Baby On Board

Where was I...

Oh yeah, my wife is pregnant.

Very pregnant.

32 weeks pregnant.

We go by weeks now.

But considering what it’s taken to get here, it’s more like day-to-day.

At the ripe old age of 42, getting pregnant is the last thing my wife expected.

Definitely not the last thing she wanted.

But after driving down this road many times, the only thing she could see was a dead end.

But for a reason way beyond us, this time it has worked.

There’s no explaining why it worked.

And considering it took me two tries to barely pass biology.

I’m definitely not the one to do the explaining.

I’ve left that part to the doctors.

And we saw plenty of them.

Including one of those reproductive specialists.

Dr. Bush.

(That still makes me laugh.)

(Come on, a reproductive doctor named Dr. Bush?)

(Really!)

Anywhoo...

Visit after visit.

We learned pretty much nothing about why.

Or in our case why not.

What I did learn is that doctors make my wife nervous.

So nervous, she makes up words.

Like, “examinating.”

Examine, that’s a word.

Examinating, not so much.

And she’s got a Master’s degree.

My wife and I are the proud parents of three children.

Proud!

Three healthy, happy children.

We are blessed beyond belief.

But like Dick Van Patten, three was not enough for us.

We’d been trying for seven years to bring another member to this family.

Which may sound like fun to a horny teenager.

But it’s no fun when you are 44.

No fun for me.

Hell for my wife.

Maybe it’s a male/female thing.

Maybe it’s more than that.

My wife and I are very different.

And that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

I come from an extremely small family.

Both my mother and my father had no brothers.

And no sisters.

I have spent most of my life calling people Uncle and Aunt.

Even though we didn’t share the same blood.

My wife has a much bigger pool to pull from.

A brother and a sister.

Nieces and nephews.

Uncles and Aunts.

Real ones.

Cousins and more cousins.

But that’s hardly the only difference between us.

Hardly.

She was born in South Korea.

I was born in San Diego.

She was raised Catholic.

I am was raised Jewish.

Very Jewish.

She moved to the United States when she was three so that her parents could chase the the American dream.

My father was the first person to earn a ring from both the World Series AND Super Bowl.

Not bad for a 5-foot-9 white guy from Jersey City.

My wife and I met in college.

We were actually friends years before she fell in love with me.

What a concept.

We dated for a few years.

I proposed.

We got married.

We moved cross country for my job.

Did I leave out any details?

Maybe a few, but keep reading.

The year was 1997 and my wife and I decided that we were ready to start a family.

Three years after we got married.

I was approaching 30.   She had just turned 27.

On a Saturday morning we announced to the baby doctor that we were hoping to get pregnant.

Moments later the doc announced to us that we already were.

Pregnant.

Surprise!

Wow, that doctor works fast.

We had no idea when we sat down in the office that nature had already taken its course.

But with a little test in a cup, we got the very exciting news.

40 or so weeks later, give or take, our little girl arrived.

It was a very normal pregnancy.

As pregnancies go.

The little guy was pretty much no different.

We met him 21 months later.

By that point we figured that getting pregnant was not only fun.

But easy.

So we tried again.

And again.

And again.

A couple of times it actually worked.

And then it didn’t.

Only my therapist gets those details.

But the bottom line is we had come to grips that if a pair was good enough for Noah.

It had to be good for us. 

Little did we know that in the fall of 2003, we’d turn that pair into three-of-a-kind.

Another beautiful baby girl.

Born in October of that year.

Healthy.

And funny too.

There wasn’t a day during that pregnancy that any of us took anything for granted.

I think we spent more time in the doctor’s office than Cliff Huxtable.

But the end result was a healthy child.

And that was all that mattered.

We knew for sure that she would be it for us.

Until now.

I’m not sure my wife really believed it when the test came back positive.

But with something the size of a basketball now sitting under her shirt, she’s a believer now.

And we couldn’t be more excited.

We, meaning my wife and I.

Our three other kids.... well, that’s been a work in progress.

Oh, don’t get me wrong, they are excited.

Now.

But each of them had a very different reaction when they first heard the news.

The youngest, eight.

Of course she was sold right away.

So happy about “the gift in mommy’s tummy.”

She credits Santa Claus.

As she should.

The boy, 13.

He was disgusted upon hearing the news.

After all, it was just a year earlier that his principal gave his class “The Talk.”

Yes, THAT talk.

And he had a hard time digesting that his parents were involved in such debauchery. 

Then there was our oldest.

The 15-year-old girl.

She was terrified.

Terrified that when this thing comes out.

And she has to take it to the grocery store.

Somebody might actually think it is hers.

Thanks MTV!

But even with the early hiccups, everyone is on board now.

We even have the crib.

Courtesy of some friends who don’t plan on getting pregnant at 42.

With a couple of months still to go, we are still taking it day-by-day.

But those days seems to be moving a lot faster now.

The Birds, the Bees & the Butthead

I’m not Rick Santorum and he definitely wouldn’t approve of this blog...

So where was I...

Oh yes, sex.

A subject I’ve never been good at.

But practice makes perfect, right?

Well a few days ago I had a sexual encounter I had never experienced before.

It involved me.

And my 14-year-old daughter.

Now before you take this into the gutter.

And go all Mackenzie Phillips on me.

Slow down.

You see my daughter had a big exam a few days ago.

And she needed some help with studying.

Unfortunately for her I was the only one around.

But I did my best.

When it comes to English, I’m pretty good with words.

And when it comes to Math, I’m ok with numbers.

But when she told me it was about the reproductive system.

I broke into a deep sweat.

Not because of the subject.

But because of the company.

I’ve been talking about the reproductive system since I was a kid.

But talking about that with my kid?

That’s an entirely different story.

Fortunately the assistant principal at her elementary school took care of the basic stuff when she was in fifth grade.

That’s when he gets the boys in one room.

The girls in another.

And gives them an open book lecture on the birds.

And the bees.

No parents.

No giggling.

Just the facts.

Ok, there’s probably a little giggling.

But thankfully the kids walk away with a better understanding.

And I walk away with some new material.

Like the other day when my 13-year-old son wanted to play catch with me in the backyard.

I told him if he didn’t put away the dishes first, he’d be playing with himself.

‘That’s called masturbation,” I said.

He laughed.

I laughed.

His older sister laughed.

His younger sister said, “what?”

I’m not sure Rick Santorum would approve of my parenting, but from where I’m sitting.

So far, so good.

Now four years removed from that fifth grade speech, my high school daughter has moved on from all that yucky stuff.

And is now concentrating on the real stuff.

Like the bulbourethral glands.

The vena cava.

And the vas deferens.

Terms I can comfortably say, I had never heard of.

Until two nights ago.

But fortunately she had the definitions written on the back side of the index card.

So all I had to do was say the name.

Ask for the definition.

And bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.

Sometimes that worked.

Sometimes it didn’t.

For both of us.

When I asked her to define that bulbourethral thing.

She started with “during sexual arousal...”

That was followed by “hee hee hee.”

Something you might expect from a 14-year-old.

The problem is I’m 44.

But thankfully after a few childish moments.

I grew up.

And actually became quite helpful.

Really.

She had a hard time remembering what the urethra did.

So I looked at the definition.

And started singing it.

To the tune of “Think”.

By Uretha Franklin.

Who else.

Problem solved.

She also struggled with the epididymis.

That’s a long coiled tube that does something involving sperm.

I told her to that she would remember that definition since it was a long coiled word.

And you can’t spell sperm without epididymis.

Ok, the R is missing.

But for learning purposes, it did the trick.

After a slow start, we were actually able to maintain a mature learning conversation.

Even though every time she referred to the main parts.

They were always, “pee pee” and “va jay jay.”

But the bottom line is after a good hour of studying.

And bonding.

My daughter was ready for her test.

And I was ready to show her my favorite video involving the subject matter we had been discussing.

Courtesy of those two great scholars.

Beavis and Butthead.

It was the episode where the boys were having a hard time going through a school day without laughing.

Well the principal had had enough.

One more laughing spurt and they would be expelled.

Only problem was, for them, is that was the day they had Sex Ed class.

With Coach Buzzcut.

If you’ve got six minutes, click on the link below.

It just might possibly be the best six minutes of your day.

http://www.mtv.com/videos/misc/138239/no-laughing.jhtml

Reality Bites

I’m not much of a reality TV guy.

And that clearly puts me in the minority.

Sure, I watched The Real World on MTV.

In the 90’s.

And I have a pretty good read on how that genre has changed the TV biz.

But as a viewer I just haven’t bit the hook.

Like so many others.

Ok, I’ve nibbled.

I watched an entire season of Biggest Loser.

Like five years ago.

And LOVED it.

But I never went back.

I watched season 2 or 3 of Big Brother.

But I just read they are now on Big Brother 13.

So I’m not sure that would qualify me as a fan.

I’ve dabbled in The Bachelor.

And Bachelorette.

And The Apprentice.

I am definitely excited about the return of Fear Factor.

But I could care less about Survivor: Abu Dhabi.

Or wherever they are headed next.

That’s just reality.

Other than American Idol, none of these shows have hooked me for more than a few months.

And with my love of music, I think American Idol is more of my fantasy than reality.

But you don’t need a degree from MIT to see how popular these shows are.

You just need the internet.

And an extra long keyboard.

http://tvbythenumbers.zap2it.com/category/weekly-tv-ratings-rankings/nielsen-weekly-top-broadcast-tv-show-ratings/

That’s where I found the latest network ratings.

And in the much beloved “Adults 18-49 Demographic”.

It’s reality, reality, reality.

All the way down to #15.

That’s where 60 Minutes was listed.

To be totally fair, 60 Minutes was a re-run last week.

And to be more fairer, 60 Minutes was ranked 4th overall among “PrimeTime Broadcast Network Total Viewers (all ages)”.

But still.

And when I went to go look at the latest cable numbers.

Fuhgetaboutit.

The #1 cable show last week was Jersey Shore.

Season 4.

With 7.37 million viewers.

SEVEN MILLION VIEWERS!

Now let me come clean.

I have seen Jersey Shore.

About 10 minutes of a re-run.

About nine months ago.

It was the episode where they yelled at each other.

And then went to a bar.

And got drunk.

Have you seen it?

Well based on the ratings, you probably have.

Now I’m not trying to sound like some old fuddy duddy who doesn’t like to watch real people act stupid.

But isn’t that what CSPAN is for?

Somehow I’ve managed to avoid the reality onslaught.

But I can’t say the same for my wife and kids.

My DVR has been overtaken by.... Housewives.

Real Housewives.

Of New Jersey, Orange County, Beverly Hills.

Papillion, Nebraska.

Put “Real Housewives” in front of it and my 14-year old daughter is hooked.

And if she is hooked, the seven-year old can’t be far away.

They know all of the characters too.

(Are they really characters?)

And these damn shows are so damn addicting.

Usually I’ll walk by the TV.    See what they are watching.

Prepare to yell at them.

And then fall into a trance that won’t let me walk away for at least 35 minutes.

Can you believe what a bitch Kyle is?

Oh, sorry.

I suppose one of the nice things about these reality shows is.

They are real.

Real people.

Real stories.

Real drama.

And plenty of it.

But it’s all fun and games.

Until someone gets hurt. 

A few days ago we learned that Russell Armstrong, a Real Househusband of Beverly Hills, killed himself.

No joke.

The police said he was hung.

And they was right.

Honestly I don’t watch the show enough to even know who he is.

Was.

But my daughter does.

And when I broke the news to her about this story, she was shocked.

Shocked that he was dead.

Shocked that he took his own life.

Shocked that anyone would do such a thing.

At 14, she is not so naive.

She understands that these things do happen.

“But what would it take for somebody to do this to themself?” 

She said.

Then we spoke about Russell.

And Taylor, the real Housewife.

And their five-year old daughter Kennedy.

For a few moments.

But that conversation quickly moved into a discussion about life.

And death.

And why.

And what.

And how.

How could anyone do such a thing?

I’m not sure I had the answer to any of her questions.

But we talked.

And talked.

And it was real.

More real than anything you can watch on TV.