi and your Nana all saw you. From the top of your head to the bottoms of your feet, and everything in between. We watched for a solid hour, and let me tell you, you are one handsome kid!
That's your face, Cooper! And you don't know it yet, but that is the face of your family, too. You've got your mommy's nose. And your eyes are closed just like your cousin Owen closes his when he sleeps. And you have my mouth. And those cheeks come from, well, just about everybody in your Papaw Larry's bloodline. I've got them, too. They're great for playing Chubby Bunny. And see that shiny area above your forehead...? You got that from your Pops!
No, don't cry! I was just kidding! You don't have Pop's hair! Well... now you do. But not always. Your mom and dad had very, very thick hair when they were little, and we are sure you will as well.
Ahhh, that's better, huh? We really shouldn't tease Pops too much, though. He is painting your nursery when he comes to town this weekend.
What else did we learn today? Well, you are about 16 inches long right now, and not quite 3 lbs. Slightly above normal, but we expected that. All of your indicators and measurements were right where they should be. In fact, the technician used the term "perfect" more than once. You're a perfect little boy! How nice is that to hear?
There's another one of you grinning your fool head off. You really like nuzzling into Mama Wooly's placenta. The technician says that you probably find it soothing, and after you are born, you will probably like burrowing into things and be comfortable with close quarters. So please remember that the first time I swaddle you up like Ralphie's little brother Randy in The Christmas Story... you like it!
Here is one of my favorites. Two feet all the way above your head! You got that from Mama Wooly. She was a cheerleader. Or maybe Aunt Shelley. She did gymnastics when she was a girl. They better not get any ideas, though. As soon as you stop sucking on your hand, we'll get a ball in it and get to work on your two-seam fastball. Then we'll get a club in it and we can practice chipping and putting. We have a lot to cover, so you need to hurry up and get here!
It was wonderful seeing you today, Cooper. The next time I see you, I will be able to hold you, and I can't wait for it! I love you!
Big Wooly
Today, through the miracle of 3d sonography, I saw you! Yep, me and your mommy and your Gangi and your Nana all saw you. From the top of your head to the bottoms of your feet, and everything in between. We watched for a solid hour, and let me tell you, you are one handsome kid!
That's your face, Cooper! And you don't know it yet, but that is the face of your family, too. You've got your mommy's nose. And your eyes are closed just like your cousin Owen closes his when he sleeps. And you have my mouth. And those cheeks come from, well, just about everybody in your Papaw Larry's bloodline. I've got them, too. They're great for playing Chubby Bunny. And see that shiny area above your forehead...? You got that from your Pops!
No, don't cry! I was just kidding! You don't have Pop's hair! Well... now you do. But not always. Your mom and dad had very, very thick hair when they were little, and we are sure you will as well.
What else did we learn today? Well, you are about 16 inches long right now, and not quite 3 lbs. Slightly above normal, but we expected that. All of your indicators and measurements were right where they should be. In fact, the technician used the term "perfect" more than once. You're a perfect little boy! How nice is that to hear?
There's another one of you grinning your fool head off. You really like nuzzling into Mama Wooly's placenta. The technician says that you probably find it soothing, and after you are born, you will probably like burrowing into things and be comfortable with close quarters. So please remember that the first time I swaddle you up like Ralphie's little brother Randy in The Christmas Story... you like it!
Here is one of my favorites. Two feet all the way above your head! You got that from Mama Wooly. She was a cheerleader. Or maybe Aunt Shelley. She did gymnastics when she was a girl. They better not get any ideas, though. As soon as you stop sucking on your hand, we'll get a ball in it and get to work on your two-seam fastball. Then we'll get a club in it and we can practice chipping and putting. We have a lot to cover, so you need to hurry up and get here!
It was wonderful seeing you today, Cooper. The next time I see you, I will be able to hold you, and I can't wait for it! I love you!
Big Wooly
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Lil Wooly has a lil willy!
We were almost late. Stephanie goes to work at 5:00a.m., and I don't go until 8:00a.m., so we aren't that attuned to getting ready at the same time. That, and we laid in bed for too long before getting around. Saturdays and Sundays just don't afford enough opportunities to do so, and appointments, however important, don't hold the same rigidity as a waiting boss or ticking time clock seem to. Steph's mom, on the other hand, seemed determined to offset by herself any punctuality miscues her daughter and son-in-law had in mind. She was reportedly the first vehicle in the parking lot. Seriously, y'all. We were still lying in bed when she called to let us know she was on the way to the clinic. And we live about two minutes from each other. And we were just almost late. We were on time. And she left before we began getting ready. She apparently just beat her sister, Stephanie's Aunt Gayla.
So we get there, and there I go, into the Lion's Den. We entered into the waiting area, and I was greeted by a phalanx of mommies and mommies' hangers-on. A veritable Army of Estrogen. And removing myself momentarily from the equation, let me say that our brigade was the largest, occupying an entire corner of the large room. So large, in fact, that we even took the nurse by surprise when after Stephanie's name was called, not one, not two, but SEVEN people rose and headed back to the Ultrasound Studio. She scrunched us around the table, revved up the machine, and it was time to play picture pages!
Our Ultrasound Technician was Cindy, and she wasted no time. Within five seconds after finding Lil Wooly, she was marking indicators on the screen and taking measurements. At this point, all my eyes saw was an amorphous blob, and here she was surveying our baby. Cindy started a running commentary of anatomical parts as she ran the wand over Steph's budding belly. "Here's the forehead, and there are the eyes, and nose, and oh... will you take a boy?" It happened just like that. Within fifteen seconds of the ultrasound. It happened so fast it was almost anticlimactic. I didn't have an opportunity to get nervous about finding the sex out...she had ascertained it and told us before I could even realize whether Lil Wooly was "up" or "down"!
I am very proud to announce that Lil Wooly was right on par with all of his "indicators". Normal or slightly above. This, of course, doesn't mean much, as our doctor explained to us that genetic history does a far better job of predicting the size of an infant at birth than those indicators. Upon hearing this, I felt obliged to inform him that I was 10 pounds at birth. He turned to Stephanie and said "I'm sorry". I then informed him that I was also 25 1/2 inches as well. To which he again apologized to Stephanie. Lil Wooly may very soon be Lil in name only.
Other than that, everything was very normal. The doctor was pleased with the progress, and Stephanie is still on a schedule of once-monthly visits. We shook hands, and Stephanie and I left to join our family in the waiting room. I headed back to work, but Steph took the rest of the day off to go shopping. Now that Lil Wooly can a/k/a as Cooper Bailey, there is much to be done, and Stephanie wasted little time. Color schemes and nursery themes. Coordinating high chairs and strollers. There is even something called a pumpkin? Seriously? I'm pretty sure I've figured it out. Kids make up for what we inflict upon them as infants before they are capable of the emotion of embarrassment by being unnecessarily embarrassed by everything we do as teenagers. We'll see if I can remember this theory in about 14 years.
So... if pregnancy is a perfect bell curve, we crested at 20 weeks and are on the downhill slope taking us straight to childbirth. Of course pregnancy isn't a perfect bell curve. From what I can tell, it will most likely follow a bimodal distribution pattern, with two major peaks of chaos, insanity, and teeth-gnashing, and a valley of second-trimester bliss in the middle. Which is where we are now. Ahhhhh. Of course, as a husband I know that I should point out that this is all in the abstract, and that I would never, ever use a word like "bliss" in conjunction with the carrying of a fetus that could very well grow to be ten pounds on account of my genes. Again, let me reiterate. ALL IN THE ABSTRACT.
I should probably quit while I'm behind. I think I'll go try to correct her supine sleeping position and get her onto her side. That will certainly endear me further to her. G'night, y'all.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Lil Wooly,
You don't know it, because you aren't born yet, but your mommy and and daddy LOVE the Olympic Games. We are ate up with it. We watch as much as we can. You will be three before the next Winter Olympics are held in 2014 in Sochi, Russia but I hope very much that you enjoy watching them with your mom and dad when the time comes. I hope you enjoy them always. I hope you love them, in fact. I hope you LOVE the Winter Olympics! Because you will never, ever be allowed to participate in the Winter Olympics. You can do anything else in the world that you like. Set your goals as high as you can, and we will stand behind you. No matter what. But you cannot be a Winter Olympian.
Not because the Arkansas environment would make it exceedingly difficult. Although it would. And not because your parents didn't pass to you sufficient athletic prowess and coordination to succeed at that elite level. Although we didn't. No, the reason you cannot become a Winter Olympian is simply because mean old mom and dad just will not allow it. Simple as that. Entirely too dangerous.
Rest assured, I'll repeat this once you make your debut, and probably a few times after that, but I'd like to go ahead and lay out a few ground rules for your time on the wonderful planet that you don't yet know is called Earth. I promise I'll be a cool dad and I assure you there are plenty of DOs in your future, especially if antagonizing your mom is concerned, but I do feel compelled to give you a couple of DON'Ts here to start.
DON'T, under any circumstances, strap planks to your feet and propel yourself down a mountain. If you are walking along innocently on top of a mountain and stumble on to two planks that take off down the slope of their own volition, you are not to see just how fast you can go. If somehow you are propelled into the air while upon those planks, you should turn your attention to getting safely back on the ground. The number of flips or spins you can complete while in the air should not enter your mind. And God forbid, if you happen to be, as the kids say, "strapped" when this highly unlikely plank-strumbling scenario plays out, don't even think about trying to make a game out of it.
If you think ice is any better than snow, you're wrong. DON'T, under any circumstances, affix sharp blades of steel to the bottom of your shoes and try to gallivant around a surface whose soul mission is to make you fall. If you are having a picnic in the middle of winter next to a frozen pond and somehow accidentally superglue two knives onto the bottom of your sneakers, don't go anywhere near the ice. You are not to see how fast you can go. Or how perfect of a figure eight you can make. Also, fight the urge to start naming things with ridiculous names like Lutz and Salchow. And if taking a stick and swatting at the hard, dried-out brownie from the picnic basket seems like a good idea, it's not. That's when someone else with knife-shoes comes out of nowhere and checks you hard into the boards. Then they beat the shit out of you. If you stayed at home and watched the Winter Olympics with your dear old mom and dad instead of going out with your significant other on a romantic arctic rendezvous, you'd know that.
There aren't very many sports that aren't ruled out by my two previous DON'Ts, but there are some. When you get a little older, you'll learn about the consequences of taking a vehicle out for a spin without permission. You're not wondering yet, but this applies to bobsleds, luges, and skeleton sleds as well. And do you really think, Lil Wooly, that your mom or dad will sign off on you hopping like Bo Duke into the back of a canoe on rails just before it plummets down a twisting, turning frozen water slide? Of course you don't.
So there you have it. Your first encounter with the heavy hand of Big Wooly Law. If you feel cheated out of your Olympic career before it could even take off, don't feel bad. There is another variety of Olympic Games held, and instead of prohibiting your participation, here your father will actually encourage and even push you toward greatness. Sure, the Math Olympics may not be as sexy as the Winter Games, but mathletes have their groupies, too. You'll see.
Talk to you soon.
Algebraically yours,
Big Wooly
You don't know it, because you aren't born yet, but your mommy and and daddy LOVE the Olympic Games. We are ate up with it. We watch as much as we can. You will be three before the next Winter Olympics are held in 2014 in Sochi, Russia but I hope very much that you enjoy watching them with your mom and dad when the time comes. I hope you enjoy them always. I hope you love them, in fact. I hope you LOVE the Winter Olympics! Because you will never, ever be allowed to participate in the Winter Olympics. You can do anything else in the world that you like. Set your goals as high as you can, and we will stand behind you. No matter what. But you cannot be a Winter Olympian.
Not because the Arkansas environment would make it exceedingly difficult. Although it would. And not because your parents didn't pass to you sufficient athletic prowess and coordination to succeed at that elite level. Although we didn't. No, the reason you cannot become a Winter Olympian is simply because mean old mom and dad just will not allow it. Simple as that. Entirely too dangerous.
Rest assured, I'll repeat this once you make your debut, and probably a few times after that, but I'd like to go ahead and lay out a few ground rules for your time on the wonderful planet that you don't yet know is called Earth. I promise I'll be a cool dad and I assure you there are plenty of DOs in your future, especially if antagonizing your mom is concerned, but I do feel compelled to give you a couple of DON'Ts here to start.
DON'T, under any circumstances, strap planks to your feet and propel yourself down a mountain. If you are walking along innocently on top of a mountain and stumble on to two planks that take off down the slope of their own volition, you are not to see just how fast you can go. If somehow you are propelled into the air while upon those planks, you should turn your attention to getting safely back on the ground. The number of flips or spins you can complete while in the air should not enter your mind. And God forbid, if you happen to be, as the kids say, "strapped" when this highly unlikely plank-strumbling scenario plays out, don't even think about trying to make a game out of it.
If you think ice is any better than snow, you're wrong. DON'T, under any circumstances, affix sharp blades of steel to the bottom of your shoes and try to gallivant around a surface whose soul mission is to make you fall. If you are having a picnic in the middle of winter next to a frozen pond and somehow accidentally superglue two knives onto the bottom of your sneakers, don't go anywhere near the ice. You are not to see how fast you can go. Or how perfect of a figure eight you can make. Also, fight the urge to start naming things with ridiculous names like Lutz and Salchow. And if taking a stick and swatting at the hard, dried-out brownie from the picnic basket seems like a good idea, it's not. That's when someone else with knife-shoes comes out of nowhere and checks you hard into the boards. Then they beat the shit out of you. If you stayed at home and watched the Winter Olympics with your dear old mom and dad instead of going out with your significant other on a romantic arctic rendezvous, you'd know that.
There aren't very many sports that aren't ruled out by my two previous DON'Ts, but there are some. When you get a little older, you'll learn about the consequences of taking a vehicle out for a spin without permission. You're not wondering yet, but this applies to bobsleds, luges, and skeleton sleds as well. And do you really think, Lil Wooly, that your mom or dad will sign off on you hopping like Bo Duke into the back of a canoe on rails just before it plummets down a twisting, turning frozen water slide? Of course you don't.
So there you have it. Your first encounter with the heavy hand of Big Wooly Law. If you feel cheated out of your Olympic career before it could even take off, don't feel bad. There is another variety of Olympic Games held, and instead of prohibiting your participation, here your father will actually encourage and even push you toward greatness. Sure, the Math Olympics may not be as sexy as the Winter Games, but mathletes have their groupies, too. You'll see.
Talk to you soon.
Algebraically yours,
Big Wooly
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
The devil is in... what was it again?
Stephanie says I never pay attention. She's only partially wrong. I'm always paying attention to something... it just might not be the exact thing she thinks I should be paying attention. Like her voice. Or The Biggest Loser. Or what color the traffic light is. To hear her tell it, you'd think I wander through life with noise-canceling headphones and retrograde amnesia. What little of the minutia of our lives she designates as "important" that I actually manage to catch, I have a penchant for forgetting. I contend that because she is so enthusiastic about pointing out my fleeting memory, my motivation to keep up with things is only diminished further, but we'll open that can of worms another time. For the purpose of brevity, I will forgo all defense of her accusation and admit that I, Big Wooly, sometimes have issues holding onto details.
...
...
...
I know. Shocking, huh?
This periodic lack of focus goes hand in hand with the "laid back" trait I often get attributed with. For the most part, I think it's pretty accurate. I'm not floating aimlessly through life, bumping into and bouncing off of life's milestones as they pass me by, but I am generally pretty tolerant of what other people want to believe and want to do, around me and apart from me, even if there is some end effect on me. For the most part. I just tend not to worry a whole lot.
I worry myself sick over being a father.
For my entire adult life, I have been very comfortable with the fact that my decisions and the fate they determine are my own. I try to do what I believe will work out best for me... short-term, long-term, karmically. I also try my hardest to see what other people see when they make decisions that differ from what I would do. Most often, even if I disagree with someone, I can at least understand the path they took in reaching a conclusion, however divergent that path may be from mine. Accomplish that, and it takes a lot of potential animosity out of arguments.
What happens, though, when a child comes into the mix? You can't let a toddler reach a bad decision and sit back and appreciate the path he took in getting there. You are responsible for that little rugrat! You make the decisions for him. The enormity of that responsibility is completely sobering. Another human, dependent upon ME.
Truly this is a miracle from God, but still... sometimes I feel like looking up and saying "You DID see me put that entertainment center together inside out, right?" I wonder if tonight, as I was futilely trying to straighten the shower curtain rod I shoddily assembled a few months ago, He went palm-to-forehead and shook his head. I know the answer is no... that He has a perfect plan for me and the rest of The Family Wooly... but at the very least, it's proof positive that the big man has a sense of humor. How else can you explain taking the muttering, chunky, shirtless guy perched precariously on the arm of the bathtub with a shower rod balanced on his noggin and a Phillips head screwdriver in his hand and GIVING HIM A TINY, HELPLESS INFANT to care for.
I think about it every day. I can't even fix a flat. How the hell am I going to suck boogers out of Lil Wooly's teeny, tiny nostrils?
Ironically, Stephanie is doing spectacularly. She is a word-class fretter, but she does a 10000000% better job than I do at focusing on the great things we have to look forward to. It's really a 180 from the roles we have traditionally played. She has always worried. About money. Our house. Getting rare diseases that she sees on Discovery Health. It's been my job to talk her back down from the ledge and get her to stop and smell the roses. With Lil Wooly, though, she is the one who is reminding me of all the wonderful things that will come with all that heaping responsibility.
While I stress over sucking boogers and not touching fontanelles and frantic late-night calls to the pediatrician, she just wants July to hurry up and get here so she can hold our baby. There is so, so much I can learn from her.
That's one thing I've made a point not to forget.
...
...
...
I know. Shocking, huh?
This periodic lack of focus goes hand in hand with the "laid back" trait I often get attributed with. For the most part, I think it's pretty accurate. I'm not floating aimlessly through life, bumping into and bouncing off of life's milestones as they pass me by, but I am generally pretty tolerant of what other people want to believe and want to do, around me and apart from me, even if there is some end effect on me. For the most part. I just tend not to worry a whole lot.
I worry myself sick over being a father.
For my entire adult life, I have been very comfortable with the fact that my decisions and the fate they determine are my own. I try to do what I believe will work out best for me... short-term, long-term, karmically. I also try my hardest to see what other people see when they make decisions that differ from what I would do. Most often, even if I disagree with someone, I can at least understand the path they took in reaching a conclusion, however divergent that path may be from mine. Accomplish that, and it takes a lot of potential animosity out of arguments.
What happens, though, when a child comes into the mix? You can't let a toddler reach a bad decision and sit back and appreciate the path he took in getting there. You are responsible for that little rugrat! You make the decisions for him. The enormity of that responsibility is completely sobering. Another human, dependent upon ME.
Truly this is a miracle from God, but still... sometimes I feel like looking up and saying "You DID see me put that entertainment center together inside out, right?" I wonder if tonight, as I was futilely trying to straighten the shower curtain rod I shoddily assembled a few months ago, He went palm-to-forehead and shook his head. I know the answer is no... that He has a perfect plan for me and the rest of The Family Wooly... but at the very least, it's proof positive that the big man has a sense of humor. How else can you explain taking the muttering, chunky, shirtless guy perched precariously on the arm of the bathtub with a shower rod balanced on his noggin and a Phillips head screwdriver in his hand and GIVING HIM A TINY, HELPLESS INFANT to care for.
I think about it every day. I can't even fix a flat. How the hell am I going to suck boogers out of Lil Wooly's teeny, tiny nostrils?
Ironically, Stephanie is doing spectacularly. She is a word-class fretter, but she does a 10000000% better job than I do at focusing on the great things we have to look forward to. It's really a 180 from the roles we have traditionally played. She has always worried. About money. Our house. Getting rare diseases that she sees on Discovery Health. It's been my job to talk her back down from the ledge and get her to stop and smell the roses. With Lil Wooly, though, she is the one who is reminding me of all the wonderful things that will come with all that heaping responsibility.
While I stress over sucking boogers and not touching fontanelles and frantic late-night calls to the pediatrician, she just wants July to hurry up and get here so she can hold our baby. There is so, so much I can learn from her.
That's one thing I've made a point not to forget.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Heads for Grace, Tails for Reese
Cleanliness may be next to godliness, but the act of cleaning itself is a devil of a time. Especially if you are a cell phone, and you belong to my wife.
She has ruined no fewer than three cell phones since we have been together, all in the name of hygiene and cleanliness.
Phone Sacrifice #1 was made at a party. Stephanie and I had been dating about three months, and were doing the long distance thing at the time. I was actually on my way to a wedding in South Carolina, and had been given the strictest instructions to "not forget" about her. So I didn't. After our traveling party checked into the Hampton Inn in Stone Mountain, GA, I set out to call her. No answer. I tried again later. No answer. Repeatedly through the night, and no answer. I don't get word until THE NEXT DAY that Stephanie has somehow managed to deposit her phone into a frat house commode while, uh, cleaning out her bladder.
Or was that the time she dropped it into her drink? Or maybe that was when she jumped in a fountain?
I know for SURE that she ruined one last year when she dropped her phone in the sink while BRUSHING HER TEETH. Let that sink in. Exactly what kind of conversation can you carry on when you are brushing your damn teeth? It's apparently a form of the English language understood only by Steph and her sister. And she gets mad at me for trying to tell her things while I'm yawning.
So, Saturday, we were doing some house cleaning, and I was feeling good because we were actually doing something productive. I was cleaning one bathroom, and Stephanie was cleaning the other. I had actually taken a break to wash my face, and as I am rinsing I hear "OHMYGOD!!! OH NOOOOOOOOO!!!"
My heart stops, and I run into the master bathroom ( where this whole blog started, remember) with Proactiv dripping off of one half of my face. There is a pit in my stomach as I round the corner to take in my obviously very injured wife.
She isn't injured at all. Her phone, on the other hand... is soaked.
WHO TALKS ON THE PHONE WHILE THEY ARE CLEANING A TOILET????
After some debate, Stephanie decides that she wants an iphone. She convinces her father that since he is due for an upgrade, he can get the new 3GS and give her his first-gen iphone. Then my brother-in-law Jay decides he's going to get one, too. That would leave me out, so Stephanie brokers a deal for me to get her aunt's old first-gen phone.
So now we all have iphones. They are probably the best thing ever. I'm seriously considering suggesting that we let the iphone name our child. Middle name, at least. Urbanspoon style. Give it a good shake, and go with whatever we get. I'm sure there's an app for that. And if not, at the very least, we can narrow it down to two and flip a virtual icoin. I KNOW there is an app for that. I already have it.
She has ruined no fewer than three cell phones since we have been together, all in the name of hygiene and cleanliness.
Phone Sacrifice #1 was made at a party. Stephanie and I had been dating about three months, and were doing the long distance thing at the time. I was actually on my way to a wedding in South Carolina, and had been given the strictest instructions to "not forget" about her. So I didn't. After our traveling party checked into the Hampton Inn in Stone Mountain, GA, I set out to call her. No answer. I tried again later. No answer. Repeatedly through the night, and no answer. I don't get word until THE NEXT DAY that Stephanie has somehow managed to deposit her phone into a frat house commode while, uh, cleaning out her bladder.
Or was that the time she dropped it into her drink? Or maybe that was when she jumped in a fountain?
I know for SURE that she ruined one last year when she dropped her phone in the sink while BRUSHING HER TEETH. Let that sink in. Exactly what kind of conversation can you carry on when you are brushing your damn teeth? It's apparently a form of the English language understood only by Steph and her sister. And she gets mad at me for trying to tell her things while I'm yawning.
So, Saturday, we were doing some house cleaning, and I was feeling good because we were actually doing something productive. I was cleaning one bathroom, and Stephanie was cleaning the other. I had actually taken a break to wash my face, and as I am rinsing I hear "OHMYGOD!!! OH NOOOOOOOOO!!!"
My heart stops, and I run into the master bathroom ( where this whole blog started, remember) with Proactiv dripping off of one half of my face. There is a pit in my stomach as I round the corner to take in my obviously very injured wife.
She isn't injured at all. Her phone, on the other hand... is soaked.
WHO TALKS ON THE PHONE WHILE THEY ARE CLEANING A TOILET????
After some debate, Stephanie decides that she wants an iphone. She convinces her father that since he is due for an upgrade, he can get the new 3GS and give her his first-gen iphone. Then my brother-in-law Jay decides he's going to get one, too. That would leave me out, so Stephanie brokers a deal for me to get her aunt's old first-gen phone.
So now we all have iphones. They are probably the best thing ever. I'm seriously considering suggesting that we let the iphone name our child. Middle name, at least. Urbanspoon style. Give it a good shake, and go with whatever we get. I'm sure there's an app for that. And if not, at the very least, we can narrow it down to two and flip a virtual icoin. I KNOW there is an app for that. I already have it.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
It all started with a chair.
As humans, we are bound by routines. All of us. Some more than others, but we all have things that we like to do a particular way, out of some conscious or unconscious need to establish order in our lives. Some might argue that when this desire to do things a particular way reaches a certain intensity, the order we seek becomes imposed on us, instead of sovereignly established by us. But not me. That's way too deep, especially for someone with as many routines as I have.
I will go back and make sure the refrigerator door is shut every single morning before leaving the house. I check it, I turn the alarm on, and I run back upstairs to check it again before I leave. Then, I will turn around and make sure I closed the garage door and I am rounding the corner to leave our subdivision, even though I closed the garage door about five seconds prior. When I smoked, I HAD to smoke before bed. That was certainly a routine, if not an outright ritual. Even now, as a nonsmoker, I have a nightly routine before bed. I turn the television off, get up from the couch, turn the living room light off and walk into the kitchen. Once there, I run a glass of water and take my pills before heading upstairs. Then I move Wooly Cat off of my side of the bed, crawl under the covers, and turn Juno off. Once in bed, I have to face the outside of--
What's that? Yeah, Juno. Yes, every night. No, I'm not kidding.
It's how she goes to sleep. She goes to work at 5:00 a.m., so she goes to bed way before I do. She gets up from the couch, kisses me goodnight, and goes upstairs to watch Juno and crash. I don't know how far she makes it each night, but I do know that it's almost admirable in some freakish way that she does not deviate. Seriously, y'all. She watches this movie every freaking night.
It has become a weird kind of clock for me. I know how long she has been in bed by which scene is playing. If it's the opening credits, that means I'm probably going to be tired the next day, because the movie has had time to play all the way through once and then start over. It's strange, but I seem to catch a lot of the same scenes over and over. The initial meeting with Jason Bateman and Jennifer Garner. The scene with Juno crying on the side of the road. The scene with the horror movies. I've seen those three a lot, but only this week, after at least a couple months of turning this movie off every single night, did I walk into the bedroom as Tom Hanks was discussing his newest miniseries in the blurb that comes on after the credits finish rolling.
So, yeah, Stephanie watches Juno every night. Weird. Almost a little creepy. But I can't give her too much hell. I like to listen to the soundtrack of Wicked and Rent while we're driving to Fayetteville on the Friday night before Razorback football games. And I'm straight. Go figure.
I will go back and make sure the refrigerator door is shut every single morning before leaving the house. I check it, I turn the alarm on, and I run back upstairs to check it again before I leave. Then, I will turn around and make sure I closed the garage door and I am rounding the corner to leave our subdivision, even though I closed the garage door about five seconds prior. When I smoked, I HAD to smoke before bed. That was certainly a routine, if not an outright ritual. Even now, as a nonsmoker, I have a nightly routine before bed. I turn the television off, get up from the couch, turn the living room light off and walk into the kitchen. Once there, I run a glass of water and take my pills before heading upstairs. Then I move Wooly Cat off of my side of the bed, crawl under the covers, and turn Juno off. Once in bed, I have to face the outside of--
What's that? Yeah, Juno. Yes, every night. No, I'm not kidding.
It's how she goes to sleep. She goes to work at 5:00 a.m., so she goes to bed way before I do. She gets up from the couch, kisses me goodnight, and goes upstairs to watch Juno and crash. I don't know how far she makes it each night, but I do know that it's almost admirable in some freakish way that she does not deviate. Seriously, y'all. She watches this movie every freaking night.
It has become a weird kind of clock for me. I know how long she has been in bed by which scene is playing. If it's the opening credits, that means I'm probably going to be tired the next day, because the movie has had time to play all the way through once and then start over. It's strange, but I seem to catch a lot of the same scenes over and over. The initial meeting with Jason Bateman and Jennifer Garner. The scene with Juno crying on the side of the road. The scene with the horror movies. I've seen those three a lot, but only this week, after at least a couple months of turning this movie off every single night, did I walk into the bedroom as Tom Hanks was discussing his newest miniseries in the blurb that comes on after the credits finish rolling.
So, yeah, Stephanie watches Juno every night. Weird. Almost a little creepy. But I can't give her too much hell. I like to listen to the soundtrack of Wicked and Rent while we're driving to Fayetteville on the Friday night before Razorback football games. And I'm straight. Go figure.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Cravings
It's early yet, but to this point in her pregnancy, Stephanie hasn't had any cravings. And this is someone who is probably the strangest eater I've ever encountered. How strange? Well... if we go to a drive-thru, she wants to drink Dr. Pepper, unless we go through a McDonald's, because McDonald's has "good coke" that tastes better than the coke at Burger King, Sonic, Wendy's, etc.
Oh, Wendy's. I think Wendy's was the cause of our first fight. And maybe our second and third fights as well. Wendy's is what helped me discover that my wife can be truly neurotic about a damn cheeseburger. Stephanie is very particular about Wendy's. She orders a Jr. Cheeseburger, plain. Small order of fries, medium Dr. Pepper. Every time. That in itself isn't so neurotic...just slightly strange. Indeed, it makes it easy to remember her order when she calls and asks me to pick Wendy's up on my way home. EXCEPT WE MUST EAT WENDY'S INSIDE THE RESTAURANT. This is non-negotiable. On the very rare occasion that I persuade her into getting Wendy's to go, she changes her order. Eat-in, she wants a cheeseburger and fries. To-go, caesar salad. I know.
Why such madness? Why can't she eat a burger and fries from Wendy's in her own damn house? Because "it tastes better inside the restaurant". One day, I had had enough and I pressed her until she gave me the reason. It's the ketchup. She likes to dip her Wendy's fries in the souffle cup full of room temperature ketchup taken from the ketchup pump at the condiment station. This is why, when she wants Wendy's, I have to drive directly PAST the restaurant after work, pick her up from our house, and then proceed back. Because our ketchup is "different". Holy hell. I got exasperated again just typing that mess out.
So maybe she doesn't have any cravings because it's just logistically impossible to get any weirder about food. Maybe she's at 100% quirkiness regarding food when she doesn't have a tiny human growing inside of her.
----------------
So, I was able to hear Lil Wooly's heartbeat for the first time today! I came into the bedroom and Stephanie was using the fetal heart monitor she bought to try and find Lil Wooly's heartbeat. We've had it for probably a month and have had zero success finding Lil Wooly. HER heartbeat is easy to find, however, so when she put her finger to her pulse this morning I figured she'd be disappointed again.
When she took the headphones off and handed them to me, however, I realized she wasn't disappointed at all. I slipped them on and for the first time heard our baby's heart beating. This wasn't a line on a pee stick or a speck on a picture Stephanie brought home... this was my baby's heart beating in the here-and-now, and I was able to hear it. It was amazing.
And you know what was even more amazing? Several minutes later, we were talking about Lil Wooly's heart rate, and I discovered that even though I hadn't counted it when I had the headphones on, I could recreate it in my head so accurately that I could figure it out. I timed myself for fifteen seconds. 37 beats. Stephanie put the monitor on again, found Lil Wooly, and timed it. 37 beats. 148 beats per minute. Just as it has been. I just replayed it in my head and timed myself with a stop watch. 37 beats. It's like it's burned into my brain. Pretty cool stuff.
By the way, I sacked away some major points today. The NFL playoffs were on, and I didn't watch one single down. Nope. Today we watched Summer Catch, Cheaper by the Dozen, Failure to Launch, and The Wedding Planner. All of them. I shit you not. That's got to be worth, like, a 36-hour guys trip to Tunica.
Oh, Wendy's. I think Wendy's was the cause of our first fight. And maybe our second and third fights as well. Wendy's is what helped me discover that my wife can be truly neurotic about a damn cheeseburger. Stephanie is very particular about Wendy's. She orders a Jr. Cheeseburger, plain. Small order of fries, medium Dr. Pepper. Every time. That in itself isn't so neurotic...just slightly strange. Indeed, it makes it easy to remember her order when she calls and asks me to pick Wendy's up on my way home. EXCEPT WE MUST EAT WENDY'S INSIDE THE RESTAURANT. This is non-negotiable. On the very rare occasion that I persuade her into getting Wendy's to go, she changes her order. Eat-in, she wants a cheeseburger and fries. To-go, caesar salad. I know.
Why such madness? Why can't she eat a burger and fries from Wendy's in her own damn house? Because "it tastes better inside the restaurant". One day, I had had enough and I pressed her until she gave me the reason. It's the ketchup. She likes to dip her Wendy's fries in the souffle cup full of room temperature ketchup taken from the ketchup pump at the condiment station. This is why, when she wants Wendy's, I have to drive directly PAST the restaurant after work, pick her up from our house, and then proceed back. Because our ketchup is "different". Holy hell. I got exasperated again just typing that mess out.
So maybe she doesn't have any cravings because it's just logistically impossible to get any weirder about food. Maybe she's at 100% quirkiness regarding food when she doesn't have a tiny human growing inside of her.
----------------
So, I was able to hear Lil Wooly's heartbeat for the first time today! I came into the bedroom and Stephanie was using the fetal heart monitor she bought to try and find Lil Wooly's heartbeat. We've had it for probably a month and have had zero success finding Lil Wooly. HER heartbeat is easy to find, however, so when she put her finger to her pulse this morning I figured she'd be disappointed again.
When she took the headphones off and handed them to me, however, I realized she wasn't disappointed at all. I slipped them on and for the first time heard our baby's heart beating. This wasn't a line on a pee stick or a speck on a picture Stephanie brought home... this was my baby's heart beating in the here-and-now, and I was able to hear it. It was amazing.
And you know what was even more amazing? Several minutes later, we were talking about Lil Wooly's heart rate, and I discovered that even though I hadn't counted it when I had the headphones on, I could recreate it in my head so accurately that I could figure it out. I timed myself for fifteen seconds. 37 beats. Stephanie put the monitor on again, found Lil Wooly, and timed it. 37 beats. 148 beats per minute. Just as it has been. I just replayed it in my head and timed myself with a stop watch. 37 beats. It's like it's burned into my brain. Pretty cool stuff.
By the way, I sacked away some major points today. The NFL playoffs were on, and I didn't watch one single down. Nope. Today we watched Summer Catch, Cheaper by the Dozen, Failure to Launch, and The Wedding Planner. All of them. I shit you not. That's got to be worth, like, a 36-hour guys trip to Tunica.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Stephanie has a thing for nicknames.
Much to my chagrin, I have been her primary target for the past few years. I have probably had more nicknames than we have had dates. I think it all started when she mistakenly thought for a period of time that I was a black girl and started calling me "Boo". I morphed from human to bear during a brief stint as "Boo Boo" and then became a singular body part, "Booty". As of late, it appears she has settled on the funkadelic "Bootsy". Awful.
Thankfully, she has an entire new person to come up with nicknames for! Since we don't know the sex of the baby yet, and saying "it" is so impersonal, Stephanie has taken to calling the fetus "Lil Wooly". By far her best effort ever on the nickname front. She says it in an exaggerated babytalk voice, too. If it weren't so fun to say yourself, hearing her say it would be annoying. But it's not. It's awesome.
So we have a whole Wooly Family. Lil Wooly. Mama Wooly. Callie the Calico is now Wooly Cat. Me? I'm Big Wooly. And when I get down, I do it Big Wooly Style. Na na na na na na na! I cannot believe that with all the truly awful nicknames I've had in my life, nobody ever came up with Big Wooly. I love it.
Isn't it amazing that this thing inside Stephanie, which is currently the size of a lime, is already a part of our family? We aren't a couple anymore, we are a family unit, and I hope we become more entrenched as one with every day that passes.
Much to my chagrin, I have been her primary target for the past few years. I have probably had more nicknames than we have had dates. I think it all started when she mistakenly thought for a period of time that I was a black girl and started calling me "Boo". I morphed from human to bear during a brief stint as "Boo Boo" and then became a singular body part, "Booty". As of late, it appears she has settled on the funkadelic "Bootsy". Awful.
Thankfully, she has an entire new person to come up with nicknames for! Since we don't know the sex of the baby yet, and saying "it" is so impersonal, Stephanie has taken to calling the fetus "Lil Wooly". By far her best effort ever on the nickname front. She says it in an exaggerated babytalk voice, too. If it weren't so fun to say yourself, hearing her say it would be annoying. But it's not. It's awesome.
So we have a whole Wooly Family. Lil Wooly. Mama Wooly. Callie the Calico is now Wooly Cat. Me? I'm Big Wooly. And when I get down, I do it Big Wooly Style. Na na na na na na na! I cannot believe that with all the truly awful nicknames I've had in my life, nobody ever came up with Big Wooly. I love it.
Isn't it amazing that this thing inside Stephanie, which is currently the size of a lime, is already a part of our family? We aren't a couple anymore, we are a family unit, and I hope we become more entrenched as one with every day that passes.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Monday, January 4, 2009
The first day of work back in the new year officially signifies the end of the Christmas Holiday. We have been going so much the past month that I haven't had any time to blog, here or at The South End Zone But, so help me, I will do better. With football season over, I'm going to focus on this site and chronicle the growth of my child inside Stephanie the best way I know how: irreverent wit, smoldering charm, and lots and lots of poking fun at my incredible wife.
We told our family over Christmas, and that was so much fun. We threw a birthday party for Stephanie's dad at our house, and put a picture of Steph's first ultrasound in an ornament and hung it on the tree, but we didn't announce anything. Not one single person noticed. Dammit! We were really hoping somebody would.
So, on Christmas Day, my mom and my sister and her family come over to have lunch with Stephanie's family, and I sneak the ornament in and put it on Debbye's (Steph's mom) tree. After lunch, we position our mothers in front of the tree (and the STILL unseen ornament) for a picture.
Stephanie focuses the camera and tells them to smile on three.
"One!"
"Two!"
"I'm pregnant!"
*click*
In a perfect world, the picture would reflect their surprise. Debbye teared up the wonderful way that Debbye tears up... which is the same way that Stephanie tears up when watching The Notebook, or reruns of Extreme Makeover Home Edition... or that commercial for Travelers Insurance with the dog trying to find a place to bury his bone and the Ray LaMontagne song playing in the background. My mom looks absolutely surprised, then breaks into a huge smile. And then, without any choreography, Debbye moves to hug her son-in-law before she moves to hug her youngest daughter, and my mom moves to hug her daughter-in-law before she moves to hug her youngest son. It was a really, really special moment in my life.
And this would be a great place to put that picture. If it turned out, and properly reflected their reaction. I wouldn't know. We haven't looked at it yet. So much for the perfect world.
We told the rest of my family the next day, and then last week, after Stephanie's second visit to the doctor went great and her first trimester started to wind down, we took the social media plunge. Now facebook knows. Lord help.
The onesies have started rolling in. Hurrah, hurrah.
We told our family over Christmas, and that was so much fun. We threw a birthday party for Stephanie's dad at our house, and put a picture of Steph's first ultrasound in an ornament and hung it on the tree, but we didn't announce anything. Not one single person noticed. Dammit! We were really hoping somebody would.
So, on Christmas Day, my mom and my sister and her family come over to have lunch with Stephanie's family, and I sneak the ornament in and put it on Debbye's (Steph's mom) tree. After lunch, we position our mothers in front of the tree (and the STILL unseen ornament) for a picture.
Stephanie focuses the camera and tells them to smile on three.
"One!"
"Two!"
"I'm pregnant!"
*click*
In a perfect world, the picture would reflect their surprise. Debbye teared up the wonderful way that Debbye tears up... which is the same way that Stephanie tears up when watching The Notebook, or reruns of Extreme Makeover Home Edition... or that commercial for Travelers Insurance with the dog trying to find a place to bury his bone and the Ray LaMontagne song playing in the background. My mom looks absolutely surprised, then breaks into a huge smile. And then, without any choreography, Debbye moves to hug her son-in-law before she moves to hug her youngest daughter, and my mom moves to hug her daughter-in-law before she moves to hug her youngest son. It was a really, really special moment in my life.
And this would be a great place to put that picture. If it turned out, and properly reflected their reaction. I wouldn't know. We haven't looked at it yet. So much for the perfect world.
We told the rest of my family the next day, and then last week, after Stephanie's second visit to the doctor went great and her first trimester started to wind down, we took the social media plunge. Now facebook knows. Lord help.
The onesies have started rolling in. Hurrah, hurrah.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Monday, December 7, 2009
Man! Things have been busy. Let's play catch up.Thanksgiving... I got a little fatter. Okay. Considerably fatter.
LSU game... we lose. Boo. I made crawfish jambalaya, and it was awesome. Yay.
The Monday after Thanksgiving weekend, Stephanie went to see the doctor for the first time. I didn't go, because she wasn't expecting them to do much more than a pelvic exam and I want to be able to go to later visits without using too much sick time.
So I didn't go. And of course, she had an ultrasound. That's her uterus, up there. And inside it is a little person. See the dark blob that looks like a Zol from Legend of Zelda? Yeah, that's not it. See the tiny white blob inside the dark blob? There it is! That tiny white blob is our baby! I think. Pretty sure, at least.
Stephanie also informed me that she was able to hear the heartbeat. Apparently this is a big deal and a lot of times you can't hear the heartbeat this early. But she could!
"Babe, I could hear the heartbeat!"
"Really?????"
"Yeah! 147 beats a minute."
"OH MY GOD!!!!
"... ... ... "
"What was wrong??? Was everything okay???"
"Yeah, 147 is where it is supposed to be at. That's normal."
"Hey, why don't you volunteer that kind of info a little sooner next time."
Soooo... the baby is healthy, and the mommy is healthy and starting to do a little better with the morning sickness. Apparently this is a misnomer, too. She was sick all the time...really less so during the morning. At least around me. Hopefully the current trend continues.
The pregnancy question is past the point of ridiculous. My work Christmas party was this past weekend, and Stephanie was asked if she was pregnant by a woman that I work with who has seen her literally four times in two years. Simply because she wasn't drinking. What kind of vibe are we giving off that we have spawned? I think her sister is more and more suspicious each day. There is no way we make it to Christmas, which is a shame.
One thought we've had is to take a picture of the sonogram and put it in a picture ornament on our Christmas tree and see if anyone notices... I really, really like this idea, although I seriously doubt that anybody WOULD notice. Who really inspects somebody else's Christmas tree up close?
I want to start reading the What to Expect book. Like, I have kind of been beating myself up about not starting it and instead reading a book about beer written by George Wendt. I mean, Seth Rogan freaking read the What to Expect book... I should really get on it. I know nothing about what is going on inside Stephanie's uterus, even though it's one-half mine. I'm talking about the baby. Not her uterus. That's all hers. I want none of it. But the baby is half me, and I need to learn more about it.
I got $100 in gift cards from Barnes and Noble for my birthday. I read voraciously, and I get gift cards to bookstores on just about every gift-giving occasion. I never in a million years imagined I'd be using the gift cards I received on my 28th birthday on books about becoming a parent.
Never in a trillion would I imagine being so excited about it.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Sunday, November 22, 2009
What a busy weekend.
Yesterday was my birthday, and also the last home Razorback football game of the year. The game was early... 11:21a.m., so Steph and I got up around 7:30, went to breakfast with family and friends, and then headed to the game. Later, a large group went out to dinner to celebrate my birthday.
Two sizable challenges to keeping Stephanie's pregnancy a secret crammed into one day. Fortunately, the early game kept people from asking Steph why she wasn't drinking while we tailgated. Dinner seemed like a tougher challenge, but I'm not sure anyone noticed. If they did, I don't recall anyone asking. Next week is Thanksgiving. And then on Saturday we are hosting a watch party at our house for the Hogs' season finale against LSU. And on Sunday we are hosting a belated birthday party for me and Shayna, Stephanie's cousin. She doesn't drink much, but at some point somebody is going to notice that they haven't seen her with an alcoholic drink in weeks, and ask the question. Especially how the two of us having children seems to be the hot topic for anyone who talks to us these days.
Assuming we make it to Christmas, Stephanie found a great idea for a way to break the news to our families. Expressing the need for a family picture, Stephanie will ask me to take a picture of her family with our camera. After counting to three and taking the first one, I will ask to take one more. On the second picture, I will replace "three" with "Stephanie is pregnant!" and get a picture of their reaction. We will repeat this trick with my family and Stephanie taking the picture, and hopefully I can get them posted here.
I expect the picture to look like this. Stephanie's mom will have her hands over her mouth and working up some tears. Her dad will be smiling with shock. And her sister will be pointing at her, her mouth open in the process of yelling "I KNEW IT!!"
As for my family, I expect my sister to have the same response as Stephanie's sister. My brother will laugh, unsure of whether it's a joke or not. My mom will look totally surprised, and my dad will look confused.
That's the fearless prediction, at least. We'll see if I get any of them right.
-------------------------------------------------------------
As far as the actual pregnancy, things are going well, I suppose. She feels sick to her stomach a lot. Like, she probably tells me that every single day. I'm sure most of this is due to the pregnancy, but she is admittedly a little wussy about being sick anyway. I can see how she might be psyching herself into not feeling well sometimes simply because she's pregnant. Regardless of the cause, she's done really well about not being insufferable about it. I show her some sympathy, and ask her if I can do anything, and that's usually that. She toughs through it, and I really respect that.
She has a doctor's appointment the Monday after Thanksgiving, and I am really looking forward to that. I think the gravity of things will probably hit me at that time. It still has a surreal quality to it, because nothing is happening to me, and she's still acting so...so... normal.
I'm ready to feel involved in this thing, too, and I think that's what the doctor's visit will accomplish. At least, I much prefer it than for her to start acting like a crazy pregnant woman.
Yesterday was my birthday, and also the last home Razorback football game of the year. The game was early... 11:21a.m., so Steph and I got up around 7:30, went to breakfast with family and friends, and then headed to the game. Later, a large group went out to dinner to celebrate my birthday.
Two sizable challenges to keeping Stephanie's pregnancy a secret crammed into one day. Fortunately, the early game kept people from asking Steph why she wasn't drinking while we tailgated. Dinner seemed like a tougher challenge, but I'm not sure anyone noticed. If they did, I don't recall anyone asking. Next week is Thanksgiving. And then on Saturday we are hosting a watch party at our house for the Hogs' season finale against LSU. And on Sunday we are hosting a belated birthday party for me and Shayna, Stephanie's cousin. She doesn't drink much, but at some point somebody is going to notice that they haven't seen her with an alcoholic drink in weeks, and ask the question. Especially how the two of us having children seems to be the hot topic for anyone who talks to us these days.
Assuming we make it to Christmas, Stephanie found a great idea for a way to break the news to our families. Expressing the need for a family picture, Stephanie will ask me to take a picture of her family with our camera. After counting to three and taking the first one, I will ask to take one more. On the second picture, I will replace "three" with "Stephanie is pregnant!" and get a picture of their reaction. We will repeat this trick with my family and Stephanie taking the picture, and hopefully I can get them posted here.
I expect the picture to look like this. Stephanie's mom will have her hands over her mouth and working up some tears. Her dad will be smiling with shock. And her sister will be pointing at her, her mouth open in the process of yelling "I KNEW IT!!"
As for my family, I expect my sister to have the same response as Stephanie's sister. My brother will laugh, unsure of whether it's a joke or not. My mom will look totally surprised, and my dad will look confused.
That's the fearless prediction, at least. We'll see if I get any of them right.
-------------------------------------------------------------
As far as the actual pregnancy, things are going well, I suppose. She feels sick to her stomach a lot. Like, she probably tells me that every single day. I'm sure most of this is due to the pregnancy, but she is admittedly a little wussy about being sick anyway. I can see how she might be psyching herself into not feeling well sometimes simply because she's pregnant. Regardless of the cause, she's done really well about not being insufferable about it. I show her some sympathy, and ask her if I can do anything, and that's usually that. She toughs through it, and I really respect that.
She has a doctor's appointment the Monday after Thanksgiving, and I am really looking forward to that. I think the gravity of things will probably hit me at that time. It still has a surreal quality to it, because nothing is happening to me, and she's still acting so...so... normal.
I'm ready to feel involved in this thing, too, and I think that's what the doctor's visit will accomplish. At least, I much prefer it than for her to start acting like a crazy pregnant woman.
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