Ramblings of an Expectant Dad: Part 2

So, Placenta cookbooks are a thing.

 

(I.. wait, what???)

 

That was my first reaction. Followed closely by a series of guttural retching noises that I was heretofore unaware could be produced by my body. Once the pallor in my cheeks subsided and color returned to my flesh, I began to understand that yes, the whole "parental consumption of mom's internal bits" thing is indeed a thing, and a thing more common than I would have ever guessed.

 

(*gack*)

 

Me too. I think I'm gonna let this one slide into that recess of my mind where I store things like clowns, Keanu Reeves' acting skills, the new Jeep "Cherokee" and that time I accidentally called my second grade teacher "mom".

 

(Probably best.)

 

I'm sure we'll revisit the discussion as we get closer to birth. For those playing the home game, that's approximately "the square root of 19,600" days from now, give or take. But… placenta. I keep hearing the word in my head kind of like Austin Powers had to keep saying the word "mole" at the kid from Wonder Years. It just keeps repeating. Incidentally, that kid isn't a kid anymore. Neither is Winnie. Have you seen here? She's beautiful, and smart. Like, MENSA smart.

 

(Dude, focus.)

 

Right. Sorr –

 

Pla-cen-ta.

 

(Dude!)

 

I can't help it! When I found out I was becoming a father I never fathomed for a nanosecond that the process could potentially involve eating part of my child's mother! Gah!

 

(You have so much to learn.)

 

So I'm learning. I'm learning a lot. A LOT. For example, there is an incredibly comical, physical side effect to pregnancy. Now, I am not about to mansplain how a woman's body changes during pregnancy, but I will point out the obvious as it is germane to this rambling: The vaginal and uterusorial regions are located south of the intestinal and other organal regions of the human body. When a human begins to grow in the general, uterusorial, nether region, well, it ain't going further south until it's darn good and ready. So, for the time being, it just expands like a marsh mellow in a microwave, pushing the rest of the mom's internal gooey goodness upward.

 

(Uterusorial? Organal?? Marsh mellow in a… did you just compare your child to an exploding marsh mellow?)

 

First of all, marsh mellows don’t explode, they expand… so yes, ye I did.  Anywhoos… the net effect of squeezing a growing human in a space designed to, well, not usually have a human being in it, is that gas pressure tends to build and…

 

(Oh dear cripes…)

 

Let's just say the belches coming out mama-to-be could win contests in a truck stop.

 

( I don't think she'd want you telling people this….)

 

Actually, as a good husband-and-daddy-to-be-that-happens-to-write-a-blog, I did consult with her before writing this. And she said to go for it. So there.

 

(So there? What are you, five?)

 

*ignores parenthetical heckler*

 

As I was saying… These burps are epic. I mean… epic. And each one is almost always immediately followed by the silliest little giggle and a profundity of apology. She burps. She laughs. We laugh. She burps again. The dog farts and stares at her own butt. That last part is unrelated, I think, but the frequency with which that's beginning to occur tells me it's less than coincidence.

 

(There is something seriously wrong with you. I fear for this child.)

 

Oh stop. You do not. Because you know that if I survived this long, brimming with cynicism and sarcasm as I am, my kid will do the same and likely exceed my prowess in those categories ten-fold. The point is… I'm learning. Learning that silly little things like baby-momma-burps can be endearing, and can make this whole journey all the more memorable and precious to me.

 

I am also learning just how wonderfully blessed that I and my intended truly are. This past weekend we had the honor and joy of attending a dear friend's wedding. There, we were surrounded by a group of my friends, some of whom I've been close with for over thirty yea… *ahem* a long time. Others I've known, but not known well until perhaps the last five to ten years. And each and every one of them I considered part of "the family you make for yourself". The love, support and advice we've received from these folks is meaningful, welcomed and appreciated, not to mention illustrative of their caring, compassion and understanding. I cannot emphasize how much it means to me to have these valued friends in my life, and to know that as we walk forward on this path to parenthood, that they are there, having walked it before, to help us when we stumble, and to remind us that stumbling is perfectly acceptable. Of course, they did also tell me about the whole placenta thing, so…

 

(Let. It. GO.)

 

Fiiiiiiine.

 

So, I'm also learning that for so much as I think I'm unready or inadequately prepared to become a parent, there are those out there that a) make me look Winnie-level smart; and b) make the case for requiring a license to breed. Case in point: We continued our registrationary journey this weekend, and I made the mistake of reading user reviews of various products. I often joke that one needs no further evidence of the devolution of American society than the comments section on local news stations' Facebook pages. I'm amending that to add the user review section of baby products.

 

(This ought to be good.)

 

Or, chillingly frightening, considering these people actually produced offspring. For example, I was comparing several infant mirrors, designed to be affixed to a backseat headrest so that you can see your child in its rear-facing car seat. One woman wrote, and I swear in the name of all that is Dave Barry I am not making this up, something along the lines of: "This product is terrible and doesn't work. I can't see my baby at night."

 

*blink blink*

 

 I…. Dear sweet bejeebus in a basket. This woman… I… It's a mirror, not a flashlight! Of course you're not really going to be able to see at night! Because it's F*CKING DARK!!! Perhaps, if you want to see IN THE DARK, turn the car's interior light on. Just. Sayin.

 

(You're… really not joking, are you?)

 

I wish I was. And that wasn't the only inane comment I came across. Don't even get me started about people complaining how difficult it is to clean bottles with the nipple still on.

 

(Wha….)  

 

Yeah. Apparently the righty-tighty-leftie-loosey concept of unscrewing the cap was lost on these folks. And they. Have. Children.

 

I'm really not as worried about this whole rearing another human thing now. Of course, ask me "square root of 32,400" days from now and I'll probably be having a panic attack because my child has a rash of some sort and keeps making squirggle noises when it sleeps.

 

(Squirg… I give up.)

 

Frankly I'm surprised you've lasted this long, but thanks for playing. I do hope you'll stick around, because we haven't even gotten to the real fun part. Just wait until I write about my first diaper changing experience.

 

(That… okay, that's gonna be damn funny.)

 

See? My neurosis is nothing if not entertaining. In the meantime, I'll just be over here, learning. Learning to fly…

 

(But I ain't got win – DAMMIT!!!!)

 

I wonder if Tom Petty has kids Can you imagine having Tom Petty as a dad? Can you envision him yelling? I'm picturing the most mellow, angry-dad face ever.

 

(Seriously?)

 

What? I'm still me. I'm just learning to be a dad, too.

 

 

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