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

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.

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

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

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

Lil Wooly has a lil willy!

We experience firsts every single day.  Some are surprising, while others are expected.  Some firsts are let downs, and others live up to anxious expectations.  While firsts are probably more memorable than seconds or thirds or five hundredths, the vast majority of firsts are generally pretty forgettable as well.  Oh, sure, some stick with us...some stand out.  But relatively few.  Rarer still are those moments, those experiences, those firsts that we know will stay with us forever.  Last Thursday was my first visit to the Cornerstone Clinic for Women in Little Rock, Arkansas, and it was a first of the highest magnitude.

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.

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