During The Big Ultrasound in November (the one wherein we found out Baby’s gender), GE was there selling 3D machines. So we were able to view (but not record) a 3D ultrasound of Charlotte. We could see her cute little face but were having trouble getting a steady shot. Because. She loves to put her hands to her face.
Even in the low-res, 2D versions, you can see her hands up to her face.
As soon as she came into the world, she was putting those arms up.
When she came back from the nursery, right after she was born, her face was red and raw from scratching herself up.
Whether playing, fussing or sleeping, she loves having those hands up on her cheeks and chin.
My wife is, once again, the most ticklish person I know.
Only for pictures, skin-to-skin when she freaks out about an after poopy-bath and tummy-time. Look at that butt-chin!
With my ladies.
OB Apt: Mama’s 80% effaced and 2cm dilated. Blood pressure’s high, but it looks like Baby won’t be late, after all that bed rest!
When people comment that tiny children require mounds of stuff, they’re not fooling you. Grandma and Grandpa insisted on buying the crib and got them into the Escape before we could finish checking out with other stuff at Ikea. This is matched by the car-load of stuff we got for the shower, the car load on its way via online shopping and the car load from Target and Babies “R” Us. Wow.
Two years ago, when my grandfather died, there became officially only two generations of my family, from which my last name comes: my father and my brothers. Starting in a few weeks (or possibly even this week), there will, once again, be three, when Baby is born.
When I was born, there were four. My great-grandfather (“Gramps”) was pretty awesome.
Okay. Defended the dissertation two weeks ago. Long story. I got myself so completely high on caffeine that my heart was beating 92 times a minute, sitting still. Seriously; I checked twice. I don’t think I’ve ever been as nervous about anything in my entire life. At a hospital, car crash, bike crash, social event, you’re not sitting alone thinking all day before your 4:30 event. I probably should have been more social that day, but I had no patience for drama, which seems everywhere these days — even my own. Anyway, I had all day to think of all the ways I’d screw it up, since I’m not only a terrible public speaker but also intimidated by the idea of a room full of philosophers versus me and me alone.
Went through the defense. Committee suggested some clarifications, treatments, etc., including fixing my “tone,” which some considered “flippant.” Upon revising it, I realized they were actually right about that. Not a big deal. Everyone has to make some changes after a defense, I’m told. My director called me “Doctor.” Some of the changes took me a while because I wanted to make sure they were right on the first try, and some took less because I already had the research. No one asked any of the questions I thought they would, though.
Nonetheless, the most unpleasant thing about my entire PhD program was over. But, with Baby on the way and the official electronic submission deadline looming, this meant that I was MIA for a week and half. My life was:
Wake up.
Work at job.
Dissertation at lunch.
Work at job.
Go to market.
Make dinner.
Work on dissertation.
Bed.
Repeat, and, on weekend, replace job work with housework, laundry, a food drive, etc.
(Also insert people being so disrespectful as to demand my time, knowing full well what was going on. I’m very generous with my time, I think, but I needed it this week for myself and my family.)
None of this was good for my sanity, though it’s been incredibly beneficial for my work ethic. As in, I have one now. I finished revising the dissertation and making all of the changes Saturday. Since then, I’ve been painting, caulking, cooking, shopping, cleaning and organizing in preparation for Baby. It’s non-stop, and I haven’t been online much, save a little on Facebook.
Last night, I had to take apart my [cheap] caulking gun because I bent the innards. Damned spring shot me in the freakin eyeball which, as you can imagine, hurts like hell today. Doesn’t look as bad as it did yesterday, though. Still, it calls to mind certain episodes of “The Simpsons.”
Now I’m working with my director to get it all final and done and gone. It feels too good to be true, and it hope it works. Because once Baby is born (any day now, literally), I don’t want to have to work on this ever again.
(Baby G’s little feet, hopefully not as wide and hairy as his/her Dad’s.)
Wow. There’s a lot going on in our little apartment these days, with Baby trying to kick his/her way out of Mama’s belly, while Mama is on bed rest and trying not to have Baby too soon. We hit 30 weeks this week. So even if Baby comes relatively soon, she’ll probably be Okay. Hopefully.
So we went to the OB last week. I think Mama was glad to get out of the apartment and building! The halls (floors, walls and ceiling) are all being replaced in our building, and she hadn’t seen the nice job the painters did on the first floor. I’d forgotten that she hadn’t been through our front door in nearly a week. Anyway, Dr. Jones had said we’d be going weekly to see her for the rest of the pregnancy when we saw her two weeks ago at 28 weeks (it’s “normal” to go every two at this point). But she said that everything had “stabilized” and that we didn’t have to come back for two weeks last Wednesday. After the scary visits we’d had the preceding two weeks, Mama and I were both ecstatic. But then she remembered that it meant two weeks without going anywhere. Still, good news that Baby will cooperate with cooking for a few more weeks before busting out into the world and his/her parents’ cuddles.
(Yes, I said “cuddles.”)
I still have a ton of work to do on Baby’s room. There are books to find homes for on other bookshelves as much as possible; a bookshelf to move; dozens of books to give away; storage boxes to be sorted through, thinned out and repacked; a big giant closet that needs to be cleaned out; painting the room (!); going to Ikea to get the furniture we picked out; storing the desktop computer (and giving away the desk), since the two netbooks we ordered last week should come this week or next (thanks for the vague timing, Ma and Pa Dell!); probably things I forgot. It’s for Baby; so I can handle it. I’m glad to do it.
I’m waiting for my apartment building to fix my kitchen phone jack (over which they painted) and to fix some water damage to the wall in Baby’s room so that I can paint. Maybe I can get finished some leaps this week and this weekend, with cleaning, possibly painting. Like a half dozen people have offered to help, and it’s just one room with three doors (one to the hallway, one the closet, one to the bathrooom) and a big window.
It won’t be hard.
Went to a follow-up with our OB yesterday. Mama’s 50% effaced, which could mean that Baby G wants to come out too soon. We’re just at 28 weeks. From what we’ve read, Baby would have a good chance right now, a very very good chance. And the chances at a normal life increase daily now. But, to be safe, Dr. Jones prescribed complete bed rest. And fetal monitoring and two shots of Betamethasone (one yesterday, the next later today), in addition to the blood sugar test Mama was supposed to undergo yesterday anyway.
So we went up to the maternity ward on the 16th floor once we figured out how to get there, getting pretty freakin terrified. There were no rooms, but a very nice nurse gave Mama the orange jug of stuff to drink for the glucose test ahead of time. She got her blood test in the waiting room after an hour (how long the test requires), after “Dr. Phil.” Mama’s a trooper with the blood tests! Then we went to triage to get Mama hooked up to a machine to monitor possible contractions and other signs of pre-term labor. She wasn’t feeling any contractions of pain, but we were still very very worried. Having that stuff strapped onto you can’t be fun, and it certainly felt bizarre to see my little wife that way.
Another patient got up to hit the potty with her sensors on, so our nurse had to run to take care of that situation. We sat alone listening to Baby’s heartbeat for over a half hour, hearing her kicking the sensor and moving away from it. Moving away meant that her little heartbeat kept changing on the monitor, dropping off for a few seconds here and there, going up and down. We panicked a little, looking for a way to call the nurse. The damned phone was a real phone, though. No luck. But then Nurse Michelle came back and explained that what was on the screen and on the print-out scroll was normal. Very super duper normal. That they were watching the monitor from somewhere else, too, the whole time. And Baby was very fine. No contractions or signs of distress. “Your baby is as happy as can be!” they told us, much to our relief.Michelle gave Mama the first steroid shot, and we waited through the rest of the test.
Afterward, the results of the blood sugar test came through. Mama’s sugar was high, but not very high. We go back to Dr. Jones this afternoon for the next steroid shot (though I have the vial!) and a follow-up. Starting February 3rd, we were supposed to start going every other week. Now, starting now, we’re going every week. That’s actually good. We’ll feel better knowing everything is being monitored. And it will give Mama the chance to get out of the apartment shortly once a week. She’s upset, and today is her birthday.
So we go to the hospital in the afternoon. Then I’ll go shopping, get supplies. Then make Mama whatever she wants for dinner. So far, it looks like Baby is Okay. I have to worry about Mama now.
Of someone riding my old (2005) bike. I found this photo on my old hard-drive (the one with Windoze). It’s my Dad. It’s during our move from Carbondale to Baltimore in August 2006. When our bikes were sitting by the little trailer, ready to get packed last, my Dad snatched my bike and took off. He wound up buying the 2006 model a few weeks later. Cycling is so damned fun that no one can resist and unattended bike.
Stop me if I’ve told this one before. My brother tells this joke, which must be asked of someone you are attracted to:
“Hey, do you have any Polish in in you?”
“No,” he or she will say.
“Want some?”
(We’re 1/4 Polish.)
Want something more intelligent? Read this.
One: The ways in which I have been spoiled today, culminating in a lovely sunset and cool evening (the end of summer?). From chocolate chip pancakes to delicious mattar paneer, this was a very yummy day. And there was also a fun dinner at Joe Squared last night, complete with French lager, Czech lager, Irish stout and chocolate cake.
Two: What I said I wanted since spring (when we decided to have a baby). I wanted Mrs. FP to be pregnant, and I wanted to know. With my party three weeks ago and the best news I ever received two weeks ago, I thought my birthday would be anti-climatic. But it wasn’t.
Thanks to everyone who made this three weeks of awesomeness. I am a very fortunate 30-year-old. Ahem, 29-year-old (again, ahem).
Went to a “Japanese Steakhouse” for my brother’s and sister-in-law’s birthdays last night. Had delicious beer and very good food. Ate mushrooms like mad. The cook nicknamed me Johnny Be Good and joked that I was able to knock-up Mrs. P with us both being vegetarians. Had chocolate/peanut butter/ice-cream cake. It felt like my birthday; my tummy was so happy.
Good thing I’m not scared of holding babies anymore! Mrs. P. took two tests Thursday night after the Ravens’ first score. The second (taken later, actually) was much darker. They’re still showing positive. So far as our blessings continue, Baby Pragmatik is due in April. John III or Charlotte. (Long story.) I’m still catching my breath. And reading Daddy books.
I got a ride to a campfire Saturday night in a pickup truck. We were tearing down a unpaved road in the woods. My Dad drove, and I was in the passenger side. Two guys were hanging onto the side of the truck on the runner, one on each side. It was pretty exciting after not leaving my apartment at all for like a week (really). I had to skip the trip because I can’t walk still, but it was very nice to at least get outside for an evening and to get to see Mr. Zack’s cute new baby.
I helped to give a new Eagle Scout the Pledge. Enjoyed kids performing skits and songs. It was awesome.
Afterward, what happens every Memorial Day happened: old flags were retired by fire. Last year, an older guy told the boys never to “stand” anyone to burn the flag, no matter how anyone feels about our country or about freedom of expression, etc. I don’t feel particularly motivated to do any flag burning of my own, but I found that little bit particularly distasteful. Being a “college boy”, I’m not exactly going to tell someone who was actually in a war how to feel about flag burning. This year, a gent who is a veteran of the Air Force (Hi, Mr. Y!) gave a nice speech before the flags were retired. He talked to the boys about what the flag stands for, including the right to burn it. I thought that was the perfect way to sum up the meaning of the stars and stripes, seriously. We’re free enough to reject it all, and I’ve known plenty of people who have felt that way.
I thought of my Uncle Harry, who’s no longer with us on Saturday night. I looked up to toast him in my mind and saw a solitary star in the clearing of trees. Felt a little odd. He would have enjoyed that fire and the company. His wife passed three months after he did, which just seemed to complete the situation to me. It seemed right. I’d still like to share some grilled corn with them again at a cook-out.
When we think of who has died in a war in this country — whether you think it was pointless, for freedom, for the rich, etc. — I remember that my father was in a war. Vietnam. Actually, as they say, “in the shit.” I’ve always found it bizzare to imagine such a gentle pussycat in such a situation. It’s hard to reconcile. I can’t imagine my father actually hurting anyone, and I’d bet he can’t either. When there’s the temptation to spread the blame for our clusterfuck “conflicts” that take lives, including Americans, to the men and women who actually have to do the taking and get their lives taken, I always remember my Dad. Getting spit on and called a Baby Killer when he came home to meet his cousin and best friend with only one of his legs. When nothing about my Dad or probably most of the other people he served with could be less true.
(Photo by Mrs. P, of my brothers and I on Mothers’ Day.)
My mom has a little pond her in yard, right off of the deck. It’s like her little peace place. There are cute statues, including a little gnome I gave her. A few years ago, my brothers and I joined forces to put in a larger and deeper pond. There was mud everywhere, and it was a fun effort. We work well together, we three brothers.
Lurking in the darkness of this deeper pond is Slider, the hungry turtle.
He’s snapped at dogs, and he’s got a thing for those baby shrimp you buy in a can. There used to be large goldfish in there. But he ate them all. The whole reason that the pond had to be re-dug was because eating fish that rivaled him in mass made him get huge.
Now he occupies an amount of space half the size of a college dorm room, including a large portion of garden and the entire pond. Attempts to introduce more fish to the pond result in a bigger and fatter turtle. If my mother approaches, he comes to her, expecting food. I’ve fed him enough that he comes over to me like a puppy for treats. Goldfish crackers, pieces of cheese, Ritz crackers — he’ll eat anything I give him. He looks at me with eagerness, circles his big sunning rock and thrusts his head out for morsels.
He’s growing all the time, it seems to me. I imagine that the neighborhood children near my parents’ house are going to start circulating rumors about that crazy turtle, which resembles some sort of scary croc sometimes.
“Did you know that the Elm Avenue Killer Turtle ate Timmy’s little brother? He went in after his Wiffle ball, and no one ever saw him again.”
“That scary Polish lady was out riding that turtle one day, and it had little Bobby’s half-eaten shoe coming out of its mouth!”
I can see it now.
I am at my family’s house in Hampden, in my old bedroom, on my Dad’s new computer. (I’m seriously stealing this frikkin monitor when I go back home.) After much drama, research and, well, bullshit, I have a new camera. It’s sitting here in the tiny (and kinda over-priced) case I bought for it, charging. Did three test black shots, and there was a weird spot in the first one. I almost pooped. But I took three. And the others were fine. Took two photos of the wife and put that baby on the charger like it told me to. It’s tiny. About the size of a deck of cards. I can actually carry it around! I didn’t check to make sure there’s no crap under the LCD, but that’s only happend to me twice (knock on wood), both with a Canon. The same one that died twice on me. Four of the same model (!). And the other dead pixel one and my favorite old A60 which up and died totally, else I’d probably still use it. With the luck I have with digital cameras, maybe I shouldn’t check? (Kidding.)
I am going to my brother’s house for Christmas Eve, and I’m stoked that I will have a camera. Enough eggnog in my baby brother, and I’d be a fool to miss it.
I should really post more candid photos of people on here and Flickr. But I don’t take a whole lot. I’m photo shy. I used to sneak photos of people and call it a pretentious name (look it up with the search function!).
I can’t sleep and didn’t eat much for dinner because I’m pooping myself with excitement over Christmas. I think being away from my apartment and job (and bike, poor thing) and seeing the presents I have for people is infecting me. I wanna wrap and give and take pictures of people opening the awesome shit I got for them.
I went shopping with my Mom yesterday like I used to before I started my VISTA year. People were nuts. You know, proof of the existence of God might lie in the way that more people don’t either die or kill each other over the stupid things people do when they are lurking and speeding their metal cages around with them.
You might think it’s weird to spend one’s day off with one’s mother, but I don’t give a shit if anyone thinks that. Hell, I like my parents a lot. I have fun with them. I feel badly for people who don’t enjoy their parents’ company, and that is at least half of the people I know.
Mrs. P. and I went shopping with my Dad tonight for a camera and other things. When I was in college, my Dad and I used to go shopping just days before Christmas and do all of our purchasing. I don’t think anyone really did online shopping back then. When I was living away, Mrs. P. got to come along, which was supposed to be understood as an honor. With the advent of online shopping and DOORBUSTERS, we’ve sorta fallen out of the tradition. I was glad to revive it tonight, quite unexpectedly.
I have a little more shopping to do on the Avenue tomorrow, a half a block away. And TONS of wrapping.
If you don’t hear from me before then, very happy holidays to you. And to everyone else I love or hate.
Fatherhood
