Bed Rest, Episode 5: Spiderman Saves The Day

Spiderman is off to save the day. And stay dry.

Bed Rest, Day 12

Baby’s Gestational Age: 29 weeks

Reading: Steve Jobs biography; assorted magazines; progress limited by constant “knock, knock” from hospital personnel

Watching: Arrested Development, Season 1; The Big C, Season 1; see above.

Bed Rest.

Mom guilt.

Internet shopping.

It’s a lethal combination.

A coupe of days ago, a product of this dangerous mix arrived in the familiar brown amazon.com box (if you’re a stay-at-home mom, this visual is not hard for you to conjure) and was immediately presented that night at the hospital to an eager, 4-year-old Spiderman obsessive.

Which probably describes every 4-year-old boy.

Who needs saving here?

Asher immediately disrobed where he was standing (as he’s prone to do) with a typical lack of modesty, put the costume on and proceeded to yell “RAWR” at both me and at himself in the mirror for the next hour or so.

I didn’t say he actually understood what Spiderman is.

Moments later, Gabe and I stopped in mid-conversation to cover our faces and laugh, while Asher rubbed the built-in fake chest muscles in his costume with both hands, saying, “I got BIG boobies!”

He refused to take the costume off when it was time to leave, so he wore it home.

And then he wore it back to the hospital the next night.

With froggy rain boots.

He’s a creative kid, with his own sense of style. And we’re totally down with it.

To illustrate the craziness of our lives right now, Spidey fell asleep in the car on the way here. And this is a kid who, when we go to gatherings, is easily and always the last kid standing, with all the others passed out wherever they fall. Even at midnight.

He’s a night person, like his father.

Superheros need sleep too.

I like to imagine the reactions of all the people he passed in the maze of hallways on the way to my hospital room, dressed in full Spiderman regalia, mask and all.

It makes me happy.

And a little sad. Because I’m usually the person who runs him all around town dressed in something quirky.

But I’ll do that again eventually. Only this time I’ll be carrying a baby in a sling too.

I wonder if they make newborn superhero costumes?

Now it’s Friday afternoon, and sunset is approaching, and I’m waiting for Spiderman to come and save the day.

Both of my guys are showing off their superhero leanings, each in their own way.

Maybe I should go online right now and order a custom cape for myself.

A girl doesn’t want to be left out.

Super-incubator?

Lacks pizzazz.

But it’ll do until I think up something better.

Bed Rest, Episode 4: Top Ten Things Not To Say To A Person On Hospital Bed Rest

Bed Rest, Day 10

Baby’s Gestational Age: 28 weeks, 5 days

Reading: Steve Jobs biography; assorted magazines

Watching: Arrested Development, Season 1; The Big C, Season 1

Being constantly thwarted watching: The View

Not watching because the hospital doesn’t have a channel they really, absolutely, definitely should have: Bravo

Say WHAT?

Since there seem to be so many people out there who are clearly devoid of a filter and/or who have no idea when to shut their pie-holes, here is a (noncomprehensive) list of things not to say to a person who’s confined to their hospital bed.

Use it as a jumping off point.

You’re bound to think I made some of these up for comedic effect but I want to assure you that each and every one of them has been said to me in the last 10 days.

Yes, even #1.

And #2.

And to the person who said #3. You know who you are. And you bet your ass I’m gonna get even with you one day.

Top 10 Things NOT to Say To A Person on Hospital Bed Rest

10. It is a BEAUTIFUL day outside.

9. You wouldn’t believe the steak I had last night.

8. What a great opportunity to catch up on your TV!

7. At least you don’t have to worry about going to the gym.

6. Wow. You’re not gonna see your dogs for months.

5. You must really miss your bed at home.

4. How are you? (Slight pause) Weeelllll, I’ve got the flu again.

3. I just had 2 Patron shots in your honor.

2. Is the baby gonna have a lot of problems if he’s born this early?

1. I’m pretty sure I got MERSA when I was in the hospital.

Bed Rest, Episode 3: Groundhog Day

Bed Rest, Day 8

Baby’s Gestational Age: 28 weeks, 3 days

Reading: Steve Jobs biography
Watching: Arrested Development, Season 1; The Big C, Season 1

This qualifies as sunshine.

Somewhere between 7:30 and 8am: Knock, knock. A nurse comes in to take my blood pressure, pulse and temperature, scanning my bracelet like a bag of sugar at the grocery store. She gets me a new pitcher of water and reminds me to drink a lot of fluids.

“Ride” bed back to sitting position, get up and go to the bathroom (remind self to never take standing up and walking for granted again). Get back in bed.

Knock, knock. Nurse’s aid enters and asks me how I’m doing today. Offers to bring me things. Tells me to let her know when I wanna shower so she can change the bed linens while I do. Calls me honey or darling or sweetie.

Knock, knock. Nurse comes in to give me a little cup of colorful pills — antibiotics, prenatal vitamins, stool softeners. Where are the happy pills? I deserve some happy pills. Scans me like box of Twinkies and leaves.

Knock, knock. Breakfast arrives. TGICoffee. Turn on Today Show to find out what’s going on in the world outside my little box.

Scan me like a bag of donut holes

Knock. Knock. Someone comes in to sanitize the room.

La la la, la la la, la la la la la la la. Lullaby plays over the intercom while new father wheels his newborn from delivery to the nursery for the first time.

Knock, knock. Nurse comes in and squeezes goop on my belly. Cold goop. Attaches fetal heart monitor. Must stay put for the next hour while they get a reading. Nurse leaves. Immediately need to pee.

Knock, knock. A doctor enters and asks me a few quick questions, listens to my heartbeat, is either grumpy and short, or smiles a bit and is short. Says something like, “Keep on doing what you’re doing,” and leaves. Total time in room: anywhere from 2 minutes to 3 minutes. Mental note: start asking unnecessary questions just to get money’s worth.

Ohhh. I have to pee.

TV off. Open Steve Jobs biography. Read one sentence.

Knock, knock. Someone comes in to take my breakfast tray.

Try to focus on Steve Jobs again.

Need to pee. Need to pee.

Phone rings and someone from the cafeteria asks me what I want for lunch. Sigh. Something not from the cafeteria. That’s what I want.

Steve Jobs. Pee. Steve Jobs. Pee pee. Steve Jobs. Pee pee. Pee pee.

My decorated hospital room door. Not really familiar with what's outside of it.

Knock, knock. Nurse comes in to take fetal heart monitor off.

Run to bathroom before she can even wipe goop off belly. Pee with abandon.

Back to bed. Back to reclining. Unnnnggggnnnnggggggnnnnggggg, groans the bed.

Knock, knock. Nurse’s aid brings towels, starts shower for me. Standing up for a few minutes under hot running water is like a gift from heaven. It’s like a chocolate lava cupcake still warm from the oven. With a glass of cold milk. There will be a day when I take showers for granted again. It won’t be today.

11:00am: The View comes on. The only daytime show I like.

Knock, knock. Someone enters whose main two purposes seem to be collecting my garbage and talking to me about The View while I try to watch The View. I am too nice to ask said person to be quiet. Wonder why the person who sanitized the room didn’t just take the garbage with her. Seems like that would solve a lot of problems.

Between 12:00 and 1:00: A cheerful person brings my lunch tray in, places it on my tray table, and says, “Have a nice day.” Leaves. I look at the food and sigh. Try not to think about the fact that there are more than 6 entrees out there, in the world.

La la la, la la la, la la la la la la la. Another baby hits the halls.

Put ipad away. Try magazine instead. Learn that Blake Lively looks better in red Dolce and Gabbana dress than Demi Moore. Who is Blake Lively? Eh, who cares? What really matters is who does Demi Moore’s work? It’s good work. Very good. I want it.

Knock, knock. Nurse comes in to take my blood pressure, pulse and temperature, scans me like a gallon of milk.

Turn page of magazine, eager to find out how celebs are “just like us.”

Knock, knock. Person enters to take my lunch tray away.

Knock, knock. Nurse comes in to give me a little cup of nonfun pills. Where are the happy pills? I want some happy pills. Scans me like a zucchini and leaves.

Bed up. Walk to bathroom. Wash hands. Take 22 steps total. Back in bed.

La la la, la la la, la la la la la la la. Man, people are shooting out the babies up in here.

Things get quiet. Pull out laptop and try to connect with the world. Not metaphysically. Mostly facebook-ly. And email-ly. Write. Read. Maybe watch an ep of The C Word. It’s good for the perspective.

Sigh. Shift. Push buttons to move bed up and down. Shift some more. Think about ass spreading. Sigh noisily. Think beyond today. Start to panic a little. Use mental toughness to push it aside. Say to self, “No matter how bad you have it, someone always has it worse.” Would say to self, “At least the baby is okay” but no need. Someone else says it to me at least twenty times per day.

Ride bed back up from reclining to sitting position. Slip on flops and go to the bathroom again. Wonder how standing and walking to the bathroom can start to seem like a chore — what was that I said about not taking standing and walking for granted? 22 steps. Back in bed.

Sun starts to set. Look out at multi-dimensional roof view. Feel lonely. And sad. Think about the next day, the next week, the next month. Panic. Push it aside. Remember hubs and son are coming to visit soon. And I’ve almost made it through another day. Small goals.

Putting the bed in bed rest.

Between 6:00 and 7:00: Knock, knock. Dinner tray comes in. I look at food and sigh. Or rather, do a combination sigh/raspberry thing with my lips, kinda like “Pbpbttpbbpbbthhhhh.”

Wonder why hospital tray tables are not standard items people have by their beds at home. They really should be. Handy things, these. Put everything right at your fingertips so you don’t have to get up off your lazy ass at all. Hmmm. Maybe not such a good idea outside of hospitals.

Knock, knock. Nurse comes in to give me a little cup of o’ pills. Couldn’t we mix this up a little? Get me some happy pills. Pleeeaase? Scans me like a Lean Cuisine and leaves.

La la la, la la la, la la la la la la la. Overpopulation might be a real issue.

Gabe and Asher arrive. Asher opens hospital room door, beams and says, “MOMMY! We here!” Best part of my day.

Knock, knock. Nurse comes in to take my blood pressure, pulse and temperature, scans me like a deli chicken. Hooks me back up to the fetal heart monitor for the next hour. Leaves. Oops. Need to pee.

Asher hands me a drawing of a turtle for my room, puts his hand on my tummy and yells, “Hello, baby brother!” through my belly button, goes potty and pushes up a chair to the sink to wash his hands. Uses way too much soap. Splashes water all over the floor. Asks for the ipad. Says he needs to potty again within 5 minutes just so he can wash his hands again. Too much soap. Splashes water. Puts paper plates all over the room and serves “pancakes” made with pretend eggs, orange juice, strawberries and bananas. Yells over Gabe and I whenever we try to talk to each other.

I need to pee.

Gabe gets in the bed with me, avoiding the cords. Tells me about his day. I tell him I need to pee. Asher gets too wound up, gets loud. We say, “Shhhh, babies are trying to sleep.”

Time for them to go.

Asher climbs aboard my “space ship” to ride it to the moon. Unnngggghhhhhggggnnn. Unnggghhhnnnnnnggggnnnn. He bends me like a pipe cleaner. Maybe not so good for the baby. But it’s only once a day. Unnggghhhnnnnnnnhhgggnnnnnn. Together we count, “5-4-3-2-1, BLASTOFF.”

They leave, blowing kisses in the doorway and saying, “I love you. See you tomorrow.”

I smile. The door closes. I sigh. I feel sad for a minute. Then I realize I’ve more or less made it through another day. And The Bachelor is waiting for me, rose in hand. Or American Idol with a golden ticket. Or Glee with a slushy in the face. Because whether I wanted to last week or not — this week, I’m sure as hell gonna watch it all.

I watch TV.

I turn my white noise machine as loud as it’ll go. I hug my big-ass body pillow. I turn the lights out. Which you can also do from your bed. Eventually I go to sleep.

At least twice in the middle of the night, a nurse opens my door about a foot, letting the light from the hallway flood in, and just kind of looks at me from the doorway, presumably to see if I’m still alive. I shield my eyes, thereby proving said aliveness. She closes the door and leaves.

And, I’m awake.

Couldn’t I just buzz the desk a couple of times when I get up to pee instead? “Uh, yeah. I’m alive. Just so you know.”

La la la, la la la, la la la la la la la. An unpredictable number of times during the night. Hear it while half asleep. Dream I had twins, triples, quadruplets. Dream I am a baby again. Dream I am not in the hospital.

Between 7:30 and 8am: Knock, knock. A nurse comes in to take my blood pressure, pulse and temperature. Scans me like a bag of Cheetos.

I am in the hospital.

For at least one more day.

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

You get it. Groundhog Day.

Bed Rest, Episode 2: So This Is Bed Rest.

Hanging in there on the 5th full day.

Bed rest: Day 5.

It’s a mind game.

If you think beyond the day ahead, you will lose your shit.

Sometimes my mind starts to drift towards the day after tomorrow, or next week, or next month.

Or March.

And I feel panic rising rapidly.

Much like the water in a clogged toilet.

Exactly like that.

But then I squash it.

Because it’s counterproductive to freak yourself out. Or let yourself be freaked out.

To put it mildly.

It’s been 5 days. And counting.

That’s (hopefully) a drop in the bucket.

I may lose it for few seconds here and there.

But I’ll get it back.

Bed rest is a mind game.

And I’m gonna be a badass at this game.

This is my view. It's multidimensional. If you like roofs.

Asher's favorite activity in my hospital room. At least he has good hygiene.

Where Asher thinks Gabe's "stinky" shoe can best air out.

Asher's self-portrait using ipad's photo booth.

Bed Rest. The Pilot Episode.

A picture Asher took of his dinosaur humping his backpack in my hospital room. Because I have nothing better to show you.

This past Sunday, something really, really, very unexpected happened.

My water broke. At only 27 weeks.

When I realized something was going on, there was the rush to the emergency room and pretty quickly the realization that I was not going back home any time soon.

Then the focus became just making sure the baby stays where he is for as long as he can.

So far, so good.

This is my 4th full day of bed rest with no contractions and no signs of infection.

So we’re hoping, best case scenario, to get this baby to at least 34 weeks before he comes out.

Which means at least 6 weeks of hospital bed rest for me.

Something I never contemplated.

Ever, ever, ever, ever, ever.

That when I left my house in a panic on Sunday afternoon, I would not be coming back for up to 2 months.

That I would not smell fresh air for that long.

That I would not pick my kid up from school.

Or see my dogs.

Or, say…walk around.

I am required to sit on my ass in this hospital bed all day, and all night, only getting up to go to the bathroom.

I can feel it spreading as we speak.

My ass, that is.

But we are lucky.

The baby is holding his own, the amniotic leak has slowed, my mother-in-law has dropped everything to come here and take care of Asher, and my husband is the most amazing juggler in the world.

So I am the least of my concerns.

I just have to take it one day at a time.

So herein begins: Bed Rest. The series.

Consider this the pilot episode.

I sure hope they get funnier.

Hide(ish) and Seek(ish)

A few days ago, I was caught up in yet another game of what I like to call Hide(ish) and Seek(ish) with Asher.

Playing this game is not hard, depending upon what you consider hard.

Finding him is hard only in the sense that I have to waste some time pretending not to see him before I “find” him.

Hide(ish)

This photo actually depicts rather advanced hiding compared to his old techniques, which involved going back to hide in exactly the same place over and over and over again every single time it was his turn.

Or just standing on our stairs and crouching a bit.

Another intriguing aspect of his method — giggling uncontrollably and saying things like “I’m over here!”

Which he still does.

The hardest part of hiding myself is the stretch of time it sometimes takes to find me if I go beyond the main 3 rooms in which we spend most of our time and in which exist almost all of our hiding experience.

And if I actually make any effort to really hide.

I wait and wait while he scampers all around me, giggling excitedly and missing extremely clear clues about where I am.

Like this one.

Seek(ish)

But he thinks this is fun.

Top rate fun.

And to hear that laugh…

You know the one — that authentic belly laugh — every time he finds me or I find him.

Worth all the time in the world.

No ish about it.

The Celebrity Baby Name Game

My husband I have had nothing but headaches trying to come up with a name for our upcoming baby boy.

We’re almost 28 weeks along, and based on every other pregnant person I’ve encountered, maybe ever, we are already months behind schedule.

I’ve looked through every single name in our 100,000 baby names book, spent hours upon hours looking at crazy lists at nameberry.com, down to Famous Cross-eyed Authors Whose Names Start With The Letter Z.

When it comes to baby names, they’ve got it all at nameberry.

Except apparently what we want.

It’s not even that Gabe and I can’t agree with each other.

We’re both just totally blah about everything.

Our needs aren’t that great. Like most everyone (according to babycenter.com), we just want 2 simple qualities in a baby name: it has to be meaningful to us and it has to be unique.

So why is it so freaking hard?

After struggling to name our son, Asher, 4 1/2 years ago (we were forced to put something on the birth certificate on day 3 just so we could leave the hospital), we now find ourselves experiencing an even greater struggle this go around.

Maybe because we used up the one and only boy name we liked.

Or maybe…maybe we just weren’t thinking far enough outside the box.

But this week, something changed.

Out of the birth canal of Beyonce shot inspiration. Inspiration named Blue Ivy Carter.

And suddenly I had it all figured out — the perfect way to come up with a meaningful-yet-unique baby name.

So follow along with me as we play the Celebrity Baby Name Game.

The first step is to think of your favorite author, book or movie character, musician, plant, animal or place. Write down name(s).

Second, write down your favorite color, number or day of the week.

Don’t be married to the correct spelling of any of these words nor of course, to the rules of the game. If further inspiration strikes in the form of a weirdly spelled occupation or odd capitalization, throw that in too.

Try them out together.

Switch the order around to see which sounds weirder.

Call your personal assistant (or whomever will let you push them around) and tell ‘em to put on a baby bonnet and gurgle at you as you call them by the baby’s potential name for the next 24 hours. Did you hurl your cell phone at your “child” after repeating the name 39 times?

If not, you have yourself a winner.

If necessary, argue with spouse over the merits of Periwinkle versus TuezDay as a middle name.

Cry, pout, compare paychecks and/or latest movie box office receipts.

Get your way.

Sign birth certificate.

Send out press release.

Pat yourself on the back and start juggling magazine offers for Pomegranate Juggler’s first baby photos.

Here are some sterling examples of the Celebrity Baby Name Game in action.

Bear Blu (son of Alicia Silverstone and Christopher Jarecki).

Harper Seven (daughter of Victoria and David Beckham).

Ella Blue (John Travolta and Kelly Preston)

Sunday Rose (daughter of Nicole Kidman and Keith Urban)

Pilot Inspektor (son of Jason Lee and Beth Riesgraf)

Seven Sirius (son of Andre 3000 and Erykah Badu)

Moxie CrimeFighter (daughter of Penn Jillette and wife Emily)

Bronx Mowgli (son of Ashlee Simpson and Pete Wentz)

And of course, Ivy Blue Carter.

Obviously, Blue is a popular meaningful color and therefore destined to be on its way out. Even with the spelling modifications celebrities are surprising us with. Blue, Blue, Blu and Bluer.

Get riskier with Magenta, Burnt Sienna and Turquoise.

Lucky number Seven is getting totally played out too. Se7en isn’t even cutting it.

Let’s try getting into some double digits, even triple digits. Combine your lucky number with your husband’s. You can’t get much more unique than 314 when it comes to baby names.

Or Three14, just for good measure.

Based on this wonderul, inspirational, wacky new game, I’ve come up with the following potential names for the baby I’m currently incubating.

Adam 4 (A shout-out to Adam Duritz of Counting Crows and my lucky number 4). Downside: too close to the name of a crappy old tv show.

AfriKan Violet (A real contender based on the fact that it accomplishes so many nods at once: a plant, a place, a color and an odd capitalization). Downside: having a boy. A white boy.

Saturday Pooh (Favorite day of the week plus a favorite book, “The Tao of Pooh”). Downside: glaringly obvious.

Harlequin Summerof0hFour (My favorite design element plus the first summer I spent with my husband). Downside: sounds like a hippie jester. Will definitely get his ass kicked all four seasons of the year.

Mardi Gras Monday (I’m partial to this one, featuring an event so festive most people cannot remember the vast majority of it the next week and of course, the lovely alliteration). Downside: it’s possible that naming your son after an incredibly drunken, debauched, weeks-long festivity might be a self-fulfilling prophecy that leads to long periods of time in which he cannot be located from his teen years on out.

That’s all I have for now but given a little time, my Celebrity Baby Name Game is sure to produce a winner.

Or a wiener.

Still on the fence on that one.

You’re Beautiful

A couple of days ago, I was sitting at my makeup mirror doing the thing you do when you sit in front of the makeup mirror, and Asher climbed into the chair behind me.

He kept looking into the mirror over my shoulder and laughing about our “big faces” in the magnified mirror.

Then he got quiet for a few seconds and out of the blue suddenly said, “You’re beautiful.”

I turned around to look at him, wondering if I’d understood him correctly, since 3-syllable words can sometimes come out a little, um, creatively.

He touched my face with his little hand and said it again, oh-so-clearly.

“You’re beautiful.”

I’m pregnant and I cry over absolutely nothing right now.

But this? This was something.

This was one of those incredible, touching, pure moments that makes everything else worthwhile.

Even the fact that today, at his very first dental check-up, he turned out to have 3 cavities, despite the fact that we’ve been holding him down and forcibly brushing his teeth since he only had two of them.

I cried about that too.

I didn’t look beautiful.

But my son thinks I do.

Maybe having another boy will be okay after all.

Holiday Mouth

I have a hard time believing the things that come out of people’s pie-holes all year long.

However, this holiday season was extra special for me in that department. Here is a small taste of the things people who were not even drunk actually said to me this holiday season:

*It was about time you got married.

*I guess you’re gonna really have to get on that weight loss thing again in about 3 months.

*Did you get pregnant on purpose? You almost have Asher in school full-time and now you’re gonna start all over, be back in all those diapers, up with a baby all night…I just can’t believe it.

My husband, when asked if he would keep the 1-month-old baby in May so I could go to a music festival with my friend: “I didn’t want another baby anyway.” (I feel compelled to tell you he was kidding, at least about the baby part. I let him live.)

It’s perhaps true that people have said inappropriate things to me every holiday season as long as I’ve lived and maybe I didn’t care so much. After all, this is only the second year ever I’ve had to do it all sober.

In fact, there’s a decent chance that I’ve doled out the holiday mouth to a few people here and there over the years.

But even I am smart enough not to say this crap to a pregnant woman.

Just wait until next year.

Top 10 Sucky Things About Being Married to a Pregnant Woman

Today welcomes a little something new to my blog — my first guest post.

A very old friend, Mike McL, had a strong enough reaction to my last two posts, The Top Ten Sucky Things About Being Pregnant and The Top Ten Sucky Things About Being Pregnant, The Sequel, that he sent me his own version — The Top Ten Sucky Things About Being Married To A Pregnant Woman.

I’d asked my own hubby if he wanted to write something similar and he was justifiably afraid to wade into those waters, especially given #9.

And #15.

Luckily, Mike volunteered.

And was able to easily access all the sucky things about the other side, even though it’s been a few years for him.

He must be deeply scarred.

So here it is.

And if you’re currently pregnant and this makes you weepy or irritable, take it out on your own husband. Mike is in hiding.

Top 10 Sucky Things About Being Married to a Pregnant Woman (by Mike McL)

1. Violent mood swings. Crazy as it seems, that beautiful and sexy woman you married has the strength and stamina of a hungry UFC fighter. During this time she wants things a certain way and if they don’t go her way, hell’s fury will rain down. During our first pregnancy, my wife asked me to vacuum the carpet on a Friday night. I got the vacuum out, but got busy doing something else. Sunday afternoon rolled around and I was parked in front of the TV set watching the Cowboys play – vacuum still in the middle of the living room and carpet still untouched. She asked me again to vacuum the carpet. I told her I would after the game was over. At that moment the skies started turning black, the wind picked up, and Psycho music started playing. This should have tipped me off to what was going to happen next. My beautiful, pregnant bride easily picked up the upright vacuum cleaner with one hand, threw it across the room at me and screamed, “VACUUM THE &%#$*@ CARPET!!!”. She ran out of the room crying and I sat there saying things to myself like “I will be damned someone throws a vacuum cleaner at me and gets away with it,” “Who does she think she is?!?!?”, and “I am married to a crazy bitch!”. Then I vacuumed the carpet for the next 30 minutes.

2. Breastfeeding class. Yep, like many expecting dads I got conned into attending a breastfeeding class on a Saturday, in the fall, during COLLEGE FOOTBALL season. Now, I like boobs as much as the next guy, but come on! 8 hours of instruction and video on how to use these things? I don’t even have them but they seem pretty simple to operate to me. One dad in the class was even asking questions about how his wife should treat her cracked and sore nipples.

3. Compliments that aren’t taken like compliments. Don’t make the mistake of even responding when your wife complains about her body during this period. Just act like you don’t hear it. Any “compliment” you can provide her to make her feel better will be taken out of context and placed in the same category as a quote from Bin Laden. A warning from my personal experience – when walking through the mall, be sure to avoid the trap of “Do I look as pregnant as her?”. The best thing to do in that case is run aimlessly through the mall screaming that your balls are on fire – much less traumatic for you.

4. Baby showers. One of the biggest whips there is. Nothing like going to a party (usually scheduled during a much-anticipated sporting event) with a bunch of people you don’t know, giving you a bunch of shit you could care less about, and NO ALCOHOL to make it all better. Brutal. And you have to sit there and open all the “gifts” and smile like you got the most precious nugget of gold or best bottle of bourbon which incidentally is NOT what you got. And the stories being told – find your happy place and quick. By the third kid, I was like Rain Man at these things.

5. Attending doctor’s visits. It’s something you have to do, but I always felt perverted sitting around a bunch of pregnant woman with my pregnant wife waiting for the scheduled doctor visit (that was an hour late). Then the doctor sits with you for five minutes, tells you everything looks good, and charges your insurance with a full informational office visit.

6. Thinking up a name. Seriously?! Can’t these things be assigned by the government or something? You think for hours on end about what to name this little person that will eventually grow up and tell you that you don’t know shit and sneak your alcohol when you aren’t around, only for you (or someone else) to “change” their name once they appear in this world. My youngest is named Andrew Dalton. The first minute I held him I called him AD. He has been AD ever since and even his friends call him AD. People in the stands at his sporting events call him AD. He signs his papers AD. Someone once asked me how Andrew was doing and I asked, “Who the hell is that?”. I used to practice yelling out the names we discussed in our back yard. If I sounded like a dumb ass, I would push like hell not to pick this name. “Honey, did you see that some dude named Cameron shot 7 people in Dallas then kicked a puppy while he ran from police?”

7. Weird food cravings. Yes, we think it’s fine that you crave hotdogs dipped in Kool-Aid powder, but that doesn’t mean WE want to eat that shit too. And don’t act like our double-meat, double-cheese burger is the most disgusting thing you have ever seen and that you can’t stand the smell of it so we need to eat it somewhere other than the location you are in.

8. Sex. I know this is an easy one, but it has to be listed. We love you very much but contrary to what everyone says there truly is something creepy about doing that whole “thing” with your sweet, precious, unborn infant just a few inches from the nasty probe that caused this whole mess. And the more kids you have, the further you — and sex — slide down the importance scale. By the third kid, I was approximately the 7th priority after the kids, the dogs, and a couple of nice sweaters.

9. Boobs. The good news – this is the coolest thing about a woman’s pregnancy – you get a free preview of what a huge porn star boob job would look like on your wife. The bad news – you can look but don’t touch. Why must God make them so sore at the same time he made them so big? The really bad news is that these beautiful things are for some little runt that won’t even appreciate them and their greatness. Oh, and afterwards, they go away — far, far away.

10. Nightmares. I’m not sure if everyone’s pregnant woman has these but mine would scream at 3am like she was an extra on the Blair Witch Project. I’m not talking a “normal” scream — more of a 30 second guttural, deep throat, building in crescendo, to the point the dogs are flinging themselves under the bed in panic, that pops you straight up from a dead sleep with your heart pounding like you just finished a 400 yard dash and thinking that Jason has just walked into your bedroom with a machete in one hand and a severed head in the other. Only to have her wake up and tell YOU to “BE QUIET! I’M TRYING TO SLEEP, DAMMIT!” Just roll over, Beethoven!