Odds, Ends, and Doulas

To the right you can see what we've (mostly Alison) have been doing for the past month, you know, while we haven't been updating this here blog. We've been building a baby (like I said, mostly Alison). Apparently we put the battery in a little early, because the little rugrat has been kicking like Billy Blanks was doing a Tae Bo class in Alison's tummy.

Now, I think the kicking part is pretty cool. My little munchkin is raring to go and from what I've felt, is pretty strong and active. I think, however, that the novelty has worn off for the most part with my wonderful lady. The other night we spent the better part of an hour trying to get the little monkey to stop kicking so Alison could get to sleep. Suffice to say, it took a while, this whole thing is my fault, and for a little while, it was MY baby, not hers. Luckily I have plenty of practice taking the blame for things, thanks to my previous, less mature, slightly more chaotic life, so I am doing just fine with shouldering that blame.

It has been a pretty interesting month. We've been taking basic baby care classes (last class was last week) and I have to say, and I know I'm going to regret saying this later, that it just doesn't seem like things are going to be that bad. I mean, taking care of a baby is seems like it will be pretty straight forward. There aren't but a few things a baby really wants: sleep, food, clean drawers, and attention. Sounds about like what I was looking for when I met Alison, and look at me now.

Speaking of me, which we weren't really, but bear with me, I have stumbled across a theory I'm going to run by the lot of you reading this blog. The other day as we sat in the doctor's office (the weekly sonogram's take all of 5 minutes, while the wait time clocks in at at least triple that), Alison and I got into the reasons she still has to tell me things that she wants done, you know, rather than give some vague hint that maybe something needs to be done. I keep telling her it's just how guys are, she refuses to believe me, she wants a responsible man who knows to do all of these things she wants. I want a Unicorn that poops hundred dollar bills, and I'm willing to bet I get it before she finds a guy who doesn't need to be reminded to pick up his socks.

The theory goes something like this: Men date women, and get snared into long term relationships because they find a woman who will put up with them, occasionally let us fool around with them, and usually doesn't break our balls too much about the things we don't do. In other words, men date women because women let us. Women on the other hand, start dating a guy with diffenent intentions. They see a diamond in the rough. They don't date us for what we are when we meet them, but for the potential they see in us down the road. For example, I no longer wear clothing with pictures of scantily clad women on them. I generally don't miss the toilet anymore, or at least try really hard and make sure I clean up if I do. I know that dinner does not come from a microwave. I know that salad is not a dirty word. I've learned that most four letter words are not appropriate in the company of children (although you can be assured I plan on teaching my kid how to curse properly - with force, with purpose and with clear intent).

All of which is to say, that Alison has made some progress with me. Which is as it should be, but I don't think she's fully accepted that this will be a lifelong process, and that I will require training well into our golden years. This is how I know she loves me.

I ran this theory by the receptionist at the baby place we were at. She smiled but refrained from saying anything. This is how I know I'm right.

Aside from all of the other stuff we're debating at this point - where to put the baby when we bring the munchkin home, whether or not I'm allowed to dress the baby in an LA Lakers onsie, how much trouble I'll be in if the kid's first words are say, 'assclown', for example - the other idea that Alison has been floating is the hiring of a doula. For those of you who don't know, a doula is basically a midwife type of lady. She helps with the birth, provides moral support, holds hands, etc. I know, I know, I thought it was my job too. However Alison, despite no previous examples with which to back this particular idea up, has it in her head somewhere that I'm going to throw my hands up in frustration and be done with the whole thing mid-way through labor. Thus the idea that she needs a doula to pick up the slack.

In my defense I would like to say that I have never thrown my hands up in exasperation and walked off despite a number of occasions where the man-gods would have given me a pass. I have in fact proven to be pretty reliable. On the other hand, if the insurance will pay for it, I can't think of reason not to have a doula there. Better to have and not need, rather than need and not have.

'til next time...vaya con dios friends, we'll have more for you on Sunday, when - I promise - both Alison and I will be back writing again.