Tag Archives: babies

You want to name him what?

In a couple of months, we will be welcoming our third boy child into the world. The thought of this glorious event is sometimes enough to make me want to run screaming into the night.

Don’t get me wrong; I love the idea of having a third son to share all the love and lumps with. If I can teach my growing brood to annoy, charge, and tackle each other, they will have less time to do those things to me. Plus, in those moments when their demons are sleeping and their testosterone is quieted to a slow simmer, there will be one more example of fleeting sweetness to enjoy for 3-5 minutes fortnightly.

The part that tempts me to share my terror with the neighbors at 2 a.m. has to do with practical matters. Will he eat the groceries we’ve clipped coupons for? Will I ever be alone with my wife again? Did I just push back my retirement until NEVER? Will our Golden Years be constructed of tin and duct tape?

Before getting caught up in these long-term worries, I guess we should tackle the more pressing issues, like deciding upon a name for Baby Number Three that is shorter and more endearing than Baby Number Three.

The first time my wife and I ever put our heads together to think up a baby name, it went swimmingly. We amicably agreed upon the perfect name . . . for a girl. We’ve held onto that name, and the memory of that peaceably-reached agreement, through nearly three boys. The names of the first two were bitter struggles.

99,999 more than we need

How about a book of just one name that we both can agree upon? Imagine all the trees that would save.

Neither of us is above compromise though, which is why our first two sons have names at all. Somehow, we found two boys’ names with which we both can live. I am not certain there are more than two boys’ names with which we both can live. This is why we have not yet bothered to discuss naming the impending child.

We have no desire to enter into that fray again, so we avoid it. This will continue to be a good strategy until that moment when a hospital administrator approaches my wife’s bedside with a clipboard in hand and a gaping blank on her page. Then, the wheeling and dealing will be fast and furious and the result may not be worth the already-spent nine months of peace.

still can't agree on a name

I feel like this whole baby name debate has aged me. (Image: Harris & Ewing)

Fellow Blogger, Don, from Don of All Trades, has hinted that we should name this child after him. While I agree that Don is the perfect name for those already named it, I hesitate to add another one to the population.  Don of All Trades has a catchy ring to it, but there’s hardly room for a middle name, and the kids might shorten it to DOAT, which has an awkward sound to it.

Perhaps we should auction off the naming rights. The proceeds might alleviate some of my other fears and it avoids the fight that’s brewing. Any bidders?

Desensitized to parenthood

We’re waiting for our third child to arrive. We’re waiting passively. It will be a great day when he comes, but we aren’t counting down the weeks. We did that once, and it was fun, but by the third kid, the waiting becomes routine. It doesn’t mean we’ll love him less; it means we know what’s in store for us.

During the first pregnancy, the excitement and nervousness kept us invested in every new development. Most things we couldn’t see; luckily, we had a book to tell us all the changes our unborn child was experiencing. We consulted that book for a Baby Development Review every week. My wife read the progress report aloud while I made amazed comments: “Wow! Our baby has a neck now!”

We always knew how many weeks we had invested and how many we had yet to go. If you’d asked me, “When is your wife due?” I’d have answered, “In sixteen weeks and three days; probably around 9 p.m., I figure.”

Things are different now. I couldn’t find that What’d Your Baby Grow This Week? book to save my life. We’re going on faith that if the baby doesn’t have a neck yet, he’ll sprout one by his birthday. We still do the fun stuff, feeling him kick and whatnot, but we’re not pressuring him into growing fingernails by a certain date. He’ll be ready when he’s ready. God willing, so will we.

There’s an edge to parents that gets smoothed down by each successive child. That’s a good thing, because that edge can get between two parents and scrape the thin skin off both of them.

I can see the difference between our first and second boys. With the first, my wife was particular about the routines she developed for him. I was defensive about my ignorance of these routines. I’d be giving the boy a bath and my wife could see I was doing it contrary to accepted practice:

WIFE: “That’s not how I rub soap in his hair.”

ME: “It’s how I do it.” (Thinking:  Everything doesn’t have to be done your way.)

WIFE: “Here. Just let me do it.”

ME: “No. I’m perfectly capable of washing his hair.” (Thinking: You’re not the only competent parent here.)

We’d be disgusted with each other all day.

Now, when I bathe the second child, (Thinking: Oh man, the ball game’s about to come on.) I’ll act clueless about washing his hair:

WIFE: “Is that the way you bathe him now?”

ME: “Yup. Daddy’s running this show.” (Thinking: Go ahead, step in and take over. What kind of mother are you, letting me do this all wrong? Just put one hand on the boy and this bath’s yours. Touch him. Just go ahead and see how fast I run away to the TV.)

WIFE: “Whatever.” Then she claims the TV for the Lifetime Network while I’m stuck washing the kid.

I sure hope there’s nothing on TV when this new one needs a bath.

Shut up kids. Our program's coming on.

“Dang it, Martha, those young’uns can bathe themselves; The Lucky Strike Hit Parade is about to come on the air.” (Image: Russell Lee/US Farm Security Administration)

No girls allowed

“Oh my! I already know what it is,” the ultrasound technician said as soon as she set her fancy air hockey paddle on my wife’s belly. She nodded toward the monitor. “That’s a boy – no doubt about it.” She typed the words “It’s a Boy!” on the screen with an arrow pointing to the peninsula of grayish-white protruding into the sea of black.

My wife grinned. She knew I was thinking, “Yeah, they’ve never had to squint to find it on any of my boys. Score one for heredity.” I gave her my You’re a Lucky, Lucky Woman nod. This is one moment when a man should be allowed to be full of himself.

We always assumed it would be a boy, because that’s what we do. We’re used to boys. We have clothes for them. Everything we know about children we learned from boys. Only after the ultrasound was over did we notice that both of us were wearing something pink. I wonder what that means.

Gentlemen's railway car

The quiet club for civilized gentlemen that our parlor is destined to become in just a few, short years. (Image: George R. Lawrence)

This ultrasound seemed to last a lot longer than the previous ones. If they’re going to drag this process out, like Major League Baseball games, I think they should try to save the penis for last, just to keep some drama in it. Instant penis is like a 10-run first inning. After that, they’re just padding the score sheet until its time to go home.

The face, fingers, feet and things are nice, but they don’t really tell you anything specific about your child, except that he has those things. The ultrasound pictures of our boys are indistinguishable from one another. They all flashed their junk and then presented generic baby parts to the camera.

Our one-year-old was watching with me. He was excited to see the pictures at first, but soon became bored with all the semi-distinguishable parts. When the technician wouldn’t let him run the machine, he decided he was outta there. He and I walked the halls, he trying to sneak into offices and find buttons to push.

When Mommy was done, she joined us in another room where we waited for the doctor. Our little boy was bored and antsy, so we had to find something to occupy him. They have interesting pastimes in an OBGYN office.

He started with a pen and a pad of paper, each sheet printed with a diagram of a uterus. He made a nice drawing over the lady parts. When this got dull, he found a sample birth control ring on the counter. It was attached by a string to a little box. On the box was a button that, when pushed, retracted the string like the cord on a fancy vacuum cleaner. It made a delightful toy, but I had to wonder, is the real ring attached to a retractable cord? That would be surprising, though it’s probably convenient.

one-year-old's souvenir from the OBGYN

A doctor’s office activity book. Somebody had already colored the picture, which was okay since we couldn’t find the crayons.

The doctor said everything looked good. Did we have any questions?

Yeah. Why are we wearing pink to a peninsula party?

Bar tender, my darling, let’s have another round over here!

It occurred to me recently that children are like drinks of scotch. After you’ve had a couple, someone will attempt to take advantage of your impaired condition to convince you that just one more would put you right smack dab in the zone of happiness. It doesn’t matter how many times you’ve suffered headaches caused by your liquor or your kids. It’s not like you’re going to have half a dozen more, just one, and a little one at that.

Since I’ve had children, I don’t spend much time with scotch anymore. Only time will tell if I made the right choice.

I hope it’s the right choice because we’ve made it again. We’re going on this exciting and frightening adventure one more time.

Here comes the stork

I sure hope they’ve updated the safety regulations on stork transportation.

It’s exciting because my children make me happy, albeit with undertones of aggravation. A third would, by my calculations, increase that happiness by 50%. That doesn’t even account for compounding, but I want to keep any math I have to do as simple as possible.

It’s exciting because I’m still thrilled that a woman of my wife’s caliber would agree to mix her excellent DNA with my swill just once, let alone three times. My wife is amazing; her only failing is an occasional lapse in judgment.

You’d think that by the third go-round, the fear factor would be mitigated. It’s not. It’s a different fear. It’s not that old fear of being sent home from the hospital with a living creature and inadequate training on how to keep it that way. It’s the fear of stretching resources beyond their limits. The house suddenly seems too small. My car is definitely too small. College just became an even fiercer financial dragon. I don’t even know how these kids are going to pay off their preschool loan debt yet.

Retirement? Never heard of it.

After the sixth child, Teddy Roosevelt kept a shot gun filled with bird shot next to his bed. (Image: Kermit Roosevelt)

After the sixth child, Teddy Roosevelt kept a shot gun filled with bird shot next to his bed. (Image: Kermit Roosevelt)

Since we can’t trade in our house, we’re looking at minivans. I hate to give up the 15-year-old car, fully equipped with power nothing, that used to be the symbol of my Spartan existence, but I can’t find any infant seat anchors on the hood. And minivans aren’t so bad. I’m actually looking forward to taking 20 minutes to place an order at the drive through (30 minutes, if the kids want something to eat).

I recently learned from one of my favorite Mommy Bloggers that I’m some kind of hipster because I got married in my late 30s and am producing offspring well into my 40s. First off, she’s confusing trendiness with the inability to get a date for 20 years. Secondly, I just got a whole lot more hip, sister! And it’s not because of the replacement surgery. Not this time.

So the cat’s out of the bag. A bun is the oven. Where’s the scotch?

P.S. I want to send thanks to couple of fantastic blogs. Randomnessessities nominated me for the Liebster Award and Are You Finished Yet? nominated me for something I don’t quite understand but I’m sure is a high honor. Both are very well written blogs. You should check them out.