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January 26, 2007

The Ground Rules

I’ve wanted to start a personal blog for a while, because, well, cool things are happening, and I’m scared, happy and dumbfounded all at the same time. It’s not that I didn't have the time to blog; it’s because my wife values her privacy and I don't.

On the other hand, I let it all hang out; I’m not afraid to take my lumps, and I’m not afraid to flame anyone who thinks I’m crazy. (Actually, I don’t flame them, I just complain to my wife, who is a great listener. Much better than me!) So the first rule is: I’m not going to mention my wife.

Which is course, dooms this blog to failure right away, for several reasons. One, she’s actually doing all the work right now of growing the baby, while I live off of her hard-earned income and try to make a business out of web publishing. For those of you who don’t know, I’m on leave from teaching at a private school in Manhattan. I used to teach multimedia. The new business is going really well; I just did my taxes and I made ten percent of what I made last year. So, in my first year, I didn’t lose money.

Soon I will be a stay-at-home Dad, and that’s where this blog will kick in. I’ll post all sorts of things. However, since all sorts of embarrassing stories my father told people traumatized me when I was a child (more on that later) the second rule is: Don’t write anything that will traumatize the kid. (I’ll leave it to my father to post his own blog with all the stories of how I embarrassed him. It’s a wonder either of us survived my childhood.)

Finally, the third rule is my wife can pull a post for no apparent reason at all. I don’t have to explain it; in fact, I probably won’t want to. It’s likely she’ll pull this paragraph already. It’s not that she’s mean or paranoid or anything, it’s just that she is really sensitive and may not like something posted. So she gets to edit it.

Hopefully when the kid is old enough to read he won’t pull the whole site off the web in horror!

January 27, 2007

Hither Ronan

Picking baby names is a very important business. I know this because if you start looking for baby name crap, it’s everywhere. Baby Names for Dummies is at your local supermarket. Baby name books abound in your library, your bookstore, and my apartment.

The last name was easy. Since my wife kept her name, the last name would be Meyers if it were a girl and McDonald if it was a boy. Apparently McDonald-Meyers or Meyers-McDonald sounds too much like a British landowner or something.

I was very excited about picking a name, because my family has a long, proud tradition of pretending they are Irish, when we’re actually from all over the world, and when it comes down to it, we’re more American than anything else. So I would get to honor all these generations of faux Irish McDonalds with a good solid, Irish name.

Of course, this was assuming that my wife, who is technically more Irish than I am, would be into the whole Irish thing.  (I know: I’m not supposed to mention her. WE DO NOT TALK ABOUT FIGHT CLUB, and we do not talk about my wife.) I quickly realized that the hard-core Irish names were out. Also any name that evoked a vision of Ronald. As in McDonald.

In fact, I began to realize that most names were out. After suggesting approximately 1,000,000,000 names, I decided I wasn’t as serious about finding a name as I once was. My wife would dismiss each suggestion with “It’ll get beaten up at school with that name.” Apparently suburban Michigan circa 1975 was a tough school district without any mercy for the uniquely named; I tried to imagine my wife witnessing the daily beatings of kids named Liam or Hazel. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that, well, on some level public school is a big ball of suck, and that everyone had been tormented by some bully, and unless we home-schooled and called the kid “IT” for the rest of his life, the last name McDonald would earn some brute’s attention before the child graduated high school.

Those people close to me know that I have a lifelong passion for World War II history. So. Because every name was shot down anyway, I decided that I would start to try names of German Generals who didn’t commit horrific battlefield atrocities. (It’s a short list.)

I thought Erwin Rommel McDonald might work. It’s catchy, it flows nice and it’s like Ronald, earning the double punishment of the playground. However, for some reason, naming the kid after ethical Nazi Generals didn’t please my wife. Go figure!

Unlike some couples, we agreed we wanted to know the gender when we could, so at one of the ultrasounds we found out it was going to be a boy. So that eliminated 50% of the names immediately.

However, this really didn’t help my dilemma. Terry rejected Apu Nahasapeemapetilon McDonald, Frank Sinatra McDonald, and Tansal, Brendan, Val, Madani, Yves, and Cris McDonald. (They are some of my closest friends.)

There was one name I wasn’t mentioning, and that’s because I wanted it SO badly I had to think of the right time to bring it up. I really, really wanted to name the baby Ryan after my brother. Ryan is a great friend, a terrific brother, and the best role model the baby will have. So when I thought the moment was right, I announced it as a choice. And Terry loved the idea and we were done.

Actually, I made that last part up. My wife has this other rule about baby names – you can’t name a child after anyone living or dead. I know, that limits parents somewhat. I’ve done some research and pretty much everyone is living or dead at some point, and striking all 12 billion humans off of the list was a severe blow.

Actually, she wanted the baby to have a unique identity, and since the McDonald family has a complicated legally binding contract where you can only marry someone whose name is either Joe or someone already in the family, she didn’t want the kid and his uncle to be mistaken for each other. (Or something like that actually makes sense. I forget because I suck at listening most of the time.) She felt really bad about it, but since she’s responsible for 50% of this baby, she gets to deny whatever name doesn’t work for her. I was able to veto some of her choices as well.

I also gave in because I held out hope that Ryan might make the middle name. After protracted negotiations using United Nations diplomatic resources, Rhyon was the middle name. Just like my brother’s name but spelled differently.

Shortly after that, we found a name that didn’t make either of us gag. Apparently a big part of picking a name is remembering that every guy you’ve met named Craig or whatever is a total idiot, and that makes you decide to keep looking. So, we decided on Aidan, and we were happy.

I told my parents, who took out a full-page ad in the New York Times and the Buffalo News to tell everyone of the impending birth of Aidan McDonald. I think they may have also hired a blimp. (It’s their first grandchild, they are very proud.)

However, my father-in-law found Social Security’s Popular Baby Names, which showed that Aidan was fast rising in popularity. Terry, being a math whiz, added the two spellings (Aiden and Aidan) together and found that it was the twelfth most popular name in 2005. We were back to square one when about 1,000,000 other couples named their kid Aiden, making it the most popular name of 2006. Aidan instantly bit the dust.

So, we picked Ronan, for the same reason we picked Aidan. We couldn’t think of a guy named Ronan in our entire life that made us cringe. Ronan means “little seal” in Gaelic.

I like the name Ronan. It’s Irish (no, really) and it’s slightly unusual without pushing the “Tristan” envelope of romance novel stereotype. Throughout my entire life, I can’t think of anyone named Ronan who was a total dick to me. Plus, it’s like not even in the top 500 American names. (It is increasing in popularity.)

However, a problem soon emerged. We were so set on Aidan we couldn’t stop calling the baby Aidan. Then, instead of calling him Ronan, we called him anything but Ronan. Roland was really popular for a while. Nolan was his name for several days. We just couldn’t get Ronan out from between our lips.

Plus, you have not only the parents’ approval of their child’s name, but also the approval of the grandparents. Terry’s Mom didn’t like the name to begin with, but now says it’s growing on her. I don’t know if it’s really growing on her of if she detected the horror of continuing the baby name search in my voice. I like to think that the name is growing on her. It’s her third grandchild, so she’s not particularly worried about things, as she knows the kid will be happy and healthy.

My parents are taking the high road as well. They could hate the name; I seriously doubt it, but they are so nervous that my emotional instability is going to be directed at them (since it usually is) that anything is fine with them, as long as the kid is born healthy and happy. My Dad pretty much got all he wanted with the kid being a boy anyway.

I really like it. Not because it’s the only name my wife could agree upon, but because it feels right. It feels like the name we should use. I think that’s the best reason of all.

My parents told me a story about naming both my brother and me, choosing Jason and Ryan because they were unusual names. Both names were in the top ten the years we were born. So, I’m sure we’ve picked the most popular name of 2007.

Besides, my cousin pointed out that until they present us with the birth certificate to sign, there’s still time to change our minds. And the name really doesn't matter as long as the birth of our first child brings Terry and I closer together.

January 28, 2007

My Birthing Class Instructor Hates Me

Hospitals have programs for new parents on range of parenting topics. My wife and I signed up for a prep class for the birth event. Because American health care is failing, we choose to have the baby in Kuala Lumpur Kaiser Hospital. (Okay, not really. I’m changing the name to protect the innocent, namely me.)

So I’m not learning that much that I didn’t already know. I didn’t know about the baby urinating and defecating in the womb, which is gross but tolerable because I don’t have a womb. However I feel for my wife and future kid.

I got the sense from the instructor that most, if not all, first time parents expect the baby to drop quickly, come out without any blood, shit, mucus or dry skin, and be a perfect angel. Apparently from her repeated threats of “You have no idea what’s coming! You’re not prepared at all!” the hospital has been the target of angry parents who didn’t experience bliss when the baby came. The course seems designed to scare the hell out of us. I’m not laboring under any blissful assumptions, although a painless delivery would be nice since Terry hates needles, especially needles to the spine. The baby will be swollen, cone-headed, covered in every body fluid you can imagine and a few you can’t, and you are totally unprepared for what is about to hit you. I get it.

I’ve had experience with childcare before; I’ve changed diapers, I’ve babysat for newborns, I’ve visited postpartum mothers and newborns in hospital. So I have some idea about the delivery and how our lives will change over the next decade. I’m much more worried about getting Ronan to age 18 then about changing diapers or losing sleep.

I pass the time in class watching one soon-to-be-Dad who announced on the first day that he didn’t really want to be there. He completely freaks at every bloody video they screen for us. He’s more entertaining than the videos. He scrunches his face and looks like he’s really, really not enjoying this at all.

The videos are good for some unintentional laughs. The Dads are either monotonous robots or energizer bunnies during the delivery. I’d have to slap the monotone guy and tranquilize Mr. Bunny. The Moms say calm and collected things in voiceover like “I was very calm about ordering an epidural. I discussed it with my doctor and we decided I should have pain relief.” Meanwhile I’m picturing myself as Shirley MacLaine in Terms of Endearment – “Give my wife the shot!! Give my wife the shot!!”

Coming from a family that does not parade naked on the front lawn or in the tabloids, I was impressed by the women in the pregnancy videos. Besides being incredibly calm about labor pains they are also quite comfortable with a camera crew videotaping them in really, really intimate situations. If fact, most of them are completely naked. For everything. Giving birth, I can understand. But do you have to be completely naked to breastfeed? I know, I won’t be doing it, but still – only one woman wore clothes for breastfeeding. I think Terry will wear clothes as much as possible for all the child rearing, and so will I.

Normally I’m attracted to calm, naked women, but the videos are as unerotic as possible. The birth videos have the gross factor of, well, birth. The nursing videos (have I mentioned how confused I was about every breastfeeding woman being naked?) have about ten people watching a naked woman breatfeed. Since I make movies, I’m always thinking about what when into that shot. “Okay, Ms. Newmom, if you could get naked, I’ll introduce you the crew – this is the cameraperson, the other cameraperson, the sound person, the boom operator, the producer, the lactation consultant and your husband, who will have no part in this whatsoever, but will stand to the side and try to look like he has a role here.”

The instructor has 35 years of obstetric/maternity experience. Her teaching style was machine gun facts –

“Thebaby’sfirstbowelmovementiscalledmeconium.Itcansticktothelungs iftheyaspirateit.That’swhatwehavetosuctionthebaby’smouthassoonas it’sborn. Any questions? Thebabywillbecoveredwithlanugo,whichis finehair;Alsopossiblyacreamcheesesubstancecalledvernix,which protectsthebabyinthewomb.Justrubitintotheskin. Any questions?

I’ve never been good at taking notes. I get so involved in taking the notes, I get lost in the lecture. I’m much better in discussion groups because I love the sound of my own voice. Terry, who excels at everything, is a great note taker. Still, she had trouble keeping up. There were a lot of lists of things to buy. As a teacher, I would give students lists of things on paper so they could get them. Our instructor would just rattle them off. Plus, she would ask for questions but not stop for questions.

I expected the class to be more about breathing exercises. Apparently the theory today is that breathing only helps somewhat. So only about twenty minutes of each class was breathing. For this exercise, I would play the role of a contraction. I like to think of myself as a strong guy, being tall and fat, but I couldn’t crush my wife’s shoulder hard enough. She couldn’t tell when the contraction was beginning or ending. So in my one role in the class, I was a miserable failure.

Actually, I hadn’t really considered my role in the birthing process until we took the class. The Dads in the video got really into their role, even if they couldn’t modulate the tone of their voice. They pulled out photos, food, rubs, and all sorts of stuff. They gave back rubs and foot rubs to their naked wives. In short, they were the perfect caregivers. Pretty much the entire class and the instructor wanted to kill them because they were so annoying.

But inherent in the videos was the fact that the Dads were just standing around waiting for something – ANYTHING – to happen so the could prove their value. It seems they have little value. The instructor repeatedly warned the caregivers that I we didn’t make Mom comfortable, if we hindered the process, we would be ejected. After all, we’re wanted but not necessarily needed.

Which is kind of deflating. After all this preparation, doctor visits, comments from friends and family, I suddenly realized that I couldn’t stop the pain of labor, I couldn’t take the burden myself, and I couldn’t really do anything but hold Terry’s hand and remind her to breathe. It’s a shock (at least for me) that I can’t really help with this. Then I got into a cycle of guilt. I felt bad that I can’t do anything more than hold her hand, then I felt guilty for being so self-centered and thinking this was about me, then I’d feel guilty for over-thinking something I can’t do anything about, and then I’d go back to feeling bad about not being able to do anything.

So, to change things up, I picked a fight with the instructor. Actually, I didn’t realize I picked a fight until the fight was already over, and I was apologizing for picking a fight. I’m not even really sure who started it. (Our instructor thinks I did.)

Actually, it wasn’t really a fight, since the instructor dressed me down in front of the entire class and I just took it so we could all get on with our work. What happened was this: She came into class full of road rage after a long drive, and I allowed her to vent her anger all over me. Apparently we couldn’t visit the birthing center upstairs because they were too busy, so we were going to visit next week. I asked what would happen if they were busy next week as well. “We’ll visit anyway.” She said. “We just won’t see one of the rooms.”

“As long as someone shows me at some point where the ice chips, popsicles, and apple juice are, that’s fine.” I answered. I had just read a Slate article about the birthing experience where the Dad said he knew where these things were and it helped a lot because he didn’t have to wait for the nurse to bring them. Some people in the class laughed.

“Popsicles!” The instructor didn’t laugh. “I am in no mood to be challenged today.” She was really angry.

“I’m not trying to challenge you.” I responded.

“I’ve already had a hard day. I don’t want to be challenged by you today!!”  Everybody had stopped laughing. She was kinda yelling at this point. I felt very much like I was back in high school.

“I’m sorry, I was just trying to be funny.”  I said. That’s when Terry squeezed my hand, which means Please stop talking, she’s going to kill you dead, ding-dong. Actually Terry doesn’t say ding-dong, I added that part in my head as I slowly realized that the instructor was really angry. I think she tought I would park myself in front of the refrigerator and gorge myself on popsicles, ice chips, and apple juice while Terry was wallowing in pain in the next room.

“I’m not in the mood for jokes. You’ll get upstairs when you’re allowed upstairs.” Actually I don’t know what she said then, because I was already beginning to worry if I would ever be allowed in the hospital again.

Meekly, I said I would need to know where the machine was to get ice chips for Terry. “You are pushing my buttons. I don’t want to be challenged today.” Said the instructor.

So she started a video and left the room to go into the bathroom and scream and punch the mirror, pretending it was me. Actually I’m making that last part up; I don’t know where she went. As we watched the video of supernaturally calm pregnant naked women, I was thinking, what the hell just happened? Did I just piss off the instructor? What did I say? What the HELL just happened?

After the video we took a break. The instructor left the room to drive a forklift into cars in the parking lot, pretending they were mine. Actually I don’t know if she left the room or not, but I did. I went to the bathroom. One of the other Dads was in there too. “Way to piss of the instructor!” he said. “Ah, yeah.” I said. “I felt bad for both of you. I’m glad that I didn’t say anything this morning.” He said. “Yeah.” I said, displaying my famous spur-of-the-moment wit. But what I was thinking was, Sorry for both of us! Why are you sorry for her?

I’ve always had problems with my sarcasm. I used to worry about it because it turned so many people off, but then I realized I was at Brandeis University, and people there don’t have much of a sense of humor. So I stopped worrying about it so much because plenty of people find me entertaining. Sure, my friend and former student recommended a neon “sarcasm” sign so that people would know that I’m not kidding, but generally people like my stories, unless they are married or related to me, and then they find them too personal and embarrassing.

I can be moody and unapproachable too. Some kids at the school where I used to teach were afraid to come in to the Media Lab because they thought I was really stern all the time; until they got to know me, then they thought I was very cool. My uncle on my Mom’s side once suggested a game show where my Dad, my uncle and I would form a circle and get really angry. Whoever survived the combined anger of all three of us would win the game show.

But I didn’t feel angry or sarcastic the day I pissed off the instructor. Terry, being very supportive, quickly pointed out after class that I can’t read body language and I should’ve stayed silent. I quickly pointed out that I asked one question and then tried to end the conversation. I’m pretty sure I didn’t deserve to be yelled at.

So we had a pancake party the next day, and I told everyone what happened and they were sympathetic. And by sympathetic I mean they made jokes about me.

A week later we had to go to the next class. Surprisingly, I wasn’t really excited about this. I dragged my feet the whole way, which is a good way to piss off my wife, who arrives exactly, and I mean exactly, on time everywhere she goes. I was scared that we’d arrive and it would be the instructor and us.

Thankfully many people were already there. Another Dad asked me, “How are you going to piss of the instructor this week?” The instructor arrived, class began and we all pretended that nothing had happened the week before. However, people asked few questions. I don’t know if that’s because of what happened to me or if that was because people didn’t have questions. We went on the tour, and without asking, Terry and I located the ice chip machine. Hah! Victory!!

I was much relieved by the comments of a friend of Terry’s, who told me that maternity nurses repeatedly yelled at her husband, who is a social worker. He accepted it as part of his job. So maybe it wasn’t me.

However, now that I’m prepared for a goopy, bloody, gross baby, I will treat the maternity nurses with respect and care.

Who am I kidding? I’ll be my sarcastic self.

January 29, 2007

Your Body, Yourself

The U.S. Equal Employment Opportunity Commission says “The Commission will presume that the unwelcome, intentional touching of a charging party's intimate body areas is sufficiently offensive to alter the condition of her working environment and constitute a violation.”

Of course we all know that has absolutely no application to pregnant women. You can grab their bellies as much as you want. (Disclaimer: No you can’t! This is sarcasm.)

When people ask to touch Terry’s belly, I’m reminded of an episode of ER where Carol Hathaway (Julianna Margulies) gets some coffee on way to work and a woman asks to touch her belly. Carol says no, that everybody touches her without asking. The woman responds, “But I did ask.” Carol gets her coffee, leaves, and a truck plows into the coffee shop, killing the woman. Pregnant women everywhere cheer when they see that episode.

I think nothing makes a woman feel like a pregnancy vessel more than strangers clasping their cold clammy hands on their bellies. Once I had to stand in for the principal during an eighth grade graduation rehearsal. You don’t really understand germs until you’ve shaken hands with 100 eighth graders. At the end of the rehearsal I contemplated cutting off my own hand, which was now possessed by strange alien germs that had been growing for thirteen years. Apparently eighth graders have some aversion to soap. I reflect on that experience when people ignore Terry’s instructions to “Get Back Jack” and touch her belly.

I’m a passive type of guy until I'm juggling seventy things at once, and then the littlest thing makes me crazy. It usually means that I completely flip out when a cherry tomato defenestrates and lands on the floor. I wish I could be more like my wife. Terry gives clear, cool instructions in a low, calm voice about what she wants. Terry can instantly state her needs without resorting to Celtic oaths. It scares the living hell out of people, because stating something innocuous like the weather in a calm, clear voice sounds sinister. Try it: Without blinking, walk up to someone who knows you and say “Snow is expected this evening” without blinking or raising the tone of your voice above a quiet monotone. If they don’t respond with “Are you okay? What’s wrong?” you haven’t done it correctly. If you try it with a stranger, arrange bail beforehand.

She quickly learned that if she didn’t exclaim “No!” in a slightly agitated voice anytime someone approached her belly, they would rub their hands all over her. She’s learned to shut people down before they can get too close. In America, at least, there is the expectation of a right to touch a pregnant woman. And guess what: only some of them don’t mind being pawed.

This has caused some hurt feelings on my part, because many of my friends, whom Terry doesn’t know very well, want to touch her. One of my favorite former students met us for lunch. “Can I touch your belly?” “No!” Another friend came to visit; she was shot down as well. One person came running out from the cash register at the Park Slope Food Coop. Terry’s firm but polite “No” stopped them all! I feel bad because they don’t mean to be rude. My wife doesn’t want to be rude. They just want to help celebrate the coming baby. But they can’t touch my wife.

I don’t know if anyone’s done a study on the compulsion of people to touch pregnant bellies. I think corporations should use this as a marketing tool. They could pay pregnant women to stand with their exposed bellies in front of stores. When people ask to touch their bellies, they could direct them into the store for a brief sales pitch first. (I’m kidding. I would find this repulsive and immoral. But I’m not a corporation.)

When this issue came up, I tried to remember what I had done in the past. Had I grabbed my cousin’s bellies when they were pregnant? Friends? I have no memory. Are kids exempt from the no-touching-the belly rule, since they ignore pretty much all social convention? Ladies, if I’ve grabbed you belly, I apologize. I didn’t really think about this issue.

Pregnant women have been defending themselves for quite a long time. Either they submit to regular tummy inspections (some enjoy it) or they pretend the baby just stopped moving, or rubbing their stomach makes them vomit, or they back away, or they ask to touch the other person’s belly first, or they slap them. Or like my wife, they just say no.

This of course, posed an interesting dilemma for me. Do I ask permission to touch my wife’s belly? Am I any different from other people? After discussion with Terry, she said it was all right for me to touch her belly, because I am the father and husband. I try to limit my groping to say, 5,000 times per day. Terry seems to enjoy it. Sorry, everybody!

January 31, 2007

Expect Fear When You're Expecting

When we told friends and family that Terry was pregnant, a long time chum E-mailed me: “DO NOT read What to Expect When You’re Expecting. It will only freak you out!”

There’s two ways to go with preparing for pregnancy. Either you read everything you can, or you don’t. Terry reads everything. I read everything she tells me to read. Terry is outwardly calm and collected. I’m a nervous wreck.

According to the marriage gap, married people tend to vote more conservatively than unmarried or divorced people. In other words, marriage makes you a Republican and if you’re single or divorced, you’re a Democrat.

I used to think that was bull, until my wife got pregnant.

I’m not going to start advocating the Defense of Marriage Act or a regressive tax structure just yet. But I am aware that literally everything is coming to kill my baby, so I empathize with how the marriage gap could happen. The parents are voting against their fears.

The media is really good at stoking fear about endangered kids. Between the sex offenders, the drugs, the diseases, the car accidents, and even their own parents, it’s a wonder anyone makes it home from the hospital alive.

I think you worry about contemporary fears. When I was brought home after I was born, my Dad woke my Mom up in the night worrying about what would happen if I got hooked on drugs. It was the end of the sixties and that was what was on TV at the time - Lots of hippies at Woodstock.

I wake my wife up worrying about an attack from North Korea. Very understanding, Terry replies, “Gooo tooo sleepz” or something like that, because if the North Koreans attack at night, she’s planning on sleeping through it. I’m not worried about drugs at all; I’m worried about a nuclear or biological attack from out of the blue.

Fear is a powerful motivator. I try not to think about it too much, especially when a lot of the choices are out of my control. I could not feed the kid spinach; but I like spinach. I could not let him fly to see his grandparents, but I like my grandparents.

I wasn’t really worried about these things until Terry got pregnant. This leads me to one of my endless worrying cycles; I worry about something coming to kill my baby, then I realize I can’t do anything about it, then I berate myself for worrying about it. After a short pause, I start all over again.

It’s different for different people. For Terry’s parents, Ronan will be their third grandchild. They are warm, loving and supportive, and they are completely unconcerned about any problems. The first time I saw my parents after the birth announcement, they wanted to know who would get custody in the event of our deaths.

Reading the expectant parent magazines and books helps some, although it’s a little scary to read about every eventuality Terry and the baby face during the birth process. After reading a big chunk and worrying about everything from baby acne to Zellweger Syndrome, I decided to read about things in smaller blocks so it didn’t seem so overwhelming.

The parent magazines don’t help either. Besides really weird pictures of supernaturally happy pregnant women practicing yoga,  they offer up every horrible thing that can happen to your wife and baby in the delivery room. I’ve decided to skip the magazine altogether.

In the movie Parenthood, director Ron Howard depicted parenting as a big roller coaster ride. There was fear and excitement and fun. I don’t think I’ll exhale any time soon.

If Ronan ruins the school play, like the kid in Parenthood, I’m not going to sit there. I’ll get him off the stage. I plan on being a protective, supportive parent.

I know, I know…the best laid plans…

About January 2007

This page contains all entries posted to Freaks & Geeks Parenting in January 2007. They are listed from oldest to newest.

February 2007 is the next archive.

Many more can be found on the main index page or by looking through the archives.

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