A few weeks ago Jake and I were talking with a fellow preggo couple about whether or not to find out the sex of our babies. Neither one of them (the other couple, that is) had too strong of an opinion on the matter, so the preggo mama told me she was going to let her husband decide whether or not they’d find out because, “I get to do everything else for this pregnancy… I want him to get to decide something.” Wow. She is so way more mature than I am.
She is also, by the way, planning to give birth in a bathtub with her husband in there with her, massaging her back as she eases her child out (sans epidural) into a soothing pool of warm water. Suffice it to say, finding out the sex is not the only preggo decision on which we differ.
Jake, however, would surely trade me in for her in a heartbeat if it meant he could know for sure a mini Panthers jersey would be an appropriate “home from the hospital” outfit for our little one. But I think he’d lie like a rug about his swimming abilities, just to avoid that whole bathtub situation…
Speaking of my baby daddy, I asked him to write a “He Said” guest-blog post for a “He Said/She Said” about whether or not to find out the sex of our baby. I think at first he thought there was a chance my mind could be changed on the matter. Bless his heart. Still… good sport that he is, he wrote one anyway. And it’s so dang cute and self-deprecating I don’t even have the heart to write the “She Said” version because… well, he kinda covers my side too. It’s things like this that make me love this man. So much that I’d almost consider caving and finding out what we’re having on our next visit. Almost. But not quite. I’m sticking to my inconsiderate guns on this one and banking heavily on the fact that it’ll be worth the wait.
But as you know, I’m not the only one with an opinion here. So here’s what “He Said:” Continue reading
Gueeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeest blooooooooooooooog!!!!! I feel like I need to yell that out every time I jump on here a la Missy Elliot on a remix track. It’s good to be back. Page, thank you for having me back.
Let’s get right into this – check out the picture to your right – we got it yesterday from our latest doc visit. I dare you to show me a funnier ultrasound picture. Yes, that’s the Lil’ Flinglet curling up its arm and kissing its well-defined left bicep. You can’t make this stuff up. I don’t think it would be that funny to me if it wasn’t such a spitting image of its father. That’s right – I am “Crazy Bicep Man.”
Let me give you a little back story. I don’t lift weights. I may “go to the gym,” but the extent of it is about 30 minutes on the treadmill. The last time I lifted weights was at our old place in Hoboken when I used our new member free training session coupon. Fifteen minutes into the session I puked. Seriously. My trainer was floored. He offered me a make-up session for free. I passed. Then I went home and passed out. In college, however, to keep up with some buddies who lifted weights, I would tag along and put in a “workout.” It wasn’t until about the third or fourth visit like this that a friend of mine looked over and asked, “are you doing another arm workout?” I didn’t know how to respond. Yes, I happened to be doing my 81st set of free-weight curls, but, well, that’s all I knew how to do. My buddy looked at me, looked at my pathetic workout technique and wannabe arms and said, “who are you, Crazy Bicep Man?”
Years later, my biceps are neither crazy nor manly. I may have strung together three years of arm toning-only gym visits, but I have nothing to show for it. My offspring sure does, though! Look at him…her…it!?! Amazing. Little did I know that all those curls would drop its signature on my DNA, only to reemerge when “Lil’ Bicep It” was set to come into the world. Sigh…
OK, I’m off. Now, if you’ll excuse me… I need to get back to curling my rolodex.
[waving, fake smiling, waving some more, reaching to shake Page's hand, asking her if I "can call her Joe?" waving some more, sitting down at the computer]
OK, so I’m guest blogging. Happy to be here.
First let me say how floored I still am that I’m about to be a Dad. Holy crap. Six months ago, while crowing along with them in the car, I was innocently debating things like who would win in a song-off, JoJo or Kelly Clarkson (and by six months ago I mean this morning), and now I’m following up blog posts about babymoons and sonogramed double-chins. When did all of this happen?
Well, actually, I know exactly when all of this went down. It was indeed about six months ago, the lights were low, Shai was bumpin’ on the alarm clock radio, and Page and I were…well…ooooooh, dada, do, da do…ooooooh…ahem.
Holy crap. Continue reading