"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.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
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….
Friday, November 21, 2008
Perpetuating Pet Peeves
As a master of both the obvious and the understatement, I present the following: a parent's influence over his/her child is amazingly powerful. It seems self-evident that shaping a kid's moral compass is paramount to proper parenting. Of course, teaching etiquette and manners must rank pretty high on the list, too. And don't forget about reinforcing the important lessons like "sharing is caring," "being a team player," "lending a hand to those in need," and other seemingly cliche but truly important values. Okay. I know. I sound like Charlie Brown's teacher. Moving on.
All of those child rearing fundamentals are clearly elementary, but I feel like one of the coolest areas of influence that a parent has over a child is the ability to brainwash them into co-hating mom's or dad's pet peeves. Granted not all parents are on the same page as me, but I guarantee there are a handful out there reading this that are quietly nodding in agreement.
I can tell you right now that I certainly plan on administering my own form of KGB propaganda in baby t's early years. Here's just a short list, in no particular order, of those pet peeves that boil my blood:
1.) the interrupter = if you speak over me while I'm in mid-sentence, you might as well just hock a loogie in my face.
2.) the crop duster = why oh why must you fart during your walk to the water bubbler while I'm on the treadmill? (side note - ever notice that gym farts are especially horrid?)
3.) the tailgaiter = I don't enjoy feeling like O.J.'s Bronco just came up from behind while I'm freeway driving.
4.) the "can't be bothered" = it's pretty much a miracle if the cashier at CVS near Downtown Crossing isn't on her cell phone when you're waiting to be rung up;
5.) mr. cool = radio D.J. teachers seriously need to teach their students that speaking over a song before the lyrics kick in is NEVER COOL - please, just stop doing this;
6.) the fast forwarder = usually a caffeine buzzed car operator who FF's a song when it's only halfway through - you know who you are;
7.) the contrarian = it doesn't matter if you suggest that a human needs air to breath, this person will find a way to disagree;
8.) Ron Jaworski/Troy Aikman = really, it's okay to say NFL instead of National Football League, even just once during a game - a strangely disturbing trend;
9.) the shameless introvert = is it really that difficult to ask just one question about what's happening in my neck of the woods?
10.) the odd urinator = it makes no sense to me when dudes pee on toilet seats in male-only bathrooms when urinals are also available - i beg you, please stop the madness for those of us who have the unfortunate need to use a public throne - it just prolongs the nest making process;
Wow, that was therapeutic. I feel better already. We could go on forever because God knows I'm perfect and I never breach such reprehensible mores. Rather than end here, I'd like to hear from you all. Leave me a comment about your pet peeves (or feedback on those aforementioned) and I'll post an uber-list next week...
All of those child rearing fundamentals are clearly elementary, but I feel like one of the coolest areas of influence that a parent has over a child is the ability to brainwash them into co-hating mom's or dad's pet peeves. Granted not all parents are on the same page as me, but I guarantee there are a handful out there reading this that are quietly nodding in agreement.
I can tell you right now that I certainly plan on administering my own form of KGB propaganda in baby t's early years. Here's just a short list, in no particular order, of those pet peeves that boil my blood:
1.) the interrupter = if you speak over me while I'm in mid-sentence, you might as well just hock a loogie in my face.
2.) the crop duster = why oh why must you fart during your walk to the water bubbler while I'm on the treadmill? (side note - ever notice that gym farts are especially horrid?)
3.) the tailgaiter = I don't enjoy feeling like O.J.'s Bronco just came up from behind while I'm freeway driving.
4.) the "can't be bothered" = it's pretty much a miracle if the cashier at CVS near Downtown Crossing isn't on her cell phone when you're waiting to be rung up;
5.) mr. cool = radio D.J. teachers seriously need to teach their students that speaking over a song before the lyrics kick in is NEVER COOL - please, just stop doing this;
6.) the fast forwarder = usually a caffeine buzzed car operator who FF's a song when it's only halfway through - you know who you are;
7.) the contrarian = it doesn't matter if you suggest that a human needs air to breath, this person will find a way to disagree;
8.) Ron Jaworski/Troy Aikman = really, it's okay to say NFL instead of National Football League, even just once during a game - a strangely disturbing trend;
9.) the shameless introvert = is it really that difficult to ask just one question about what's happening in my neck of the woods?
10.) the odd urinator = it makes no sense to me when dudes pee on toilet seats in male-only bathrooms when urinals are also available - i beg you, please stop the madness for those of us who have the unfortunate need to use a public throne - it just prolongs the nest making process;
Wow, that was therapeutic. I feel better already. We could go on forever because God knows I'm perfect and I never breach such reprehensible mores. Rather than end here, I'd like to hear from you all. Leave me a comment about your pet peeves (or feedback on those aforementioned) and I'll post an uber-list next week...
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Push Gift Mythology
A devious, conniving wizard behind a diamond encrusted curtain once concocted this idea about a "push gift." Do not be deceived, ladies and gentlemen - that unseen CEO of a jewelry company was not looking for a way to reward new moms for delivering their first baby(ies.) The idea of a push gift is just good old capitalism merged with advertising, urban legend, and exploiting a man's guilt for failing to pony up some bling (the engagement ring apparently doesn't make the cut.) Okay, I'll get off my soap box now.
By no means do I intend to belittle the physical challenge of delivery that lies ahead for my baby mama. If anything, I've got belly envy. Baby T loves to practice kung fu and play air drums, which mom gets to experience all the time but daddio only feels when we're spooning. The best part about my wife's belly in its current form is feeling it in between us when we hug. It's a warm reminder of February 1, 2009.
As for a push gift, Baby T's mama has not so subtly left reminders in the form of Barmakian catalogues around the house and seemingly casual comments like, "Oh wow, this is so pretty!" I know that she is kind of kidding but I know that she wouldn't mind if I "surprised" her, too. I was raised Catholic so clearly guilt is one potential way of effectively manipulating me. And adding fuel to the fire are dudes who broke from what should be an unwritten fellow man code by going ahead and springing for the bling. (Yo, you're making us simpletons look bad!)
Crunch time fast approaches. I keep envisioning the delivery room with my baby mama and I holding hands in a hospital room. With a catcher's mitt on my free hand and a couple stogies in my pocket, I'll be chanting words of encouragement while Shell is loudly cursing me for having knocked her up. As for our push gift, the real present we'll be looking for on that day is the end of our wait for baby T. 10 weeks or less to go!
By no means do I intend to belittle the physical challenge of delivery that lies ahead for my baby mama. If anything, I've got belly envy. Baby T loves to practice kung fu and play air drums, which mom gets to experience all the time but daddio only feels when we're spooning. The best part about my wife's belly in its current form is feeling it in between us when we hug. It's a warm reminder of February 1, 2009.
As for a push gift, Baby T's mama has not so subtly left reminders in the form of Barmakian catalogues around the house and seemingly casual comments like, "Oh wow, this is so pretty!" I know that she is kind of kidding but I know that she wouldn't mind if I "surprised" her, too. I was raised Catholic so clearly guilt is one potential way of effectively manipulating me. And adding fuel to the fire are dudes who broke from what should be an unwritten fellow man code by going ahead and springing for the bling. (Yo, you're making us simpletons look bad!)
Crunch time fast approaches. I keep envisioning the delivery room with my baby mama and I holding hands in a hospital room. With a catcher's mitt on my free hand and a couple stogies in my pocket, I'll be chanting words of encouragement while Shell is loudly cursing me for having knocked her up. As for our push gift, the real present we'll be looking for on that day is the end of our wait for baby T. 10 weeks or less to go!
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