(See part one. This somehow never got published last year!)
But even if these are coincidences, they are remarkable coincidences and certainly merit the use of the name through giving it a meaning.
“Mom and Dad, where did my name come from?”
“Well, the name popped up either from the universe or by a series of consistent coincidences. It literally just came to us.” that’s a much better answer than, “It was your Daddy’s great-grandmother’s Confirmation name,” or something, no?
My wife is, once again, the most ticklish person I know.
Tell you what to do!
I don’t mean people who give you genuine advice on things like how to give a baby a bath, how awesome Boppies are, where to get really cool toys or what kind of non-disposable diapers worked (or didn’t) for them. Not only do I not consider this kind of advice to enter into the realm of assholedom; I think it’s helpful. I appreciate it. I never heard of a Boppy before some friends of ours turned us on to them. I didn’t know how to give a baby a bath at all (and am still fuzzy on it). We were steered away from certain cloth diapers by folks who have tried them and told us what they liked and didn’t like about them. We found many cool giraffe toys at Target. I am seriously grateful for a lot of the good advice people have offered. And, lest I be accused of being negative and hateful, it outnumbers the asshole bossiness because I’ve been avoiding the latter folks whenever I can.
This is not the same thing as forcing your opinions and your issues on someone. A list of sweeping generalizations, categorical imperatives, issues and misguided/misinformed opinions people have shoved down my throat (and I mean shoved):
You can’t raise your baby vegetarian.
You have to get a car! You need a car! You’re being stupid!
You’re going to regret not using “normal” Huggies [which were the only thing I tried].
I hope your baby don’t turn out too dark.
You gotta baptize that baby. It won’t know no religion if you don’t.
You worry too much.
You think too much.
You have to/can’t vaccinate that baby.
You ain’t putting that kid on no bike. No way.
Babies need meat!
One of you’s gotta stay home with that baby.
(I’m not going to give myself a headache by pointing out how half of this stuff is not even, according to most research, true.)
First of all, this is completely ridiculous. Parenthood seems, in a way, to be the ultimate exercise in authority. You have responsibility for an entire life. For better or for worse (groan), that’s power. Telling someone what to do with their dependent child is, in a way, stupid.
Second, by telling someone what to do with their child, you are assuming that: A) You’re not an idiot; and, B) The people you’re bossing around are idiots. This is insulting. And, considering that all parents make mistakes and that some of them make big ones (and that I can’t help but notice that bossier people tend to be, in my eyes, shitty parents coincidentally), this is delusional about yourself, i.e., that you can do something better than the person you’re bossing around, simply by virtue of the fact that you’ve already had a kid or two (or four). I’ve already had the pleasure of sitting through people telling me what to do and how to raise my unborn child, when these are people who have not only completely fucked their own kids up, but who are, to be frank, stupid.
Third, you’re being rude — at best. You’re not respecting the differences between people’s values. You eat meat; we do not. You drive everywhere in a car; we do not. You buy whatever’s on sale; we think more about it, even if that means we have to sacrifice something else to pay for it (and what we do with our money is none of your business). You think medical science is stupid if it contradicts what you decide is right with no medical or scientific training; we think that medicine and science are best left to researchers, not to products, out-dated practices and presuppositions. (Sure, perhaps I can be accused of not respecting the values of a person who is wrong, thinks he/she is right and then forces it on people. So be it. I don’t value or respect it.)
The useless aspect of this angry post is that most of the people I’m talking about don’t read blogs at all, and none of them actually reads this one. (So don’t get your panties in a bunch.) I’m talking to the wind. Or, maybe, to a person someone else knows, who is tempted to get bossy might find it on the web after they bossed a person and got cussed out? So maybe it’ll help someone? Or, at least, I think it bears saying somewhere. There’s a lot written about how to deal with bossy people, but nothing I’ve seen directed to these bossy people themselves.
Do you know what? It’s not Okay to do that. We shouldn’t have to deal with it; you should stop it.
But since people won’t stop it, I have to echo what everyone else says. Remember that you are the parent[s]. Your child is everything. Your child means more than other people’s feelings. Do what I don’t have the guts to do and tell people who tell you have to raise your kid to shut the hell up.
Smother you with their drama.
Okay, so I’ll brag about being a good listener. I have friends and family members (and a wife) who take advantage of this in a way that is beneficial for us all. Some people need a good listener, and good listeners usually like to listen and to be helpful by doing so. Then there are people who (insert sarcasm and raise volume) really take advantage of good listeners.
When the answer to, “How are you?” or, “How was your [period of time]?” or “Hi,” is a ten minute speech about what you had for dinner, what you’re thinking of having for lunch, what aches and pains you have today, what small worries that any adult should be able to deal with and other bullshit most people never even say outloud — when this is a litany without even a returned, “How are you?” I no longer have patience for you.
You can fuck off.
Buy a journal. Your mental/emotional health is less important to me than my incoming child — so much less that it makes me feel guilty and then mad for feeling guilty for giving a shit about people who are so self-absorbed that they steal time away from an expectant father who they are fully aware is completely busy, tired, stressed and could probably use a bit of a listener himself. Frankly, like any other human being, I only have so much patience to go around, and you can’t have any more of it.
This isn’t even about personality “types.” I am an introvert, and I am married to an extrovert. We balance each other out. What annoys me about “speechers” is not their extroversion but their self-centered bullshit. Being an extrovert doesn’t mean you have to be selfish. My wife is certainly not. If anything, I’d expect introverts to be this self-absorbed.*
I know I could just hint, nudge some individuals away gently, but this is a faulty approach to two reasons. First, I’m a sucker and a wimp. Second, I like to think that I like to help people when I can. While it’s easy to tell someone to fuck off online (especially when they don’t read your blog or even know you have one), it’s another matter in person. Third, speechers don’t get hints! I know people who will keep talking to you when your cell phone rings, even when you say, “It’s my wife,” and they know this wife is pregnant! Geez.
That is all the bitching for today. Stay tuned for everyone’s favorite asshole thing people do when you’re pregnant: tell you what to do!
*[Of course, while we're on the topic of "types," what's also annoying is an extrovert masquerading as an introvert, as if you can fool anyone. "I'm an introvert who has to think everything outloud to other people," is an incorrect assessment of how you deal with things. There's no shame to being an extrovert!]
You know, I think I forgot to mention Baby G’s gender. Me, I knew in April, before we were even trying. Funny story.
(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.
Or, at least, less afraid of everything? Or maybe so afraid of the BIG THING that everything else seems trivial. Or maybe I’m more comfortable with not caring about stupid things like my appearance.
Examples:
Calling someone a bad name that included the word “ugly” and a reference to her height because, well, she deserved to receive some grief. This was followed by a night of shame over freaking out like that. And a morning of being angry about being treated condescendingly that replaced any shame. Tip: Don’t be condescending to people just because you have the time to be.
Digging through piles of clearance stuff at a store where I saw really need wooden toys in the same place a few months ago. I was manic and didn’t care but still only found a busted doggy and ducky, neither of which were worth buying.
Wearing polo shirts/Tevas to meetings where I should be wearing at least at tie, if not a suit. Also wearing a thick beard to said meetings with high-ranking university officials (high enough to get my fired). At least I tucked my shirt in.
Leaning back in my chair with my hands over my head at meetings, staring out the window. I probably did this before (ADD), but now I know it. And drawing cartoons of the people present that they can probably see.
Actually threatened to break my still not fully function right hand over someone’s head if he attempts to break a certain banishment (long story) of which he himself was the author and which it is not my place to break or occlude said banishment — but where it is my place to support the banished party.
Ate breakfast with my luxuriously-round belly out because I didn’t feel like walking to my bedroom to get a shirt. I never ever ever do anything without a shirt except sleep and swim, and I don’t do either much lately. My 20s and my belly have not been friends. (Although apparently this makes me awesome?) Maybe my impending 30s and my belly will like each other more.
I have acquired the habit of yelling and waving at pedestrian-ignoring cars.
My non-healed injuries from this spring don’t worry me as much as annoy me. So what if I still can’t make a fist with my right hand, put weight on my left wrist or walk/cycle to much before my toe starts killing me? The thought of toe surgery is less scary and more of an annoyed case of, “Wait, how much longer will I be in crutches because of that stupid driver?”
These are probably not big deals to some people, but I’ve discovered that I am extremely fearful and anxious, despite my coffee-zen demeanor.
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.