Freaks & Geeks Parenting

So I’m beginning to understand how people transition from being cool, down-wid-it twenty-somethings into boring, hapless forty-something parents. I know this because I’m slowly transforming into someone none of my friends or family want to hang out with. Last Friday I met my brother and some friends for dinner and movie. All was fine until we broke into the alcohol-seeking and the home-seeking groups.

“Goodbye,” I said to the sleep-bound. “The next time you see me, I’ll smell like baby shit.”

Okay, I admit, it’s not my finest moment or my best joke. And, I’d never met about half of these people before. But I had earnestly (relentlessly, according to some) talked about being a father, and in a momentary lapse of judgment, I chose to say that. I didn’t immediately regret saying it, because, well, it’s probably true. People laughed until my brother completely freaked out.

“Nobody wants to hear that! Why did you say that?!?” I shrugged and said, “Because it’s probably true.” “SHUT UP!!”

And with that, we were off. He decided he would make me shut up and I decided that I would make him hear every gross detail about babies. Together we virtually guaranteed that neither of us would enjoy the rest of the night. Any time he brought up shutting up, I brought up babies.

Scene #1 – Cab on the way to the bar 1:30 AM

“Bro, seriously, you’ve embarrassed yourself. You didn’t even know those people and nobody wants to hear about baby shit. Ever!”

“Did you know that the baby in the womb drinks its own urine? We’ve all drunk our own urine.”

The cab driver looks uncomfortable.

Scene #2 – Lunasa on 7^th Street 2:00 AM

“Dude, do not talk about the baby stuff anymore. I don’t want to hear it. Please stop.”

“If the baby breathes in its own poo when it’s first born, it could get pneumonia.”

“Please, stop, I mean it.”

Scene #3 – On the way to One and One on 1^st Street 2:45 AM

By this point another friend, who was interested in learning more about newborn babies, joined the group, much to Ryan’s chagrin.

“I will run away and leave you here if you do not stop talking about distgusting baby facts!”

“The newborn is covered in a cream cheese-like substance called vernix.”

“Dude, stop. Just stop.”

Scene #4 – Mona’s on 14^th and Avenue B 4:30 AM

Interested Friend: “What’s baby’s first poo called?”

Jason: “Meconium.”

Ryan: “I am sitting at the bar by myself!”

Scene #5 – Dynasty Diner on 14^th Street and Avenue B 5:30 AM

Jason: “Hi, Ryan!”

Ryan: “Do I know you?”

The point of the story isn’t that I’m an asshole, which of course, re-reading this, I clearly am. The point is that I’m kinda self-centered and I’m thinking about the baby, so I talk about it. To everyone. Until they want to kill me.

Ha! Ha! No, clearly the point is that even the strongest among us will quiver in the face of baby poo, even if it’s just mentioned, and not even in sight or smell. I can torture my brother, because he’s stuck with me, no matter what, even if right now he wishes he wasn’t. I was actually surprised at how freaked out he got about gross baby stuff. Then I remembered that I changed his diapers – but I’m not sure he’s ever changed a diaper before.

By the way, I only brought up baby stuff if he did, except for my first comment. And if someone asked about babies. Or if someone asked why Ryan was so upset.

About the only people I can chatter away to about baby stuff without them batting an eye is other expectant parents. We joined an expectant parent group here in Park Slope. They are real nice folks, and all of us are expecting around the same time. When you get fourteen expectant parent couples together, people are going to think it’s an invasion. The first place we met at was a coffee bar, where two patrons kept wondering if it was a coincidence that seven pregnant women all arrived at the same time, or if it was a mommy meeting of some kind. Now we meet in a burger bar that has a back room with comfy chairs, which is important. I wonder if the waitress is bothered by our conversations, which last week consisted of discussing how toddlers use potty training as a weapon.

So, since I’m sure you’re wondering, when did I stop being cool and turn into a parent? There are some who would argue that I was never cool. But clearly, judging from Friday night, I have passed some sort of rite. I am no longer cool enough to hang out, because I talk about expecting a baby.

The thing is, I’m sure Ryan and his friends will also become parents one day, and they will no longer be cool either.

I used to think expectant mothers went with Doulas and breastfeeding for the natural, eons-old reason of understanding your own body and communicating with nature. As an expectant parent I’ve realized the real reason is that some people don’t like Similac pressure.

My first post-toddler encounter with Similac was in 1993 when I was working at a pediatric hospital. A salesman came by to work out a contract with the director, and stopped by my office, where we taught the interns and residents. “Do you want Similac? I can get you cases if you want.” He said.

“What?” I said.

“If you need cases of Similac, I can get it for you.” He said.

I said, “Cases? What would I need with cases of Similac?”

“You could distribute it to the doctors and residents. Or to the patients. Whatever you need.” The friendly, and persuasive, salesman said.

“Okay, I could see having a bottle or two around, but cases of Similac? What would I do with cases of Similac? Where would I put it?”

“That’s up to you. This is a fantastic offer to get free Similac.” The salesman said.

“Uhhh, Thanks. I don’t think I need Similac.”

“Are you sure? Perhaps you should ask around. Lots of mothers want free formula.”

“Yes, I’m sure they need it, but I’m not really able to distribute it.”

As a single man, I just didn’t see a need for Similac in my life right then. Fast forward 14 years – I’m married, my wife’s expecting, we need stuff – and I’m still not sure I need Similac.

Unfortunately Similac disagrees. Since we’re medically insured, middle class consumers seeing a licensed OB/GYN, Similac wants us to know that Similac cares about our baby. Enough to send us a huge box of formula via UPS. Enough to send us coupons for more Similac.

In fact, coupled with the memories of the Similac salesman, I’m beginning to think that these actions are strikingly similar to drug pushing. I mean, how often does Coke or Pepsi come up and offer you unlimited cases of their product? Or deliver it via UPS? Wouldn’t we all love a free case of Dr Pepper?

But of course we don’t get free soda, because Similac is technically not a beverage, it’s food for babies, and it doesn’t come from food conglomerates, it comes from drug companies. So they can Fedex you samples until your baby is hooked, and then they’ve got you for a year. Hopefully your baby will reject Enfamil and then they’ve got you!

Similac isn’t the only one – Pampers sponsored our birthing class, providing full-color layouts of birthing positions and baby information, along with free newborn diapers. Apparently newborn babies develop preferences, and Pampers is sure hoping that if you start using Pampers, you will stick with Pampers. The birthing class instructor also recommended them. Why? Because hospitals use them, so the baby’s already used to them when they go home, so don’t freak out the baby by switching diapers.

Now, I don’t have a baby yet, and I haven’t inquired among mothers, but that seems pretty sketchy to me. Three days, and baby has a preference for Pampers. It seems a little weird to me. Six months, a year, okay. But in three days that kid is going to be fixated on Pampers? Seems to me a little self-fulfilling truth stretching is going on. The same thing happened with the baby safety class. “Buy only flame-retardant bedding and clothes for your baby,” we were instructed. Why? Is it because hospitals and baby corporations are in league, and most flame retardant stuff is made by corporations that can handle the chemical treatment processing?

All this corporate pressure leaves me wondering about pricing. I’ve decided the baby industry is a captive market, because we don’t have to buy Coke or Pepsi every day, but we damn well sure need diapers. Or something like diapers, or something that replaces diapers.

The thing is that with some exceptions, corporate baby stuff is crap. It’s poorly made, it’s poorly designed, and it lasts a lunchtime. Our TinyLove mobile didn’t make it to Ronan’s birth, and is now lying in a pile on the floor waiting for the company to respond to my angry E-mails. After frickin’ weeks of trying to assemble this piece of shit, when we finally get it together, turn it on, the frackin’ thing explodes, ejecting the entire mobile off of the rotation rod. If Ronan was in the crib at the time, he wouldn’t have noticed because he’s a baby, but his grandparents would have had a global thermonuclear meltdown, that only would have ended with the death of the entire company staff.

Our latest trip to a baby superstore only confirmed my belief that this stuff is overpriced and under-made. Looking for a glider, we were told that one model had a giant metal bolt sticking out of it because “the recliner lever was around here somewhere, under the other merchandise…” Which shouldn’t worry us at all, because the glider was very well made. Yes, of course, Mr. Salesman, “parts that are essential to the operation of the expensive furniture just falling off and no one notices where they went” seems like a great sales technique. Where can I get one?

It’s not just that the $149 Ikea DICKTAD crib seems just as well made and solid as the $599 buybuybaby crib, or that sometimes I can actually hear the clock ticking on some baby merchandise. It’s that we don’t seem able to stop buying it. The most well-made thing we bought so far was the Amish-made organic crib mattress, that seems so well made that Ronan’s children may use it because it will last that long. The woman who made it, who obviously took a lot of pride in making it, signed it. Technically we got it from a corporation, but they sell hundreds of mattresses each year, not millions. It was about the same price as the corporate flame-retardant ones, but somehow I like it more.

Ronan will be able to use it until the DICKTAD crib breaks or he outgrows it. (DICKTAD cribs turn into beds when the child is too big for a crib.) Ronan never got to use the TinyLove mobile. It died before he was even born.

I have nothing to write about today, because thankfully we’re having a boring pregnancy. We’re a week away from our due date, and things are fine.

I can’t call anyone, because they immediately think I’m calling them to say the baby’s due. I called my parents on their cell phone (which I do quite regularly) and they pulled over and made plans to turn around and go home just because I called. I ended up screaming into the phone that Terry WASN’T in labor. So most of Brooklyn heard me, but somehow my parents seemed to be in DEFCON 5, heading for the airport or something. I got them calmed down. But now when I talk to them, the first thing I say is “Terry’s not in labor!”

I called my brother late at night (which I do quite regularly) and he announced to the bar that Terry was in labor and he should he come to Brooklyn? No, not yet. She’s fine. Fine.

People from all over the United States call every day, and I have nothing new to tell them except that Terry’s fine. If I really want to get adventurous, I’ll tell them that not only is Terry still going to work, she’s walking every day. Which is apparently a shocker. Terry goes crazy that I tell them is such a salacious way, but it’s all I’ve got.

I feel bad for depressing people who call, but I sometimes I get the feeling that they’re worried about being left out of the birth notice. My evil twin part of me sometimes wants to say “Oh, the baby? We had Ronan two weeks ago. Didn’t we tell you?” except they would feel bad and Terry would so kick my ass if she heard me saying that.

The other part of that is the need for doctors and others to know absolutely that I will be there for whatever meeting or appointment they have scheduled. I’m in eye therapy for staring at my computer so much over the past ten years. My eyes aren’t working to together; it’s possible they hate each other. So every week I go and play video games and read Calvin and Hobbes wearing weird glasses that make my eyes work together. I left yesterday and said, “If the baby comes, I won’t be here next week.” Which made everyone in the room stop and look at me funny. What? You’re going to choose the birth of your baby over eye therapy?

People who have no tolerance for your upcoming baby: Utilities workers. I’m trying to have cable come before the baby arrives, and getting Time Warner cable to meet a deadline is like parting the Red Sea – you’ve heard it’s been done, but only with a close relationship with God. First, you have to explain your wife is pregnant; then you have to explain she’s due next week; then you have to explain why this week is really best; then you have to wait until someone explains that to a supervisor. Then start the whole process over again. I guess that’s par for a company that came last week, removed one part of our cable installation and is scheduled this week to bring it back.

So all scheduling for the next few weeks is with the caveat “if the baby doesn’t come that day.” Because you don’t want to leave people hanging. We’re developing contact lists based on the day of the week and which appointments we have to cancel.

Yet with only a week to go, there are a million things to do. Some of them are trivial; some of them are really important. If someone could look at my list and tell me which will end up being trivial and which are important, I’d really be grateful!

Because so many people have called to see if Terry is doing okay in the last weeks (days?) of pregnancy, we've asked Blue Meanie Meyers to step in as Ronan. Just because so many of you are Jonesing to see this baby, this is what he will look like, only probably (hopefully) not blue:

Blue Meanie Meyers is smaller than Ronan, which disappoints my parents, who want a large baby so they can lord it over their friends that their grandchild is bigger out-of-the-womb. So these photos are not to scale. However, they will give you an indication of what Ronan will look like in his crib.

The odd pillow-shaped device will keep Ronan from getting flat head syndrome from sleeping on his back. Also, Ronan will probably not be able to stand like Blue Meanie Meyers.

Blue Meanie Meyers will be adopted by a good friend, some say a third McDonald brother, who is a rabid beatle fan, even more than Terry.

Finally, these images were taken with my new camera phone. So if you can receive multimedia mail, please E-mail me and I will send you a Ronan photo from the hospital.

Wednesday March 28th is our due date, and I for one will welcome our new baby overlord.

It’s not just because this is a very exciting, life-changing kind of thing, it’s also because we are so ready for this to happen. Personally (not speaking for Terry) I’ve moved beyond the excitement phase into “c’mon, hurry up!’ phase.

I’ll try to explain this without sounding like the worst Dad ever, but at some point, even the expectant father is done with pregnancy. There’s the glowing and the strangers asking to touch your wife in a way that would be actionable if she wasn’t pregnant, and there’s the building the crib and buying the first baby clothes, and at some point you just wish he would just come out already.

We have joined a lovely group of parents who are all expecting around the same time. At one point we were actually worried that we would be the first. Now we may be nineteenth or so and we are so ready for this baby to be born already.

Terry has her own reasons for wanting the pregnancy over that I won’t go into. I just want Ronan to come out so that I can stop worrying that she’ll experience too much pain or the baby will be deformed or dead (!!) or worse, alive but brain dead. (Yeah, I’m a sick person sometimes. Deal with it. These are the emotions I’m feeling.)

Of course Terry has the worst of it because the kid is actually inside of her. Supposedly the emotional and physical changes the mother experiences are partly taken out on the father, but she’s been pretty easy to live with the past nine months. We’ve had a very low-key pregnancy, and I thank Ronan for that. But dammit, I just want him out.

I know what you’re thinking. In two weeks, I’ll want to back him back in. I admit I’ve said to Terry that it would be great if a fully toilet-trained and speaking person emerged from the womb, but that would mean the kid weighed forty pounds at birth, and I value my wife too much to really want that. I’ll just have to suffer through piles of diapers.

But right now I want the kid in my arms now. As a kid I have vivid memories of my brother being born. I was eight. My maternal grandmother came to visit for the birth; Ryan was due around Christmas. Well, Christmas came and went, and so did grandma. She had to go back to work. My Mom laid in bed and beat her stomach in frustration. “Out! Out!” she cried as my Dad packed my grandmother into the car for the ride to airport. I never really understood that feeling until now.

Thankfully Terry and I aren’t at the point where we want to beat her stomach. But Ryan was two weeks late. I can’t imagine going that long. I feel like we’re on low-key alert. Terry gets the flu – could be labor. I call someone – “Is Terry in labor?” We’re waiting… We’re waiting…

At some point a week after the due date passes, our OB/GYN will talk about inducing labor. Apparently the baby’s skin starts to slake off and the nails grow long, which could cause scratches on the baby and I presume in the womb. When the birthing class instructor told me about that, I pictured some zombie newborn crawling out of the womb and killing everyone in the room. Yes, I’m seeing a counselor. Why?

Anyway, I can’t wait for Ronan to be born. Also, I’m out of ideas for the blog.