May days

It may be a money pit, but we love it.


Today I did a very grown-up thing. I got a quote to up my homeowners’ insurance policy (Boring, I know. Hang in there for a minute).

The one we have is fine; it would cover the amount we paid for our house. The only problem is, they don’t make houses like they used to. It cost close to three times the amount we paid for our house to rebuild it.

Anyhow, the act of insurance shopping made me think about the very quick year we’ve spent in our house.

Over breakfast, where all the monumental conversations happen (grrrr…pass cereal…bleh…milk…coffee…must have…geh), I mentioned to Coury that it had almost been one year since our big purchase.

Being the sage she is (even with the pregnant brain!), she noted that our last three May’s have been big as life phases go.

Turns out, the ole pregnant brain sage is right.

Two May’s ago, we made a legal and spiritual commitment to be together (Trust me, the law has to be involved for me to commit. I moved over 10 times in two years once).

Last May, we bought the house we plan to spend the next 30 or more years dumping money into. In fact, we’ve already dumped a bunch of money into it.

This May (or possibly late April, we'll pretend it's May regardless), we’ll have our first child.

The guy that changes long-term goals on a daily basis made three monumental life decisions in three consecutive May’s. Peter Pan did, indeed, grow up.

Two of those life milestones caused me to lose sleep. Marrying Coury was not one of them.

The night before we signed the paperwork for the loan on our current house (we had a second house we were trying to sell at the time), I lay in bed and sweated.

How could we afford two houses at once? More importantly, how could we afford to let this house pass by?

I woke up worried several times that night. I was still uptight the next morning at signing time.

Somehow, though, we made it work.

This morning, I woke up 20 minutes before my alarm went off. Instead of slipping back to sleep, I realized that continuous rest was about to become ancient history.

It’s frightening, really. The silence of our big house is about to be interrupted, pierced by another human.

I daydream a lot about what the baby will look like, or how it will act, or how I will feel with no sleep.

Sometimes, I’ll daydream far into the future. Will Emerson be OK mentally and physically? Will I be resented for the things that I think are best for Emerson (Math is where it’s at, Dad. English majors are so 2008)? Does watching TV actually make me dumber (sorry, unrelated)?

Then I remember that my wife has awesome genes, and I hope that all of the amazing qualities that I see in her translate over to our first-born.

Like I said in a previous post, I have no idea what to expect.

The things I daydream about, terrifying or otherwise, indicate that next May we’ll still be very happy, celebrating Emerson’s first birthday.

Yep, we do it big May. One milestone at a time.

Nitpick

When my wife is at fault, or even if I perceive that she is, I am quick to let her know.

Why didn’t she pick her underwear off the chandelier (oh wait, that was me)? Why are all these dishes still in the sink after 13 days (duh, you again)? Who sprinkled all these ponytail holders about the house? (That last one is all hers.)

I tend to put blame on her even when I shouldn’t.

In our old house, we shared a bathroom. If it started getting messy, it was her fault.
For a while, we shared a bathroom in our new house. The same rules applied.

When I got tired of walking through hair spray clouds, I moved myself to the upstairs bathroom.

This, I thought, would be the key to keeping a clean restroom. No more wife to dirty up the place.

A few months have passed since.

Hers is straight, neat, and nothing in sight that would make a garbage man cringe.
Mine, however, looks like the inside of a diaper.

Clothes are piled up and overflowing out of the hamper. Toothpaste film coats the sink bowl like flour. The tile floor resembles the inside of a dirt floor shanty.

One day, while on a field trip to the wife’s bathroom, I realized who was actually the neater spouse. (Note: it was not me.)

While I’m a nitpicker, Coury keeps her mouth shut and I’m none the wiser.

I’m pretty sure I could mop our carpet with straight bleach for months and she wouldn’t say a word. She would just smile, shake her pretty head, and walk over the bleached out, sopping wet, mildewy carpet.

Sometimes, though, she slips. Take today for instance.

Since early in my wife’s pregnancy, I’ve asked her if she’s OK about 3.5 million times a day. Every moan, grunt or waddle is noticed and inquired about. Every ailment is followed up minutes later with another, ‘Is everything OK?’

With the possibility of labor looming, I’ve gone into super alert mode. Inquiries have gone up 300 percent in the last two weeks.

To my wife’s credit, she’s never acknowledged that it bugged her.

Today, I joked that once she had the baby, I would no longer ask her 500 times a minute if she were OK. The constant alert would be dropped and transferred to the new house guest.

She laughed a little too hard, in a way that let me know it had been grating on her. She elaborated a little, expressing a few thoughts that probably aren’t appropriate here.

So I promised to stop.

Water broke? Nary a word or acknowledgement. Feels like the baby is punching your cervix? Sorry, I’ve used up all my ‘are you OK’s?’ The baby sat on your bladder and caused you to pee your pants as we sat in church? I’m pretending not to notice.

Wait, I gotta go. I think I heard my wife mumble under her breath.

Ode.

She turned down Jesus to raise a family. That's confidence, folks.


One Christmas, I took the cheapskate route and gave my wife (then girlfriend) my version of the story of us. The following is the last installment of that body of work.


I hope I’m good at raising kids one day, you said out of nowhere.

Who knows what spawned the thought? Maybe memories from a few hours earlier when you were playing with your three-year-old niece.

There is no doubt you’ll be a good mother. Absolutely. No. Doubt.

I’ve never met a child who didn’t grin unbearably after a little attention from you. Not a single one.

You teach your niece with ease. You laugh with her, fit in with her, relate to her with grace. Absolute grace.

Though you have career ambitions and energy to give to other people’s children, you say you were born to be a mother. Not in a way that suggests you have no other talents, in a way that suggests it will be your ultimate talent. Your masterpiece.

I’m looking forward to watching you and helping you raise children if we are so lucky. It’s always been one of the deal makers for me: I can picture you as a mother to my children, as by my side when I’m 90-years-old. You’ll make a great buddy at the senior center, no doubt.

And as your grandmother brought you great sadness when she died, you will do the same for your grandchildren, nieces and nephews. You are one of those people. You’re a favorite to many, including me.

Just like I suspect your Mama Jo did, I think you want it to be like that. You know how to be the favorite for those you really favor. You know the quick way in and you endure. If you like someone, they’re gonna be all right.

You love hard. You give hard. You feel hard.

You are soaked in life and especially love. You may possibly be love’s number one fan, its biggest advocate in the face of cynicism.

Besides all those great things, you make people better.

They laugh. They loosen up. They love.

It’s simple but it wasn’t like that before I met you. Sometimes it takes someone showing you how to be shamelessly silly.

So my kids, should they ever come to be, are lucky. They don’t even know it yet, but they’re so far ahead of other kids that it’s unfair.

They will have a mother who is a one-of-a-kind friend, stern but fair, smart but doesn’t put on heirs (ever), the best teacher I’ve ever met, a strong role model with a clear idea of what’s right and wrong, and one of the funniest, most fun to be around people you will ever meet.

She speaks her mind yet doesn’t offend. She communicates yet gives space.

If she loves you, she will stick up for you. She constantly defends her 20-pound, balding house cat from my creative insults. Her love ignores aesthetics. She holds him tight, calls for him when he’s not near, and endures all his fatness and shedding.

To answer your out-of-the-blue question about parenting, absolutely yes. If you aren’t a good mother, there are no good mothers.

Stealing from the church

Breast milk?!? What part of 'soy chai latte' don't you understand?


One of the most commonly asked questions I get lately is this: Are you ready for the baby?

This question is always followed by big smiles.

I think I’ve deflated a few of those smiles by answering, “I have no idea.”

It’s small talk, I get it.

In the most literal sense of that question, I don’t know if I’m ready for the baby or not. I’ve never welcomed a baby into my home before. It may be a lousy houseguest (hey, who said you could poop on the couch?).

I’m excited about the baby. I’m also kind of stressed.

I’ve never had to operate under severe sleep deprivation (this could get ugly). I’ve never been in charge of making sure a baby, a brand new human, is OK at all hours of the day and night.

I’d like to be a good mathematician or scientist. However, I know that I am not. Good intentions probably won’t change that.

The same goes for parenting. I have great intentions. That doesn’t mean I won’t fall on my face trying.

I may be the world’s worst baby holder (I prefer Mozart whilst you pack me up and down the steps, sir). The baby may find my breath offensive (Jelly beans again? You disgust me). What if the baby prefers steamed milk and lox for breakfast? How will I know?

All these anxieties are smoothed over because I know my wife was born to do this. I know it because she said it’s true.

Here’s a funny tidbit about my wife, the would-be nun.

She’s had three separate members of the clergy approach her about becoming a nun.

She’s always flattered, but, obviously, she’s always turned down their religious advances.

The last person to approach her about this (a nun) submitted a handwritten letter requesting that my wife consider joining the clergy.

My wife handled it gracefully, telling the nun that she felt she was born to be a mother. Somewhere, far away, I rejoiced without knowing why.

So while I can answer the small talk question with an “I don’t know,” I have confidence in my wife.

I respect my wife. I’m happy to say that she out earns me two-to-one. I don’t feel like less than a man by this (if I did, I would have to come to terms with living on hot dogs and Ramen noodles).

My wife deserves everything that comes her way. She’s a brilliant, caring teacher. She makes a difference in the world, and looks good while doing it.

So while I pine away, squirming in my seat over things I never considered to worry about before, I take solace in knowing that my wife has got this.

She may not admit as much, but I know her. She does have this.

I’ll be happy to play the supporting role, burping and changing and cooing into the dawn.

Intro.

Meet the happy couple.

See the hot one on the right? Yep, that's my wife.

Somehow I bamboozled her into marrying me. Some may wonder how. Well, I'll tell you.

I met her in a bar. Yep. A bar. Romantic? Hardly.

We met twice in a bar, actually. The first time I met her, I thought she was pretty hot (duh).

She was pretty friendly, too. If I didn't have my head stuck inside a beer bottle, I probably would have realized all that friendliness was actually her hitting on me. Ahem.

She emailed me a few times after that night in the bar. I was oblivious.

She was out of my league, older than me, obviously not interested.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

A year passed. I got over a relationship. I met some girls. Those girls were pretty cool, but something was missing. Wasn't sure what, though.

I came back to town. A little more clear-headed. A little more mature. A little more confident.

I walked into a bar, what would turn out to be my favorite bar, ever. She was there.

I smiled. She smiled. I took a seat at the bar, indifferent.

She came over, we talked. We talked for a looooong time.

The next day, an email. This time, I wasn't oblivious. This time I knew.

Plans were made. How about Friday? At the bar? Yes.

Want to know how I got the girl? It's easy. I lied.

Wait, I didn't lie. I just exaggerated, a little.

She mentioned she liked plays. I said I loved plays. She took me seriously and invited me to one. Gulp.

I went to the play. It wasn't bad (I didn't love it.)

After the play, we walked through a bookstore. We held hands, but then she let go. Bummer.

At the end of the date, she said, 'This was the perfect date.' My mouth? Agape.

That's how you get the girl, kids. You lie.