Friday, February 6, 2009: In the spirit of Bill Simmons, I thought I’d do a running diary of our recent events. My original post for last week was about how I hate being late and how Michelle is hardly ever on time, which suggested to me that the baby was going to be more like his/her mom because the arrival was overdue as of Super Bowl Sunday. Now I find myself typing from Beth Israel Deaconess Hospital in Boston watching Friday Night Lights with my baby mama lying next to me without any underwear on. None of this is an unusual Friday night experience except of course for the hospital part.
Michelle called me at work around 10:30 a.m. this morning to say that it was game time! After a visit to her doctor earlier this week, we received an appointment for Michelle to be induced on Saturday night if she had not yet begun labor. After she thought her water may have broken while driving on I-93, we decided it was better to be safe than sorry.
Since then, we packed, grabbed lunch, drove to the hospital, confirmed she was not in labor, decided to be induced since we were there already, sat through some tests, left for our “last supper”, and returned for admission.
Truth be told, Michelle was leaning towards becoming induced today so she can deliver before February 8 because she read some horoscope that said kids born on that date are spooky or something like that. I was hoping she’d deliver before Monday the 9th because it’s a full moon and I was worred we might spawn a werewolf. Here’s hoping the Pitocin does its job!
Michelle’s contractions are getting stronger and more frequent by the hour. We are getting excited! We texted family and friends around 5 p.m. The feedback was really encouraging and thoughtful. Now, on to the diary:
9:27 p.m. Michelle's contractions are increasing but she's taking it like a trooper.
9:30 p.m. Jeff Bridges just did a voiceover for a Hyundai auto commercial. I can't help but think of the Big Lebowski whenever I hear Jeff's voice. I wish the Dude did commercials for Kahlua instead.
9:34 p.m. Coach Taylor is going to start freshman J.D. over the struggling seniorMatt. Tyra is choosing a cowboy over Landry. Shocker!
9:38 p.m. Jerod commercial. I’m ready to punch myself in the face.
9:43 p.m. The anesthesiologist came in.
Doctor: Have you decided yet about an epidural when you begin la-
Michelle: Yes!
9:54 p.m. Jane Seymour is trying to make us believe she paints strange shaped hearts, which inspired Kay Jewelers to release her necklace just in time for Valentine’s Day. Not sure I believe it.
9:56 p.m. Smash Williams is in at Texas A&M. Nice. Shell and I love his mom.
10:01 p.m. Nurse Kelley came in to attach the fetal heart monitor. This is our 3rd time today. Whenever Shell has a contraction, the baby’s heart rate decreases and then when the contraction dissipates, the baby’s heart pitterpatters back up to sometimes as high as 180 per minute! Freaky.
10:22 p.m. Dr. Baker came in to follow up. 2nd dose of Cytotec. Shell is bummed because Dr. Baker’s shift ends at 8 a.m. Then, we have Dr. Lechter. No joke. I haven’t pointed out that he starred in Silence of the Lambs yet.
10:30 p.m. Shell just told Nurse Kelley she’s worried she may poop herself during delivery because she hasn’t gone # 2 yet today. Time will tell. We all wait anxiously - for the baby, not a poop.
10:59 p.m. The nutcase woman who had octuplets recently came on for a brief interview with Ann on Dateline. Her botox lips were so distracting that I can’t remember anything she said. Total kook.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
12:00 a.m. We are going to sleep.
3:00 a.m. Dr. Baker and Nurse Kelley came in. Michelle received a 3rd dose of Cytotec. I stayed half-asleep in my cot.
5:30 a.m. Dr. Quant checks Shell’s vajayjay. She’s 2 centimeters.
7:00 a.m. Shell is about to receive Pitocin for the 1st time. Overall, she hasn’t had any significant pain. My jobs have included holding her hand, pressing the button for her bed to move up and down, and running errands. Her contractions are increasing in strength and frequency again.
7:22 a.m. We are relieved to discover that Dr. Lichter will deliver the baby. Not Hannibal Lechter. Phew.
7:31 a.m. Nurse Kelley’s shift just ended. She predicts a girl at 8 pounds. She was awesome.
7:45 a.m. Nurse Nicole just arrived. She’s from NH so obviously she’s cool.
7:59 a.m. Nurse Laura came by to say hello. She admitted us yesterday when we first arrived. She is from the Cape. We love her.
8:06 a.m. Okay, no more joking. Shell is really nauseous and uncomfortable. The Pitocin seems to be taking effect.
10:09 a.m. After two hours of abdominal pain and vomiting and dry heaving, Shell opted for the epidural. She was worried about not being able to sit still due to progressively worsening discomfort so she erred on the side of caution. She is noticeably more relaxed. Three more increases in Pitocin to go…
10:48 a.m. Shell is groggy. Hopefully, she falls asleep.
12:05 p.m. The first epidural didn’t take. The anesthesiologist was poking her in several spots around her abdomen and Michelle felt all of the pokes. Now she’s going through round 2 and a spinal to ensure maximum comfort.
2:30 p.m. Epidural part deux is a success. Shell is much more relaxed. She’ll try to sleep now so I won’t distract her by banging on the computer keys.
4:05 p.m. Still feeling sick to her stomach, Shell received an anti-nausea medication.
5:43 p.m. Up and down day. The baby’s heart rate was concerning the doctor a little bit but it appears to have stabilized after Shell received more hydration intravenously. The other problem is that the mama to be is still only dilated at 3 cm. Shell is now mentally prepared for a c-section if necessary, although she's not happy about it. Her health and that of the baby are primary, while her desire to deliver vaginally is secondary. Dr. Lichter to return by 6:00 p.m.
On a side note, the staff have all been pretty wonderful. The nursing staff in particular couldn’t be more supportive and enthusiastic. Really refreshing and appreciated.
5:50 p.m. Shell is sleeping with her Us Weekly and People laying on top of her. She looks so cute. The wait continues. I'm thinking the c-section is around the corner.
6:00 p.m. Hold on a second. Shell is at 4 cm. No need for a c-section yet.
8:00 p.m. I am bored out of my mind. I've read everything we brought with us except my Almanac. I don’t want to complain because I don't want to hurt Shell’s spirits. This baby is already driving me crazy and he/she is still in utero. Let’s get it going already. I’m still in yesterday’s underwear. I hate seeing Shell in pain.
9:10 p.m. Nurse Kelli (different spelling from our prior one) is in the house now. Yet another solid personality! She rocks. Dr. L just announced that the baby is rimming (delivery jargon for 9.5 cm) and we are so fired up for a sign of major progress.
10:40 p.m. We finally heard what we've been waiting for all day: "Are you ready to push?"
To be continued...
Friday, February 13, 2009
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Introducing ... Greta Jane Teravainen!
She's here! Mama T introduced Baby T to the world on Sunday, February 8, 2009 at 1:55 a.m. She is 20 1/2 inches long and 8 pounds, 7 ounces.
Greta, Mama T, and Daddio are resting and enjoying each other's company. All are healthy and happy.
Enjoy a few pics. Blog entries to follow this week...
Greta, Mama T, and Daddio are resting and enjoying each other's company. All are healthy and happy.
Enjoy a few pics. Blog entries to follow this week...
Saturday, January 24, 2009
TCOB & ROFLUTS (ok maybe just TCOB)
"P911 - OMG, WTF!" is text acronym jive for "Parent in the room - Oh my God. What the fahshizzle!" Don't mind me, I'm just brushing up on this pseudo sub-language in anticipation of Baby T asking for his/her first iPhone at 7 years old.
The text acronym phenomenon (or epidemic to some) has spread like zombies in 28 Days Later. The infection spreads quickly with the rapid increase in use of IM, crackberries, e-mail, and tomorrow's technological gadget that somehow expedites the speed of current communication channels. In 10 years, Apple will probably sell hats for $700 at Best Buy that detect our brain impulses and send messages telepathically to whomever is on your mind.
There are many who rant and complain about how text messaging harms our children's ability to spell properly and communicate effectively. Perhaps the self-righteous scholars of proper grammar are correct, but the trend to shorten words or phrases is not the blame of today's teenagers.
To me, receiving a handwritten letter or note by "snail mail" is one of the most pleasant surprises one may encounter in the course of a day - especially now in light of the many other faster, yet somewhat less meaningful ways of communication. Notwithstanding the sentimentality of letter writing, the sender and recipient understood an unwritten code of ABCs that accompanied correspondence. Exhibit 1: RSVP, SWAK, XOXO, P.S., SASE, and perhaps the most obvious example - postal abbreviations for each of the 50 states!
Of course, followers of the NYSE know how ATT, GE, IBM, and other S&P500ers did in yesterday's market. Everyone has watched movies on VHS using VCRs or DVDs using PS3s in HD after watching CNN, MTV, or TNT on their TVs. Doctors and nurses know BP, DOA, DOB, Rx, etoh, LBP, and ICD-9 codes. BTW, corporate America loves acronyms - ask anyone who works in an office about the many variations of their TPX reports. FYI, sports fans love their abbreviations: MVP, RBI, NFL, MCL, ESPN. In college, we had BMOC, ROTC, 420, and 34Ds. I could go on 4eva.
TMI or UGTBKM, u say? SS. I just TILIS. NALOPKT. Anyway, ^5s 2 all of u reading. DLTBBB. L8er SK8ers.
The text acronym phenomenon (or epidemic to some) has spread like zombies in 28 Days Later. The infection spreads quickly with the rapid increase in use of IM, crackberries, e-mail, and tomorrow's technological gadget that somehow expedites the speed of current communication channels. In 10 years, Apple will probably sell hats for $700 at Best Buy that detect our brain impulses and send messages telepathically to whomever is on your mind.
There are many who rant and complain about how text messaging harms our children's ability to spell properly and communicate effectively. Perhaps the self-righteous scholars of proper grammar are correct, but the trend to shorten words or phrases is not the blame of today's teenagers.
To me, receiving a handwritten letter or note by "snail mail" is one of the most pleasant surprises one may encounter in the course of a day - especially now in light of the many other faster, yet somewhat less meaningful ways of communication. Notwithstanding the sentimentality of letter writing, the sender and recipient understood an unwritten code of ABCs that accompanied correspondence. Exhibit 1: RSVP, SWAK, XOXO, P.S., SASE, and perhaps the most obvious example - postal abbreviations for each of the 50 states!
Of course, followers of the NYSE know how ATT, GE, IBM, and other S&P500ers did in yesterday's market. Everyone has watched movies on VHS using VCRs or DVDs using PS3s in HD after watching CNN, MTV, or TNT on their TVs. Doctors and nurses know BP, DOA, DOB, Rx, etoh, LBP, and ICD-9 codes. BTW, corporate America loves acronyms - ask anyone who works in an office about the many variations of their TPX reports. FYI, sports fans love their abbreviations: MVP, RBI, NFL, MCL, ESPN. In college, we had BMOC, ROTC, 420, and 34Ds. I could go on 4eva.
TMI or UGTBKM, u say? SS. I just TILIS. NALOPKT. Anyway, ^5s 2 all of u reading. DLTBBB. L8er SK8ers.
Friday, January 16, 2009
A Difficult Choice
"In this country's love affair with professional sports, the athlete has more and more come to resemble the inamorata - an object of unceasing scrutiny, rapturous adoration, and expensive adornment - while the suitor, or fan, remains forever loyal, shabby, and unknown. Sports fans are thought of as a mass - statistics that are noticed only when they do not fall within their predicted norms - but the individual fan ... is a loner, a transient cipher, whose streaks and slumps go unrecorded in the annals of his game. Every sport, however, has its great fans as well as its great athletes - classic performers whose exceptional powers set them apart from the journeyman spectator. They are veterans who deserve notice if only for the fact that their record of attachment and service to their game and their club often exceeds that of any player down on the field. The home team, in their belief, belongs to them more than to this passing manager or to that arriviste owner, and they are often cranky possessors, trembling with memory and pride and frustration, as ridiculous and touching as any lovers." From "Three for the Tigers" by Roger Angell, 1973.
I was born in Brooklyn, NY in 1975. We moved to New Hampshire when I was 3. Notwithstanding the relocation, my parents raised my brother and I to be anything but Sox fans. We approached our allegiances like the Cosa Nostra. I went with the Bronx. T-bone took Queens.
Before ESPN, the Internet, and satellite radio, our access to daily baseball news consisted of a 5 minute segment at the tail end of the nightly TV news and Associated Press summaries. West Coast road trips were agonizing. Annoyed that other subjects obstructed our destination, we'd impatiently discard pages until the Sports Section was finally accessible. We scoured box scores like archaeologists scrutinizing the Dead Sea scrolls. "Did the Yanks win?" "How many bases did Rickey steal?" "How did Donny Baseball finish?" "Did the Sox lose?"
Almost every summer that I can remember as a kid, my brother and I schlepped to the homes of various relatives in Long Island and Brooklyn. During those weeks, I was in a pseudo-nirvana. I got to watch WPIX and listen to the Scooter say "Holy Cow!" when Nettles, Winfield, or Pags went yard.
Despite the sacred love I had for the Yankees and the seemingly life-or-death effect of a win or loss, my allegiance was constantly challenged by obnoxious Sox fans - basically, all of my buddies. Before you get in my grille, keep in mind that I have no memory of the Yankees' World Series titles in 1977 or 1978. When I came of age to truly appreciate the game, I suffered through some abysmal seasons. Andy Hawkins once pitched a no-hitter - and lost! Steinbrenner hired and fired Billy Martin every other season. They finished fourth in the AL East in 87' and fifth in 88'. In 1994, the Yankees would have destroyed any opponent en route to a championship - but alas, the strike screwed us. Then, A-Rod, Griffey, and The Unit knocked the Yankees out of the playoffs in Donny's last season the following year. Finally, the Joe Torre Era (and his nose picking) brought the taste of victory for me in 96', 98', 99', and 00'.
As for Baby T, I'm leaving it up to her/him. Of course, I'd love it if he/she got on board with me. The Bombers aren't so bandwagon now having just missed the playoffs last season and with the Sox owning 04' and 07'. But anticipating that we'll be living in Massachusetts together for the next 30 years at least, I can understand why he/she might go with the Sox. It's a lot more fun watching and going to games with friends and family rooting for the same team, praying at the exact same moment for that clutch hit or grounder finding its way up the middle.
Yet, we could still love baseball together equally, engage in pointless debate like the sports talk show hosts and other know-it-all tools who telephone with their opinions, and appreciate the truly wonderful Fenway experience, while rooting for each other's nemesis. But at the same time, choosing a side is almost akin to selecting a religion.
Think about it: we all universally love the sport (God) regardless of the team and practice the rituals by attending/watching games (church/temple/kneeling towards Mecca). There are the old school powerhouses like the Yanks, Sox, and Dodgers (Jews, Muslims, and Christians), and the new age contenders like the D-backs and Rays (Unitarians and vegetarians.) About 98% follow a similar code of living life in appreciation of beauty (drag bunts, complete game shutouts, inside-the-park HRs, and the last major sport with open tobacco use). But of course, there are always the fringe, extremist zealots that ruin it for the rest of the fan base, i.e. suicide bombers and anyone at The Baseball Tavern after the Yankees have swept the Sox at Fenway.
Well, we shall have to wait and see. Baby T's still cooking on the defrost setting until Feb. 1. After then, don't let me catch any of you Sox fans proselytizing. (There's a little ham and eggs vocab coming at ya.) I will let free will decide...
I was born in Brooklyn, NY in 1975. We moved to New Hampshire when I was 3. Notwithstanding the relocation, my parents raised my brother and I to be anything but Sox fans. We approached our allegiances like the Cosa Nostra. I went with the Bronx. T-bone took Queens.
Before ESPN, the Internet, and satellite radio, our access to daily baseball news consisted of a 5 minute segment at the tail end of the nightly TV news and Associated Press summaries. West Coast road trips were agonizing. Annoyed that other subjects obstructed our destination, we'd impatiently discard pages until the Sports Section was finally accessible. We scoured box scores like archaeologists scrutinizing the Dead Sea scrolls. "Did the Yanks win?" "How many bases did Rickey steal?" "How did Donny Baseball finish?" "Did the Sox lose?"
Almost every summer that I can remember as a kid, my brother and I schlepped to the homes of various relatives in Long Island and Brooklyn. During those weeks, I was in a pseudo-nirvana. I got to watch WPIX and listen to the Scooter say "Holy Cow!" when Nettles, Winfield, or Pags went yard.
Despite the sacred love I had for the Yankees and the seemingly life-or-death effect of a win or loss, my allegiance was constantly challenged by obnoxious Sox fans - basically, all of my buddies. Before you get in my grille, keep in mind that I have no memory of the Yankees' World Series titles in 1977 or 1978. When I came of age to truly appreciate the game, I suffered through some abysmal seasons. Andy Hawkins once pitched a no-hitter - and lost! Steinbrenner hired and fired Billy Martin every other season. They finished fourth in the AL East in 87' and fifth in 88'. In 1994, the Yankees would have destroyed any opponent en route to a championship - but alas, the strike screwed us. Then, A-Rod, Griffey, and The Unit knocked the Yankees out of the playoffs in Donny's last season the following year. Finally, the Joe Torre Era (and his nose picking) brought the taste of victory for me in 96', 98', 99', and 00'.
As for Baby T, I'm leaving it up to her/him. Of course, I'd love it if he/she got on board with me. The Bombers aren't so bandwagon now having just missed the playoffs last season and with the Sox owning 04' and 07'. But anticipating that we'll be living in Massachusetts together for the next 30 years at least, I can understand why he/she might go with the Sox. It's a lot more fun watching and going to games with friends and family rooting for the same team, praying at the exact same moment for that clutch hit or grounder finding its way up the middle.
Yet, we could still love baseball together equally, engage in pointless debate like the sports talk show hosts and other know-it-all tools who telephone with their opinions, and appreciate the truly wonderful Fenway experience, while rooting for each other's nemesis. But at the same time, choosing a side is almost akin to selecting a religion.
Think about it: we all universally love the sport (God) regardless of the team and practice the rituals by attending/watching games (church/temple/kneeling towards Mecca). There are the old school powerhouses like the Yanks, Sox, and Dodgers (Jews, Muslims, and Christians), and the new age contenders like the D-backs and Rays (Unitarians and vegetarians.) About 98% follow a similar code of living life in appreciation of beauty (drag bunts, complete game shutouts, inside-the-park HRs, and the last major sport with open tobacco use). But of course, there are always the fringe, extremist zealots that ruin it for the rest of the fan base, i.e. suicide bombers and anyone at The Baseball Tavern after the Yankees have swept the Sox at Fenway.
Well, we shall have to wait and see. Baby T's still cooking on the defrost setting until Feb. 1. After then, don't let me catch any of you Sox fans proselytizing. (There's a little ham and eggs vocab coming at ya.) I will let free will decide...
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Moosh Musings
Mysteries of baby T gather momentum with each day that mama T (and her belly) inch closer to delivery. Outwardly and inwardly, we and our loved ones have many questions about our future family addition.
Of course, our paramount concern is for the baby's health and mama's safety. When our thoughts turn less serious, the most common speculation is if we are having a boy or a girl.
Selfishly and perhaps inevitably, I wonder ... what about the baby will be like me? Will my genes give the baby a big forehead and a gap in the front teeth? Will he/she like baseball, memorizing world capitals, and Scrabble?
Or will she/he be more like her mom? Will her genes give the baby pretty, three-ring eyes and curly hair? Will she/he like gymnastics, "So You Think You Can Dance?", and facebook?
Only time will tell.
One tendency that I strongly hope does not pass by my DNA is a phenomenon that I encounter almost daily in my life. It's something that I call "moosh." Perhaps you have experienced it yourself.
For example, you walk into Dunkins for a medium hot regular and have a choice of two lines. One line has 5 people, the other has 2. Naturally, you choose the 2. The customer at the front of your line receives her coffee and leaves the line. Quietly, you chuckle at the 5th person in the other line because you know he'll still be standing there when you leave with your coffee in hand. You wait patiently and suddenly overhear the customer in front of you.
He's reading off of a list written on the back of a pizza box. Still wearing a hard hat and his Carhart overalls, you realize it's the construction rookie with the entire crew's 9 a.m. coffee break order. Frantically, your eyes dart to the other line and it's down to 3. Do I stay or go? You freeze hoping that the cashier is a pro who can bang out 10 coffees in 60 seconds. Peering your head around the carpenter's shoulder, you see a sticker above the cashier's name tag that reads "I'm in training." Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh! She hasn't even started microwaving the croissanwiches yet.
Not only has the 5th customer come and gone in the other line by the time you announce your order in .79 seconds to the new hire, the coffee maker almost definitely requires a filter change, or they're waiting for the manager because the register's out of ones. You've been mooshed.
Line moosh comes in many other forms: stop and go traffic (I always choose the wrong lane), airport security lines (I never see the family with 3 kids ahead of me until it's too late), grocery store lines (especially the self-service checkout - avoid this at all costs!), bank teller lines (I'm sure a hold-up is just around the corner), etc.
As for baby T, I hope for his/her sake that the moosh was a recessive gene that he/she does not inherit. I guess we'll find out when we pick an exit lane at the hospital's parking garage...
Of course, our paramount concern is for the baby's health and mama's safety. When our thoughts turn less serious, the most common speculation is if we are having a boy or a girl.
Selfishly and perhaps inevitably, I wonder ... what about the baby will be like me? Will my genes give the baby a big forehead and a gap in the front teeth? Will he/she like baseball, memorizing world capitals, and Scrabble?
Or will she/he be more like her mom? Will her genes give the baby pretty, three-ring eyes and curly hair? Will she/he like gymnastics, "So You Think You Can Dance?", and facebook?
Only time will tell.
One tendency that I strongly hope does not pass by my DNA is a phenomenon that I encounter almost daily in my life. It's something that I call "moosh." Perhaps you have experienced it yourself.
For example, you walk into Dunkins for a medium hot regular and have a choice of two lines. One line has 5 people, the other has 2. Naturally, you choose the 2. The customer at the front of your line receives her coffee and leaves the line. Quietly, you chuckle at the 5th person in the other line because you know he'll still be standing there when you leave with your coffee in hand. You wait patiently and suddenly overhear the customer in front of you.
He's reading off of a list written on the back of a pizza box. Still wearing a hard hat and his Carhart overalls, you realize it's the construction rookie with the entire crew's 9 a.m. coffee break order. Frantically, your eyes dart to the other line and it's down to 3. Do I stay or go? You freeze hoping that the cashier is a pro who can bang out 10 coffees in 60 seconds. Peering your head around the carpenter's shoulder, you see a sticker above the cashier's name tag that reads "I'm in training." Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh! She hasn't even started microwaving the croissanwiches yet.
Not only has the 5th customer come and gone in the other line by the time you announce your order in .79 seconds to the new hire, the coffee maker almost definitely requires a filter change, or they're waiting for the manager because the register's out of ones. You've been mooshed.
Line moosh comes in many other forms: stop and go traffic (I always choose the wrong lane), airport security lines (I never see the family with 3 kids ahead of me until it's too late), grocery store lines (especially the self-service checkout - avoid this at all costs!), bank teller lines (I'm sure a hold-up is just around the corner), etc.
As for baby T, I hope for his/her sake that the moosh was a recessive gene that he/she does not inherit. I guess we'll find out when we pick an exit lane at the hospital's parking garage...
Thursday, December 4, 2008
A Dreaded Question
"What are the birds and the bees?" No, I'm not scared to answer that one. Many years of procrastination lie between now and then - plus, one of baby T's friends' parents are likely to leave their Internet unprotected so that should probably get me off the hook.
"Can I shave my legs?" Whether we have a girl or a boy, I'll likely refer baby T to mama T if confronted with that question. Then, I'll look to make sure there's some Jameson in the liquor cabinet.
"How many Super Bowls have the Jets won in your lifetime?" I hope the answer to that question is at least one by the time baby T is watching football and wearing green with me on Sundays. While I suspect the answer to that question will likely be zero, it doesn't make me nervous. Instead, I kind of foresee the following exchange:
Baby T: How did you get mom to go out with you?
Daddio: Well, baby T, I was at Uncle Noonan's 30th birthday party and I was dressed like Judge Smails from Caddyshack.
Baby T: What's Caddyshack?
Daddio: It's an awesome movie. Anyway, mom came to the party late because she was working as a bartender back then. I missed the chance to speak with her because Uncle Randy was mowing my lawn.
Baby T: What's mowing your lawn mean?
Daddio: Nevermind. Then, I saw that she was leaving to go. So, I ran outside after her. When I got outside the Seapoint, mom was getting into her car.
Baby T: Where's the Seapoint?
Daddio: It's in Southie where the 3 of us lived before we moved into the house. Anyway, we're standing in the parking lot and it was beginning to rain. I thought it was a sign. We started talking and I was feeling a good vibe so I decided to ask her out. She reached into the car to write down her number on a piece of paper, but then she stopped and said that she had a date the next morning. Brunch, actually. And then she said that she didn't feel comfortable dating more than one person at the same time.
Baby T: Bummer. That's awkward.
Daddio: Agreed, although it got much more awkward afterwards when I leaned in and tried to kiss her. She jolted her head back as I moved in lips first. I think she may have even gasped and said something like "What are you doing!?" I thought she was giving me the signal! I mean, she just had this great smile that made her eyes twinkle at me and ...
Baby T: (stunned) (shaking his/her head in disbelief) Why are your answers to simple questions so long-winded?
Daddio: (shrugging) Sorry, kiddo. Want to see if the Jet game is on? I think mom's done watching her Gossip Girl repeats.
Baby T: I hate that show.
Daddio: That's my boy/girl!
"Can I shave my legs?" Whether we have a girl or a boy, I'll likely refer baby T to mama T if confronted with that question. Then, I'll look to make sure there's some Jameson in the liquor cabinet.
"How many Super Bowls have the Jets won in your lifetime?" I hope the answer to that question is at least one by the time baby T is watching football and wearing green with me on Sundays. While I suspect the answer to that question will likely be zero, it doesn't make me nervous. Instead, I kind of foresee the following exchange:
Baby T: How did you get mom to go out with you?
Daddio: Well, baby T, I was at Uncle Noonan's 30th birthday party and I was dressed like Judge Smails from Caddyshack.
Baby T: What's Caddyshack?
Daddio: It's an awesome movie. Anyway, mom came to the party late because she was working as a bartender back then. I missed the chance to speak with her because Uncle Randy was mowing my lawn.
Baby T: What's mowing your lawn mean?
Daddio: Nevermind. Then, I saw that she was leaving to go. So, I ran outside after her. When I got outside the Seapoint, mom was getting into her car.
Baby T: Where's the Seapoint?
Daddio: It's in Southie where the 3 of us lived before we moved into the house. Anyway, we're standing in the parking lot and it was beginning to rain. I thought it was a sign. We started talking and I was feeling a good vibe so I decided to ask her out. She reached into the car to write down her number on a piece of paper, but then she stopped and said that she had a date the next morning. Brunch, actually. And then she said that she didn't feel comfortable dating more than one person at the same time.
Baby T: Bummer. That's awkward.
Daddio: Agreed, although it got much more awkward afterwards when I leaned in and tried to kiss her. She jolted her head back as I moved in lips first. I think she may have even gasped and said something like "What are you doing!?" I thought she was giving me the signal! I mean, she just had this great smile that made her eyes twinkle at me and ...
Baby T: (stunned) (shaking his/her head in disbelief) Why are your answers to simple questions so long-winded?
Daddio: (shrugging) Sorry, kiddo. Want to see if the Jet game is on? I think mom's done watching her Gossip Girl repeats.
Baby T: I hate that show.
Daddio: That's my boy/girl!
Advice from my cousin Sean
Thought you might like to look into the crystal ball and grab a glimpse of what lies ahead. I wake up every morning and come home every evening waiting to meet the 23 month old love of my life. She runs to the door and sings one of her twenty-five understandable words….”daddy!” I pick her up and give her a hulk hug and a huge kiss hello. She guides me into my room to make sure I take the tie off and put my business clothes in a safe place. We return to the kitchen for dinner with a plain white t shirt and the same pair of under armour shorts. Madison takes her seat and eats with a fork like an angel. Approximately 7 minutes into her meal, she gives mom and dad a great big smile, grabs her plate and flings it across the dining room. Madison gets a time out, mom and dad open a bottle of wine and the games begin….
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