Although the monkey is still months away from being born, I think it'll be one and done with having a kid. We have the right to change our minds, of course, so don't hold it against us if we decide that Barnabas needs a playmate (or something to terrorize other than the cats). But for now, he's likely our only one.
Which is fine by me, because as I've said many times, we either have one, three, or five (Kristen, honey, if you're feeling faint, lie down).
You're likely thinking, what's wrong with two? They'll always have someone to play with, the younger one will be protected from bullies by the older child, hand-me-down clothing... But, in my eyes, if you're going to have two, you may as well have three, if only to
(suspenseful pause)
have enough to form a band.
Guitar, drums, bass (with the guitarist singing). It's always been a dream of mine to have a Hanson-style group (the Chelis? ChillChel? Cha-cha-Cheli?) to tour around the Midwest playing state fairs and high school dances. I would be their manager, brow-beating them into practicing all hours of the day, eschewing their own childhood so that I can become famous. I'll be the Murray Wilson of the 21st century! (Murray Wilson was the father of Brian, Dennis, and Carl Wilson of the Beach Boys.)
Now I would never want four kids, because that would mean war at all times -- two against two. You always want to have an odd number of kids, you see, so there can always be a tie-breaker. Do we play in the mud or do we throw rocks at squirrels? Let's take a vote!
So that leads us to five, which, of course, is a basketball team. Hopefully with our tall genes (I'm around 6'2" and Kristen father's around the same height), we could have a barnstorming team (with me as coach), like the Harlem Globetrotters, going to state fairs and high school gyms (you see a pattern here?).
Now, sure, seeing as Kristen has to actually be the one to be pregnant for these additional 4 children, she'll have a say in it. Maybe.
But really, can you fault a guy for having a dream?
(And seven kids? Oh, man, that's a team with a bench! Oh glorious day!)
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Monday, April 28, 2008
Going Blue
I like the posts here on the Barnabas Monkeypants blog to be all-ages. We don't want to offend our 8-, 9-, and 10-year-old readers now do we? But that's going to have to change a little for this post, so stop reading if you're faint of heart.
Okay?
This post is about urinating. You see, as any pregnant woman, former pregnant woman, or friend/relative/partner of a pregnant woman knows, bathroom breaks increase in frequency when you're knocked up. Kristen, on average, pees 45 to 50 thousand times a day. After leaving one bathroom, it's not a half hour until I hear the same reprise of "gotta go, gotta go, gotta go".
So, in her honor, I will now rank the various area bathrooms, taking into consideration both the number of visits (I, of course, am leaving off our house bathrooms and her work one, as that's just not fair to the rest of the field), its location, as well as quality (cleanliness, frequency of being out of order, etc).
1. Nordstrom at Old Orchard Mall. There are two "lounges" (as they like to call them) in this location, one on each floor. One of the reasons we go to this mall more frequently than any other is that two clean, relatively quiet bathrooms are always waiting for her.
2. Macy's at Old Orchard Mall. Situated smack dab in the middle of the mall (Nordstrom is at one end, while Bloomingdale's is at the other), the Macy's is a popular spot mostly because of its location. The bathroom is also right near the candy counter, so that's a bonus for me.
3. Target in Evanston. There's a strip mall on the border of Chicago and Evanston where we do our grocery shopping (at the Jewel). The other stores are an Office Max, a Best Buy, and the aforementioned Target. Kristen refuses to go to the bathroom at the Jewel. On two occasions she went, and both were accompanied by a very unhappy face when leaving. If the women's bathroom is anything like the men's, I don't blame her. She's tried the Best Buy a couple of times, but also was not so happy with it. Target seems to feature a) the most number of stalls and b) a cleaning crew that visits the bathroom more than monthly. I'm pushing for her to try the Office Max, but so far, she's said no.
.
.
.
8. Borders in Evanston. Let me tell you a little story about bathrooms at Borders. (This specific one I have no complaint about. Not so terrible, not wonderful.) When Kristen and I met, we were both working at a Borders in Bridgewater, New Jersey. It was one of the top 5 or 6 busiest locations in the entire chain, and on Friday and Saturday nights, it was always really crowded. Crowded bookstore + coffee bar = bathroom mess. At the time we were there, Borders was going through a union problem, where several stores were trying to organize and the entire company was freaking out. As a manager, I was told to not have our booksellers do anything out of the ordinary or not in their job description. So, when a bathroom amiss occurred, it was up to the manager on duty (or doodie in this case) to remedy the situation. Oddly enough, the problems usually happened in the ladies' room. So, when a calamity was brought to our attention, I would have a female bookseller make sure the coast was clear, and I'd storm into the bathroom, face covered by a wad of paper towels, and try to do my best to make the situation bearable until the cleaning crew came the next morning. Only sometimes was I able to succeed. Good times, good times.
.
.
.
17. Century Cinemas. We used to go to the movies all the time. Sometimes twice in a weekend. Whether it's because I've been gone a lot of weekends because of work or the lack of good movies coming out, we've cut down a lot. A year ago, this would've been in the top 10 easily. The biggest problem with movie bathrooms, though, is that after the movie's done, you have to be one of the first people out the door or you're going to be waiting in line, especially if it's a sold out movie. We've tried to help out this situation by a) going to the bathroom as soon as possible before the previews begin, b) not drinking anything during the movie, and c) sitting in an aisle seat so that as soon as the credits start to roll, Kristen can be up and out of her seat, shoving her purse at me as she runs out of the theater.
.
.
.
33. Carson Pirie Scott at the Lincolnwood Mall. Do you see a trend here? Malls. Malls are a good place to get out, walk around, buy ever important onesies and ice cream cones, and never be too far away from a bathroom. The Lincolnwood Mall is the closest indoor mall to our place, but it is ... how do I put this nicely ... not that high class. It has a Kohl's (aka, the Saks Fifth Avenue of the K-Mart set), an Old Navy, and about 33 places that cater to 13-year-old girls. It also has a Carson's (where 80-year-old women can buy a polyester cardigan for hubby and a new flowered housedress for herself). It seems that the cleaning people in that particular Carson's have decided that a once-weekly delousing is enough.
.
.
.
84. Food Court at the Lincolnwood Mall. You're in rural Louisiana. Off a dirt road, you notice a pile of dead opossums which likely have been rotting there for well over a week. Next to that pile is a dirt hole in which the local folk have been using to go to the bathroom seeing as how indoor plumbing still hasn't made its way to that neck of the woods. That would be 83 in our ranking. I'm warning you all. Stay very far away if you value your health.
Okay?
This post is about urinating. You see, as any pregnant woman, former pregnant woman, or friend/relative/partner of a pregnant woman knows, bathroom breaks increase in frequency when you're knocked up. Kristen, on average, pees 45 to 50 thousand times a day. After leaving one bathroom, it's not a half hour until I hear the same reprise of "gotta go, gotta go, gotta go".
So, in her honor, I will now rank the various area bathrooms, taking into consideration both the number of visits (I, of course, am leaving off our house bathrooms and her work one, as that's just not fair to the rest of the field), its location, as well as quality (cleanliness, frequency of being out of order, etc).
1. Nordstrom at Old Orchard Mall. There are two "lounges" (as they like to call them) in this location, one on each floor. One of the reasons we go to this mall more frequently than any other is that two clean, relatively quiet bathrooms are always waiting for her.
2. Macy's at Old Orchard Mall. Situated smack dab in the middle of the mall (Nordstrom is at one end, while Bloomingdale's is at the other), the Macy's is a popular spot mostly because of its location. The bathroom is also right near the candy counter, so that's a bonus for me.
3. Target in Evanston. There's a strip mall on the border of Chicago and Evanston where we do our grocery shopping (at the Jewel). The other stores are an Office Max, a Best Buy, and the aforementioned Target. Kristen refuses to go to the bathroom at the Jewel. On two occasions she went, and both were accompanied by a very unhappy face when leaving. If the women's bathroom is anything like the men's, I don't blame her. She's tried the Best Buy a couple of times, but also was not so happy with it. Target seems to feature a) the most number of stalls and b) a cleaning crew that visits the bathroom more than monthly. I'm pushing for her to try the Office Max, but so far, she's said no.
.
.
.
8. Borders in Evanston. Let me tell you a little story about bathrooms at Borders. (This specific one I have no complaint about. Not so terrible, not wonderful.) When Kristen and I met, we were both working at a Borders in Bridgewater, New Jersey. It was one of the top 5 or 6 busiest locations in the entire chain, and on Friday and Saturday nights, it was always really crowded. Crowded bookstore + coffee bar = bathroom mess. At the time we were there, Borders was going through a union problem, where several stores were trying to organize and the entire company was freaking out. As a manager, I was told to not have our booksellers do anything out of the ordinary or not in their job description. So, when a bathroom amiss occurred, it was up to the manager on duty (or doodie in this case) to remedy the situation. Oddly enough, the problems usually happened in the ladies' room. So, when a calamity was brought to our attention, I would have a female bookseller make sure the coast was clear, and I'd storm into the bathroom, face covered by a wad of paper towels, and try to do my best to make the situation bearable until the cleaning crew came the next morning. Only sometimes was I able to succeed. Good times, good times.
.
.
.
17. Century Cinemas. We used to go to the movies all the time. Sometimes twice in a weekend. Whether it's because I've been gone a lot of weekends because of work or the lack of good movies coming out, we've cut down a lot. A year ago, this would've been in the top 10 easily. The biggest problem with movie bathrooms, though, is that after the movie's done, you have to be one of the first people out the door or you're going to be waiting in line, especially if it's a sold out movie. We've tried to help out this situation by a) going to the bathroom as soon as possible before the previews begin, b) not drinking anything during the movie, and c) sitting in an aisle seat so that as soon as the credits start to roll, Kristen can be up and out of her seat, shoving her purse at me as she runs out of the theater.
.
.
.
33. Carson Pirie Scott at the Lincolnwood Mall. Do you see a trend here? Malls. Malls are a good place to get out, walk around, buy ever important onesies and ice cream cones, and never be too far away from a bathroom. The Lincolnwood Mall is the closest indoor mall to our place, but it is ... how do I put this nicely ... not that high class. It has a Kohl's (aka, the Saks Fifth Avenue of the K-Mart set), an Old Navy, and about 33 places that cater to 13-year-old girls. It also has a Carson's (where 80-year-old women can buy a polyester cardigan for hubby and a new flowered housedress for herself). It seems that the cleaning people in that particular Carson's have decided that a once-weekly delousing is enough.
.
.
.
84. Food Court at the Lincolnwood Mall. You're in rural Louisiana. Off a dirt road, you notice a pile of dead opossums which likely have been rotting there for well over a week. Next to that pile is a dirt hole in which the local folk have been using to go to the bathroom seeing as how indoor plumbing still hasn't made its way to that neck of the woods. That would be 83 in our ranking. I'm warning you all. Stay very far away if you value your health.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Tummy-to-Tummy Transfer
About 3 weeks ago, Kristen lost the ability to comfortably lie on her back. For all the things that her body is going through (and there are a lot), I empathize most with this. I don't sleep on my back myself, but it's still a very good position when reading or relaxing or getting into the sleep mode.
It's also the best position for a little bit of kitty snuggle.
Georgia loves to sleep on stomachs. When we go to bed, she'll usually jump up onto Kristen's gut. She'll get all cozy, start purring, and then fall asleep, usually with a paw or two on Kristen's chin (or, even better, she'll creep up a little and rest her own chin on hers).
Then, after about 15 minutes or so, after she's gotten herself as warm as she possibly can, she'll get up, walk to the pillow between our heads, and fall asleep there, lasting until around 5:30 in the morning. (We're hoping that Georgia will teach that to Barnabas quite quickly.)
However, last night, there was a difference. Kristen was on her side and her stomach wasn't available for snugglage (that's a new word and I'm working on trademarking it), so Georgia jumped on my stomach and fell asleep there. A revelation!
An aside: In the past we had attempted the extremely challenging tummy-to-tummy transfer (where a sleeping cat was surgically removed from one person's stomach area and slowly and gently placed onto another person's), but the success rate was extremely low (less than 5%). This procedure was quickly abandoned (really, let's let the cat sleep undisturbed), and I was relegated to not having any real "cute" time with Georgia.
So there I was, cat purring on stomach, curled up and ready to sleep. I was in heaven. But I looked over, and saw Kristen squirming away, unable to get comfortable, and I felt like a total heel, my own kitty pleasure trumping her terrible back pain.
Of course, 10 seconds later, she put her paws on my chin, and Kristen was quickly forgotten. I mean, really. What else would you expect?
It's also the best position for a little bit of kitty snuggle.
Georgia loves to sleep on stomachs. When we go to bed, she'll usually jump up onto Kristen's gut. She'll get all cozy, start purring, and then fall asleep, usually with a paw or two on Kristen's chin (or, even better, she'll creep up a little and rest her own chin on hers).
Then, after about 15 minutes or so, after she's gotten herself as warm as she possibly can, she'll get up, walk to the pillow between our heads, and fall asleep there, lasting until around 5:30 in the morning. (We're hoping that Georgia will teach that to Barnabas quite quickly.)
However, last night, there was a difference. Kristen was on her side and her stomach wasn't available for snugglage (that's a new word and I'm working on trademarking it), so Georgia jumped on my stomach and fell asleep there. A revelation!
An aside: In the past we had attempted the extremely challenging tummy-to-tummy transfer (where a sleeping cat was surgically removed from one person's stomach area and slowly and gently placed onto another person's), but the success rate was extremely low (less than 5%). This procedure was quickly abandoned (really, let's let the cat sleep undisturbed), and I was relegated to not having any real "cute" time with Georgia.
So there I was, cat purring on stomach, curled up and ready to sleep. I was in heaven. But I looked over, and saw Kristen squirming away, unable to get comfortable, and I felt like a total heel, my own kitty pleasure trumping her terrible back pain.
Of course, 10 seconds later, she put her paws on my chin, and Kristen was quickly forgotten. I mean, really. What else would you expect?
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Healthy Living
I missed my train coming home tonight -- and because of it I had to wait a half an hour until the next one came. The beauty of riding the Metra (a real train) instead of the CTA (the subway) is that you sit on a clean seat with normal people around you and usually only have one or two stops until you're home (instead of 15 if we would take the Red Line). The downside is that if you're 1 minute late and the doors are closing, you don't have only 5 minutes until the next one leaves. It's usually 20, 30, 40 minutes.
So, I missed it. No big deal. I walked down to the train station's food court and looked for something to eat while waiting for the 6:39. As I walked past McDonald's, I got a bit nostalgic and I thought of Barnabas.
You see, they don't deep fry the apple pies there any more. They're baked. And while I haven't actually eaten a pie there in probably 15 years, it's the principle of the thing. My son will never get to experience this phenomenon. The odd crispiness of the crust. The scorching heat of the inner gooeyness. All gone. Ronald and his evil cadre are making my son's life less fulfilling.
You can get them elsewhere in the world (Japan, for instance). But in an attempt to serve healthier food (healthier than a McNugget? no!), they stopped cooking them in greasy goodness in 1992. That's criminal, if you ask me.
I guess this just means that as soon as his mouth is fully developed enough so that he can withstand the lava-hot filling of the deep-fried apple pie, we're going to Tokyo!
I can't think of a better reason to travel with your child, can you?
So, I missed it. No big deal. I walked down to the train station's food court and looked for something to eat while waiting for the 6:39. As I walked past McDonald's, I got a bit nostalgic and I thought of Barnabas.
You see, they don't deep fry the apple pies there any more. They're baked. And while I haven't actually eaten a pie there in probably 15 years, it's the principle of the thing. My son will never get to experience this phenomenon. The odd crispiness of the crust. The scorching heat of the inner gooeyness. All gone. Ronald and his evil cadre are making my son's life less fulfilling.
You can get them elsewhere in the world (Japan, for instance). But in an attempt to serve healthier food (healthier than a McNugget? no!), they stopped cooking them in greasy goodness in 1992. That's criminal, if you ask me.
I guess this just means that as soon as his mouth is fully developed enough so that he can withstand the lava-hot filling of the deep-fried apple pie, we're going to Tokyo!
I can't think of a better reason to travel with your child, can you?
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Sunshine?
The open-air mall is quite popular in and around Chicago. There you can walk from Macy's to Bloomingdales to the Gap not in the stagnant air of an enclosed shopping center, but instead outdoors, with the bright, warm sun beating down on your face.
Which seems reasonable considering CHICAGO IS THE COLDEST PLACE ON THE PLANET. In the spring (which lasts approximately 12 days) and the fall (19 days), walking around and shopping outdoors can be a really nice thing to do. It's the remaining 334 days in which it's either 23 degrees below zero with 9 feet of snow on the ground or 102 degrees with a 90% humidity that causes a bit of a challenge.
There were a couple of days this winter when we had to get some shopping done where we'd run from store to store, because to merely walk would surely have caused significant frostbite and a potential loss of a toe. Just as bad was this past summer when I had to have an IV hooked up to me as I walked around to ensure that I was replacing the gallons of sweat that were literally flying off my body. (It was not a pretty sight.)
But this past weekend was the first really nice weekend day of the year (and the first time it reached 70 degrees in the city in more than 6 months -- the other bits up there were exaggerations, but that info is true). While still a little brisk in the shade and a there was a strong wind off the lake, nobody seemed to mind. So it wasn't surprising that when we got to the mall on Sunday, it was full of families making their first venture outside since they woke from hibernation. There were many people underdressed in shorts and tanktops (even though the weather didn't call for them), begging and pleading for some sort of warmth to hit their skin.
I wonder if that's how we're going to be next year at this time. We'll have been holed up in the apartment from birth until thaw the following spring, pale and pasty, vitamin starved, unable to speak in anything but grunts, whistles, and primitive table pounding.
A man can dream.
Which seems reasonable considering CHICAGO IS THE COLDEST PLACE ON THE PLANET. In the spring (which lasts approximately 12 days) and the fall (19 days), walking around and shopping outdoors can be a really nice thing to do. It's the remaining 334 days in which it's either 23 degrees below zero with 9 feet of snow on the ground or 102 degrees with a 90% humidity that causes a bit of a challenge.
There were a couple of days this winter when we had to get some shopping done where we'd run from store to store, because to merely walk would surely have caused significant frostbite and a potential loss of a toe. Just as bad was this past summer when I had to have an IV hooked up to me as I walked around to ensure that I was replacing the gallons of sweat that were literally flying off my body. (It was not a pretty sight.)
But this past weekend was the first really nice weekend day of the year (and the first time it reached 70 degrees in the city in more than 6 months -- the other bits up there were exaggerations, but that info is true). While still a little brisk in the shade and a there was a strong wind off the lake, nobody seemed to mind. So it wasn't surprising that when we got to the mall on Sunday, it was full of families making their first venture outside since they woke from hibernation. There were many people underdressed in shorts and tanktops (even though the weather didn't call for them), begging and pleading for some sort of warmth to hit their skin.
I wonder if that's how we're going to be next year at this time. We'll have been holed up in the apartment from birth until thaw the following spring, pale and pasty, vitamin starved, unable to speak in anything but grunts, whistles, and primitive table pounding.
A man can dream.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Toon
Being a parent is going to be wonderful. I just know it.
And while, sure, the whole father/son relationship will probably be good, and there may be some enjoyment in watching my child grow up to be a young man, I'm really starting to look more at the big picture.
You see, for the past 28 years or so, I've enjoyed the hobby of collecting comic books. While most of my friends who also collected them in grade school quickly grew out of it, I stuck with it and am now extremely proud to say I've wasted a lot of time, money, and space on them. It's always been a bit of a shock to people when they realize that not only do I buy and read them, but that I own so goddamn many of them. Boxes full. Shelves full. They're in every nook and cranny of our place. You can't walk two paces without tripping over them.
The same goes for my purchasing cartoon DVD sets. We own about 25 DVDs, and 20 of them do not feature a single human being. They're all mice and rabbits and dogs.
You see, most people perceive these hobbies as somewhat childish, and I can't really blame them. While there are certainly some comics that are very well written and drawn and cartoons' popularity have never been higher, they are for the most part adolescent crap. And I know this. I'm okay with it. When I walk out of the comic shop carrying a bag with a large Superman logo on it, I can expect (and usually be assured) of a few snickers from those passing by. Such is the way of the comic collector.
But no more. Now, I have an excuse!
"Oh, these things? These funny books? These childish wastes of time? They're for my son."
I can't wait until August.
And while, sure, the whole father/son relationship will probably be good, and there may be some enjoyment in watching my child grow up to be a young man, I'm really starting to look more at the big picture.
You see, for the past 28 years or so, I've enjoyed the hobby of collecting comic books. While most of my friends who also collected them in grade school quickly grew out of it, I stuck with it and am now extremely proud to say I've wasted a lot of time, money, and space on them. It's always been a bit of a shock to people when they realize that not only do I buy and read them, but that I own so goddamn many of them. Boxes full. Shelves full. They're in every nook and cranny of our place. You can't walk two paces without tripping over them.
The same goes for my purchasing cartoon DVD sets. We own about 25 DVDs, and 20 of them do not feature a single human being. They're all mice and rabbits and dogs.
You see, most people perceive these hobbies as somewhat childish, and I can't really blame them. While there are certainly some comics that are very well written and drawn and cartoons' popularity have never been higher, they are for the most part adolescent crap. And I know this. I'm okay with it. When I walk out of the comic shop carrying a bag with a large Superman logo on it, I can expect (and usually be assured) of a few snickers from those passing by. Such is the way of the comic collector.
But no more. Now, I have an excuse!
"Oh, these things? These funny books? These childish wastes of time? They're for my son."
I can't wait until August.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Picking Bugs Out of Fur
When it comes to grooming, I was never an honors student. (Actually, when it came to actual school, I wasn't an honors student either, but I digress.) When I leave the house, I usually get two different reactions from Kristen.
1) Comb/brush your hair/teeth!
or
2) [looks me up and down] Sigh....
You see, while I'm not a slob on the level of, say, a hobo, I am not the spiffiest of dressers. I don't shave as often as I should. My clothes are usually wrinkled. I keep on wearing pairs of shoes long after they should've been thrown away. I accessorize not with necklaces or rings but with stains and holes.
This isn't a recent thing, either. My mother tells the story of how she often turned me around after I came downstairs ready for school wearing a striped shirt and plaid pants. In retrospect a definite no-no, but back then, I felt I was on the cutting edge of Paris young man couture!
But that's going to change with Barnabas. As soon as he's fashionably aware (I'll have to check with Dr. Spock to see exactly when that is), I'll be grooming myself like a real adult. I will comb my hair! I will shave every day! I will Zout religiously! I WILL TUCK IN MY SHIRT AT LEAST 50% OF THE TIME!
And if I happen to notice a little bug in his hair, I'll be sure to pick it out. Because that's the kind of father I'm going to be.
1) Comb/brush your hair/teeth!
or
2) [looks me up and down] Sigh....
You see, while I'm not a slob on the level of, say, a hobo, I am not the spiffiest of dressers. I don't shave as often as I should. My clothes are usually wrinkled. I keep on wearing pairs of shoes long after they should've been thrown away. I accessorize not with necklaces or rings but with stains and holes.
This isn't a recent thing, either. My mother tells the story of how she often turned me around after I came downstairs ready for school wearing a striped shirt and plaid pants. In retrospect a definite no-no, but back then, I felt I was on the cutting edge of Paris young man couture!
But that's going to change with Barnabas. As soon as he's fashionably aware (I'll have to check with Dr. Spock to see exactly when that is), I'll be grooming myself like a real adult. I will comb my hair! I will shave every day! I will Zout religiously! I WILL TUCK IN MY SHIRT AT LEAST 50% OF THE TIME!
And if I happen to notice a little bug in his hair, I'll be sure to pick it out. Because that's the kind of father I'm going to be.
Monday, April 14, 2008
What is Cute?
As a parent-to-be, it is impossible not to find something baby-related every second of the day that is unbelievably adorable. I mean, you can't move without seeing some toy or onesie or stuffed animal that doesn't get you right there in the gut.
Case in point, bedding. We have to choose something for young Master Barnabas' crib that truly captures his jois de vivre (did you know that my child is already brilliant and bilingual? he is!). So Kristen and I hunkered down at our separate computers yesterday in search of something so utterly amazing that it will make our lives five to ten times better than it possibly could be.
And we found it. Look at this crib set. LOOK AT IT!
It's incredible. It's funny, stylish, cute, modern yet classic, cute yet fresh.
And it's $380. And that's not including the pillows.
It's organic, which I'm sure is a wonderful thing, and it's made by a small company (Pixel Organics), which I'm sure means that they're not employing 8-year-old seamstresses and dumping toxic dye into the ocean, but come on! $380? They have some non-organic options (ugly fishes) which we like, but they're also really expensive. (I think they're $280, which, to me, is still stupid costly.)
I mean, it would be one thing if within 3 hours of bringing Barnabas home from the hospital there won't be poop, vomit, and/or urine stains all over the thing, but these are going to be destroyed by our child!
Plus, $380 is more than I paid for the black Subaru I owned back in the late 90s! (Sure, you couldn't make turns too quickly because of various internal leaks that would cause billows of black smoke to cough out of the exhaust and, yes, 60 mph was its maximum speed, but it worked! And it was a car!)
So I am torn. Cheap or cute? Cute or cheap?
Yet another thing to worry about.
Case in point, bedding. We have to choose something for young Master Barnabas' crib that truly captures his jois de vivre (did you know that my child is already brilliant and bilingual? he is!). So Kristen and I hunkered down at our separate computers yesterday in search of something so utterly amazing that it will make our lives five to ten times better than it possibly could be.
And we found it. Look at this crib set. LOOK AT IT!
It's incredible. It's funny, stylish, cute, modern yet classic, cute yet fresh.
And it's $380. And that's not including the pillows.
It's organic, which I'm sure is a wonderful thing, and it's made by a small company (Pixel Organics), which I'm sure means that they're not employing 8-year-old seamstresses and dumping toxic dye into the ocean, but come on! $380? They have some non-organic options (ugly fishes) which we like, but they're also really expensive. (I think they're $280, which, to me, is still stupid costly.)
I mean, it would be one thing if within 3 hours of bringing Barnabas home from the hospital there won't be poop, vomit, and/or urine stains all over the thing, but these are going to be destroyed by our child!
Plus, $380 is more than I paid for the black Subaru I owned back in the late 90s! (Sure, you couldn't make turns too quickly because of various internal leaks that would cause billows of black smoke to cough out of the exhaust and, yes, 60 mph was its maximum speed, but it worked! And it was a car!)
So I am torn. Cheap or cute? Cute or cheap?
Yet another thing to worry about.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Sharks and Jets
I saw this article, and it really resonated with me. Kristen and I are dealing with the exact same thing with Barnabas. (Have you read it yet? It's short. Good.)
As many of you know, Kristen has allegiance to the Gangster Disciples, whereas I am firmly rooted with the Latin Kings' offshoot the Latin Stylers. And while you're likely asking yourself, "Why do they have to decide now? It won't be years until Barnabas can properly manipulate his tiny fingers into the proper gang hand symbols," choosing which gang has a serious deadline.
I mean, what Disciple would be caught dead in a red UPPAbaby stroller? And no Styler son of mine will ever put his delicate tush into a blue one!
As many of you know, Kristen has allegiance to the Gangster Disciples, whereas I am firmly rooted with the Latin Kings' offshoot the Latin Stylers. And while you're likely asking yourself, "Why do they have to decide now? It won't be years until Barnabas can properly manipulate his tiny fingers into the proper gang hand symbols," choosing which gang has a serious deadline.
I mean, what Disciple would be caught dead in a red UPPAbaby stroller? And no Styler son of mine will ever put his delicate tush into a blue one!
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Biceps
I constantly worry. I keep myself up at night with worry. And with Barnabas coming on the scene, the worry has grown.
While some of my concern is legitimate (worsening economy, $8 gallons of gas, religious wars, sci-fi-style cities with revolting androids), much of it is irrational (sci-fi-style cities with attacking aliens). Unfortunately for me, I can do nothing about those issues. I am not going to change the economy or increase oil production on my own, and while I vow never to employ an android that will eventually turn on me and try to kill my family, I can't say that my neighbors will do the same. But there is one huge fear that I have that I can control.
I'm afraid I'm going to drop the baby.
He's not even born yet, and I'm already worried that after hauling him around for 5 or 10 minutes, my weak, puny arms will start to tremble and, with a spasm that paralyzes my entire body, I will drop him on the ground, breaking his delicate arm, causing him to forever hate me because he will be forced to throw like a girl and be picked last for Little League.
Now I'm not worried that I'll drop him when he's first born. He'll be 6 or 7 pounds. That is no problem. It's when he starts eating and growing and getting to be 15 or 20 or 25 pounds. That is heavy. And I am no he-man.
Case in point. We're combining our guest room and our office into one to allow Barnabas to have his own room. Our two computers are on 1950s Formica and chrome dining room tables co-opted into being desks, and while they're big and do the job, there are no drawers to put your pens and post-its and papers. So they're just sitting in piles on everything. It's quite the mess.
We've been searching forever for a desk, and last week Kristen won one on eBay and I went to pick it up yesterday. It's a giant (5' x 2 1/2'), old, Steelcase desk, one you'd see in a classroom or in the office the foreman of a factory. (We got a chair with it, too. You can see them here.) It was also heavy. Really heavy. Incredibly heavy.
So heavy, in fact, that it took me and one of the kids (kids, I say, but he's 22) who lives next door a good hour to get it up the three flights of stairs and into our place. And as I was struggling to push it up and over each step, as my shirt became more saturated with my sweat, and as Paul (the neighbor) laughed at my weakness more and more, I thought not of the pain that I'm likely to feel the next day (I'm extremely sore) but of how I'm going to have to get stronger if I'm going to be able to carry Barnabas without the threat of droppage.
Yes, yes, I know the desk was heavier. Probably by about 150 pounds. But that's not the point. The point is that after my body finally allows me to lift my arms above my shoulders and the pain in my back subsides, I'm going to start doing push-ups.
Really. Honest.
Stop laughing.
While some of my concern is legitimate (worsening economy, $8 gallons of gas, religious wars, sci-fi-style cities with revolting androids), much of it is irrational (sci-fi-style cities with attacking aliens). Unfortunately for me, I can do nothing about those issues. I am not going to change the economy or increase oil production on my own, and while I vow never to employ an android that will eventually turn on me and try to kill my family, I can't say that my neighbors will do the same. But there is one huge fear that I have that I can control.
I'm afraid I'm going to drop the baby.
He's not even born yet, and I'm already worried that after hauling him around for 5 or 10 minutes, my weak, puny arms will start to tremble and, with a spasm that paralyzes my entire body, I will drop him on the ground, breaking his delicate arm, causing him to forever hate me because he will be forced to throw like a girl and be picked last for Little League.
Now I'm not worried that I'll drop him when he's first born. He'll be 6 or 7 pounds. That is no problem. It's when he starts eating and growing and getting to be 15 or 20 or 25 pounds. That is heavy. And I am no he-man.
Case in point. We're combining our guest room and our office into one to allow Barnabas to have his own room. Our two computers are on 1950s Formica and chrome dining room tables co-opted into being desks, and while they're big and do the job, there are no drawers to put your pens and post-its and papers. So they're just sitting in piles on everything. It's quite the mess.
We've been searching forever for a desk, and last week Kristen won one on eBay and I went to pick it up yesterday. It's a giant (5' x 2 1/2'), old, Steelcase desk, one you'd see in a classroom or in the office the foreman of a factory. (We got a chair with it, too. You can see them here.) It was also heavy. Really heavy. Incredibly heavy.
So heavy, in fact, that it took me and one of the kids (kids, I say, but he's 22) who lives next door a good hour to get it up the three flights of stairs and into our place. And as I was struggling to push it up and over each step, as my shirt became more saturated with my sweat, and as Paul (the neighbor) laughed at my weakness more and more, I thought not of the pain that I'm likely to feel the next day (I'm extremely sore) but of how I'm going to have to get stronger if I'm going to be able to carry Barnabas without the threat of droppage.
Yes, yes, I know the desk was heavier. Probably by about 150 pounds. But that's not the point. The point is that after my body finally allows me to lift my arms above my shoulders and the pain in my back subsides, I'm going to start doing push-ups.
Really. Honest.
Stop laughing.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Things I Promise Barnabas Won't Do
As I rode the train home from class last night at 10:30, I noticed that there were a handful of young kids on the train (under 2 years), and I said to myself that I would never have Barnabas out that late when he is that age. I don't want to scream CHILD ABUSE and say that the young tots on the Red Line will become criminals because their parents neglected to have them in the crib on time, but I just don't like to see it. Babies should sleep in cribs and beds, not on gross and unclean subway seats.
But I digress...
So these are the things that I promise that Barnabas will never do until he's in college and disappoints me by rushing a fraternity.
1. He will never eat a hot dog with ketchup. I see these children chomping on a dog all the time with ketchup slathered everywhere, and I just want to cry. THAT'S child abuse.
2. He will never root for the Cubs. That one just goes without saying. I mean, really. The Cubs?
3. He will never be forced to wear a toddler suit/tuxedo. That's just creepy.
4. We will never make a separate dinner of fish sticks and French fries for him when Kristen and I are eating "real" food. If we spend hours making a really great, elaborate meal, he will be eating it, too.
5. He will collect comic books. Did you expect anything different? Look, if Nicholas Cage didn't beat me to it, I'd be pushing for Kal-el for a name. (Stop looking at me like that, honey. What about Bruce Wayne Cheli? Or Peter Parker Cheli?)
I think that's it for now, although I'm sure more will come up.
But I digress...
So these are the things that I promise that Barnabas will never do until he's in college and disappoints me by rushing a fraternity.
1. He will never eat a hot dog with ketchup. I see these children chomping on a dog all the time with ketchup slathered everywhere, and I just want to cry. THAT'S child abuse.
2. He will never root for the Cubs. That one just goes without saying. I mean, really. The Cubs?
3. He will never be forced to wear a toddler suit/tuxedo. That's just creepy.
4. We will never make a separate dinner of fish sticks and French fries for him when Kristen and I are eating "real" food. If we spend hours making a really great, elaborate meal, he will be eating it, too.
5. He will collect comic books. Did you expect anything different? Look, if Nicholas Cage didn't beat me to it, I'd be pushing for Kal-el for a name. (Stop looking at me like that, honey. What about Bruce Wayne Cheli? Or Peter Parker Cheli?)
I think that's it for now, although I'm sure more will come up.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Boot
While a neurosurgeon, astronaut, or hockey player are still the top 3 professions for our young Barnabas, I think football kicker will be a close number 4. According to Kristen, he's got the jimmy legs, constantly pounding the inside of her uterus with ferocious leg whips, which she's felt for the past several weeks.
Along with Kristen, the only other member of the household to feel the kicks was one of our cats, Georgia. Georgia--precious, tiny, whiny--loves to sleep on Kristen's stomach, which features the comforting warmth and roundness that she doesn't seem to get from my stomach (unfortunately I'm neither at the right temperature nor do I feature the proper guttural arc, although I'm working on the latter).
Last night, however, I was able to feel him kicking for the first time, a swift blow to the right of Kristen's tummy button, and let me tell you, it was a very exciting thing. Not as exciting as finding out Kristen was pregnant or that we were having a boy or the Giants winning the Super Bowl, but pretty darn exciting.
Now I just have to figure out if they make infant sized football cleats.
Along with Kristen, the only other member of the household to feel the kicks was one of our cats, Georgia. Georgia--precious, tiny, whiny--loves to sleep on Kristen's stomach, which features the comforting warmth and roundness that she doesn't seem to get from my stomach (unfortunately I'm neither at the right temperature nor do I feature the proper guttural arc, although I'm working on the latter).Last night, however, I was able to feel him kicking for the first time, a swift blow to the right of Kristen's tummy button, and let me tell you, it was a very exciting thing. Not as exciting as finding out Kristen was pregnant or that we were having a boy or the Giants winning the Super Bowl, but pretty darn exciting.
Now I just have to figure out if they make infant sized football cleats.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Orest or Vladimir or Boris or Chikezie or...
Choosing a name for your child is the greatest decision you will ever make in your entire life.
Let that hyperbole sink in a bit and then come back to the blog.
Back? Good. So obviously it isn't the most important thing, but it's up there. I mean, names define people and, in turn, people can define names. Write Jeeves on the birth certificate and 25 years later he'll be a butler. Include at least 3 apostrophes or a grossly incorrect spelling or something completely made up (I'm looking at you, Beyonce), and there's a pop star. Conversely, you really can't name a child Elvis unless you want them to have an incredible early career ruined by drugs, teen brides, and peanut butter and banana sandwiches. Juniors tend to wear a lot of camouflage and "the third" tend to wear blazers with crests.
So with that in mind, Kristen and I are trying to come up with a name. If Barnabas had been a girl, I was lobbying to Isabel (I've always loved that name). Martha was also considered. For a boy, there was no front runner, though there were a few options bandied about.
We both like Henry. Kristen recently suggested Owen. I lobbed back Leopold. She volleyed a nasty look.
We have time. The due date is nearly five months away, and while it would be nice to say a name when I'm singing to Kristen's stomach, I can stand to wait on personalizing each tune.
If you have suggestions, we'll take them. There are a few that are already definite no's: Cody, Conner, Cole, Caleb... heck, anything with a C. Hunter, Brayden, Wyatt, Ryder, Braxton... You get the idea.
I'm not promising a prize if you're the one who suggests the winning name. This isn't really a contest. Although I suppose you could walk with a little extra swagger knowing that you were the one that made sure our son would not grow up to be Stanley the plumber.
Let that hyperbole sink in a bit and then come back to the blog.
Back? Good. So obviously it isn't the most important thing, but it's up there. I mean, names define people and, in turn, people can define names. Write Jeeves on the birth certificate and 25 years later he'll be a butler. Include at least 3 apostrophes or a grossly incorrect spelling or something completely made up (I'm looking at you, Beyonce), and there's a pop star. Conversely, you really can't name a child Elvis unless you want them to have an incredible early career ruined by drugs, teen brides, and peanut butter and banana sandwiches. Juniors tend to wear a lot of camouflage and "the third" tend to wear blazers with crests.
So with that in mind, Kristen and I are trying to come up with a name. If Barnabas had been a girl, I was lobbying to Isabel (I've always loved that name). Martha was also considered. For a boy, there was no front runner, though there were a few options bandied about.
We both like Henry. Kristen recently suggested Owen. I lobbed back Leopold. She volleyed a nasty look.
We have time. The due date is nearly five months away, and while it would be nice to say a name when I'm singing to Kristen's stomach, I can stand to wait on personalizing each tune.
If you have suggestions, we'll take them. There are a few that are already definite no's: Cody, Conner, Cole, Caleb... heck, anything with a C. Hunter, Brayden, Wyatt, Ryder, Braxton... You get the idea.
I'm not promising a prize if you're the one who suggests the winning name. This isn't really a contest. Although I suppose you could walk with a little extra swagger knowing that you were the one that made sure our son would not grow up to be Stanley the plumber.
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