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.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
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.
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