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 Eve of Distraction

Twas the night before Christmas.

When all through my house.

There are some damn excited kids.

Ok, that’s not exactly how the poem goes.

But that’s how it goes in my house.

Three kids.

At three very different stages in their young lives.

All looking forward to Christmas morning.

When they wake up to a house full of presents.

For my 14-year-old daughter.

She is somewhere between High School.

And Med School.

She’s always been sharper than her age.

If you look close enough, you can actually see her wheels turning when you ask her a question.

And if you wait four or five seconds, she’ll usually respond with the right answer.

This Christmas is a new one for her.

Probably a confusing one.

I think she’s trying to figure out how old she really is.

When it comes to presents, she’s still all kid.

But when it comes to everything else, she’s all grown up.

High school can do that to you.

My son is two years younger.

And he too is growing up.

Way too quickly.

But he usually acts the age of the people around him.

In school, he’s a 7th grader.

Around me, he’s a lot more polished.

But put him with his eight-year-old sister.

And let the games begin.

He’s definitely a candidate to work at NASA.

Because when it comes to getting under her skin, he knows all of the right buttons to push.

The eight-year-old is our last piece of innocence.

The last one who actually wants a hug.

The last one who does what we tell her.

And the first one to express herself.

At our Christmas Eve dinner, she decided to perform the National Anthem.

Oh, not sing it.

That happens in the morning.

At dinner, she decided to pit fart the National Anthem.

Talented, that kid is.

When that was over, she started singing the words to "Santa Claus is coming to Town".


He sees you when you're sleeping.   He knows when you're awake.

Then suddenly she stopped.

"Santa kinda sounds like a stalker," she quietly mumbled.

"But he's a nice stalker," with a big smile on her face.

I asked her what she wanted Santa to bring her this year.

“Three things,” she said.

Without any hesitation.

“A baby brother.”

“A little dog, like a chihuahua.”

“And a magic wand.”

Well if I were her, I’d ask for the wand first.

That’s her best shot at getting the other two.

I love that little girl.

Love her sense of humor.

Love her kindness.

Love her innocence.

I love looking into her eyes.

As much now as I did the first time.

Eight years, two months and two weeks ago.

She is something special.

And she’s not afraid to show it.

Tonight before bedtime, there were six of us hanging out in my son’s room.

Me, the three kids and a pair of books.

A pair of Christmas books.

What else.

One of those books was “Twas the Night Before Christmas.”

But reading the book wasn’t good enough for her.

She had to perform it.

From the first line, through the last.

She was living on her own center stage.

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

She did that one from memory, not once taking even a glance at the book.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter

She tapped her fingers on the wood door, as quickly as possible, to provide her own version of a clattering noise.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf

She tried to inflate her frame as big as possible.  But sixty pounds only go so far.

Now Dasher!

Pause.

now, Dancer! 

Longer pause.

now, Prancer

Drama Building.

and Vixen!

Silence.

On, Comet! On, Cupid! on, on Donner and Blitzen!

Those she flew right through.

Picking up the pace to recapture the energy of the story.

She flipped each page, like it was the script of a play.

Each line more theatrical than the one before.

Finally closing with...

Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!

And with that came a bow.

A bow she held for seconds, but felt like minutes.

A bow that signaled the end of Christmas Eve.

And the beginning of the longest night of the year.

Waiting for hours.

That feel like days.

For morning to arrive.

When we all learn what Santa delivered.

I'm hoping for the Chihuahua.

A New Ride

My Christmas present just arrived.

Yes, it may seem a little late for Christmas.

But it’s exactly what I was hoping for.

A 2004 PT Cruiser.

Pewter in color.

And since Santa is done for the season, my older brother Kevin was the one who delivered it.

He drove the car more than a thousand miles, 1284 to be exact, to get it to me.

About seven years ago, my mom bought the brand new car when she was living alone in San Diego.

It took her everywhere she needed to go.

Which apparently was right around the corner.

That’s because in those seven years she put a whopping 12,000 miles on the car.

12,000 divided by 7.   Carry the one.

Wow.

I do more than that just going to Starbucks.

When my mom moved into an assisted living facility near us, she left the car in Southern California.

About a year ago Kevin picked it up and drove it home with him to the other side of the state.

We had all planned on Kevin selling the car and giving all of the proceeds to my mom’s college fund.

But that never happened.

And that’s a good thing.

When we decided to make the big move to New York, I decided to sell my big phat luxurious car.

I figured I didn’t need any car while I was living in the big city.

And I didn’t need a nice car when we moved to the ‘burbs.

Enter Phillip Travis Cruiser.

His friends call him PT.

What a perfect ride for what I needed.

And the perfect price too.

Free.

Happy Jewish Christmas!

And a few days ago my brother delivered the goods.

Talk about full service.

While he was here, we got some good solid quality brotherly bonding time.

And a bunch of great meals in too.

He’s 14 years older than me, so we probably have more in common now than ever before in our life.

When he was 18, he really didn’t want to hang with a four-year old.

Plus he always loved skiing and surfing and fishing.

And I loved... eating ice cream.

And sitting on a couch.

But now that we are both old.

And gray.

We talk all about all sorts of things.

Like when Muhammed Ali beat Sonny Liston.

Or Bob Dylan’s Blonde on Blonde album.

Or the Food Network.

During his stay, I think we hit all of those.

And more.

When he got the car here, he handed me the keys and a list of things I needed to get done.

And so far, so good.

Oil change.   Check.

Radiator flush.  Check.

Rear Wiper.  Check.

Detail.  Check.

Registration.  Check.

Insurance.  Check.

Tires.   Not yet.

We figured that with less than 15,000 miles on the tires, they should be ok for a while.

I took them to the local tire dealer to check the air and double check the rubber.

They said the tires were a little worn on the side, but they should be fine through the winter.

“But keep your eye out for the Michelin $70 rebate and get them done then.”

REBATE????  

That’s the third word they taught me in Hebrew School.

You don’t want to know the first two.

I’m in.

Well as my luck would have it, tonight I was at Costco -- the greatest store in the world -- when I saw a sign.

Not a sign from God.

A sign from Costco.

BUY FOUR MICHELIN TIRES AND GET $70 OFF.

Sold!

So I went in to buy my four tires, get my $70 off, and check one more thing off my list.

But the Costco we were at only had one of the tires.

They told me that the Costco closer to where we are living had the other three I needed.

So we bought the one tire and headed home.

Ready to make the trek to the closer Costco in the morning.

About one mile from our home, with a fresh Michelin sitting in the back of the Cruiser, God’s sense of humor kicked in.

It sounded something like this.

THUMP.   THUMP.   THUMP.   THUD.

No way.

Way.

When I got out to check, I noticed the front left tire was as flat as the pancakes at Waffle House.

And if I noticed it, it had to be obvious.

I can’t even change my own oil.

Or my own tire.

Thankfully that’s where AAA kicks in.

While we were waiting for the tow truck, we did the walk, in near freezing weather, to get the kids home.

Then my wife drove me back to the car.

And within minutes the truck arrived.

And within seconds the guy put the donut on the wheel.

Or the axel on the rim.

Or the rubber on the whatever.

Whatever he did, he did it so quickly, I didn’t have time to say, “how’d you do that?”

No biggie.  I’ve made it 43 years without changing my own tire.

Why start now?

Too bad my brother wasn’t there.

I’m sure he'd know how to do it.