Heir to the Throne

On Wednesday morning, we found out that Barnabas is, in fact, worthy of the name Barnabas (and not Barnabetty or somesuch). Kristen had an extremely thorough ultrasound (I think femurs, skull, ulnas, and spine were all measured), and one shot (which I won't be posting) showed a very tell-tale sign that he is a he.

Joyfulness all around. Now we can only hope that he inherits none of Kristen or my lack of athleticism and goes on to be a professional sports figure of some sort and supports us in our old age.

A man can dream, no?

Francis

In 1992, near the beginning of my junior year of college, a young woman who a friend was madly in love with but who instead loved me (unrequited) stole a kitten from a local ASPCA and gave it to me. (I had no idea that it was stolen; I thought she had paid the $50 or whatever.) He was tiny and crazy and playful and I fell in love with him instantly. I named him Francis, after my grandfather, but over the years we called him Peekin' (because he would always be peeking around corners) or Fluffernutter (because of his marshmallow and peanut butter coloring) or Big Boy (he was a large beast, tipping the scales at around 23 pounds for a while).

He could be a difficult cat. When Kristen and I moved in together he announced his displeasure by leaving a "present" on the couch (they quickly reconciled and became quite the pair). When he slept at my feet at night, he would bite my toes if I dared to move. He liked to sit on my chest at 4 in the morning to make sure that I knew he was hungry. He would sometimes (often, actually) overeat and vomit, leaving a nice mess to clean up. He enjoyed eating tinsel from the Christmas tree (let me tell you how strange it was cleaning out the litter box every December).

But we loved him. A lot. And when Sonja arrived in our lives 8 years ago, Frank took her in and made her welcome, and they were constant companions and enjoyed each others company as much as any old grumpy cat and a young shy one could. When Sonja died much too young last summer, Frank took it quite hard. (I know, I know; he's a cat. And I'm only guessing. But I'd like to think he missed her as much as we did.) Our two new cats, Cecil and Georgia, never took to him: Georgia would hiss anytime she walked close to him, and as Cecil grew, he staked him claim as the dominant animal in the house and was a little rough with the aging Frank. I'm sure Frank wanted more than anything to have another cat to sleep with and groom, but no such luck.

Frank had been suffering from the common age-related cat ailment of kidney disease (the same thing that Betty had to deal with), and at a recent visit to the vet, the blood test results didn't look good. He had lost a lot of weight, down to under 10 lbs. But he soldiered on.

On Wednesday night, he stopped eating. He had trouble moving his back legs, and he was unable to walk very far. By Thursday, he couldn't walk at all, and Kristen and I both came to the same conclusion.

So we cried at home and hugged him and pet him. And then we took him to the vet's and cried and hugged and pet some more. And as I type this, I'm crying even more, although I can't hug him or pet him any longer.

Betty left us in June. Sonja in August. Now Francis in March. Our friends Katia and Steve have had a similar run of bad luck with cats lately. Maybe it's something in the water in our neighborhood.

But I have to say, he gave us a wonderful 15 1/2 years. I'll miss him very, very much, but I'll never forget him.

Aaaaahhhhhh-Choooo!

For the past three-and-a-half weeks Kristen has been coughing up a lung (she alternates between the two: right on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday; left on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday; on Sunday she rests [naps]). It's a really terrible thing having the flu, and I can only imagine that it's about 100-times worse when you're pregnant as well.

She's doubly tired, is doubly queasy, and is doubly cranky. And the biggest problem is that so many of those really good drugs that we all love that will knock us out for days, allowing us to awake feeling 50% normal, are no-no's (although Kristen's doctor did give her a list of a few that she could safely take). But she continues on, the trouper that she is, and Barnabas will be the better for it.

The Secret Origin of the Name

I'm not sure who suggested it, Kristen or I, but the name came quite easily to us. For those concerned, no, we are not naming our child Barnabas; it's just an in utero nickname. (We still haven't thought of real names.)

It's a strange thing, talking about Barnabas. We don't know whether it's a he or a she, and I don't like using "it" (how unfatherly is that?). But it's not yet a baby. I mean, it is, but it's 8 centimeters long, for cryin' out loud! That's not a real baby! It's... it's... it's a Barnabas and it's likely wearing pants that a monkey would walk around in. (I mean, really. What else would Barnabas wear?)

(Remind me one day to tell you the story about me and the woman who brought her pet monkey into an antique store that Kristen and I were shopping in.)

So, until we learn what sex Barnabas is, Barnabas is Barnabas.

You, our friends and family, can use whatever word you want.

The Short History of Barnabas Monkeypants

On December 7th, I got an e-mail from Kristen. In it she said that if we didn't have any sticks with which she could urinate on, we should get them pronto. (The subject of the e-mail was "I don't want to get your hopes up", which I immediately assumed she was talking about getting me Guitar Hero for the Wii. Her real news was much more exciting. Note: I'm still waiting for her to get me the game.)

This, obviously, made me quite happy. So, we went to the drug store that evening, got the necessary item, and Kristen drank a half gallon of water. Five minutes later, there was jumping up and down and some tears (I can't help it; I'm very emotional).

Although she had likely been pregnant for a couple of weeks, it was at that moment, waving the stick in the air, when it seemed Kristen's entire innards were turned inside out. Food tasted not like chicken or meat or sugar, but of clay and dirt and sand. She really hasn't recovered since. (A couple of weeks ago, she told me, quite seriously, that she no longer enjoyed eating. This was after her second donut of the morning.)

On Christmas, when we made a turkey (a really good one, to boot), she barely ate any of it and was more pale than I had ever seen her (which is something, considering how pale both she and I are). Although we hadn't told anyone about her being pregnant yet, our friend Katia, whom was over for Christmas dinner, pulled her aside to ask if she was. Such keen insight she has, that Katia.

Kristen smiled, denied, and then stifled her urge to vomit. "You did this to me," she yelped. (She has repeated that phrase several times in recent months.)

After Kristen saw her doctor, she was able to get her first sonogram and we were able to see Barnabas Monkeypants for the first time.

Although it was difficult to really grasp what you were seeing (a head? an arm? a wheel?), it was nonetheless incredibly exciting. I skipped a little bit, actually. Kristen, however, just ate another Tums. (We're buying stock in GlaxoSmithKline.)

Other than her seemingly constant nausea (which her doctor, our friends, and seemingly everyone in the know said would be going away by now, but hasn't), Kristen's also experienced these strange things happening to her body:

1. Her face became as oily as a 15-year-old boy. (It's since cleared up, thank you very much.)
2. Large clusters of her hair have begun to frizz up like Felicity or, for our older readers, Rosanna Rosannadanna.
3. She has the energy of a three-toed tree sloth. The woman who eschewed naps for the first 31 years of her life now embraces them.

For all of these things, everyone has said that they'll go away, that the second trimester is when you'll get tons of energy. Bah! We're in that trimester, people! They're still here!

So last week, Kristen went again to the doctors for more tests (blood, urine, sonar), and we got another great picture. I'm sure I'm not the first father-to-be who was in complete rapture seeing a picture of their tiny child, so I won't go into that (a couple of tears only). But Barnabas, likely in need of some Taco Bell or other spicy goodness that would wreak havoc on Kristen, was kicking and punching in there like nobody's business. We both agreed that Barnabas most resembled a boxing nun.

Again, everything was fine. The heart was beating as it should, the neck/spine measurement was fine, and there was a lot of movement. A lot of movement. (Barnabas is still too small for Kristen to feel anything, but when the time comes, I think we're all going to be in for plenty of fun. Right Kristen? Honey? Stop giving me that look, darling. It'll be fun.)

That's it for now. Both Kristen and I will be writing in this blog on occasion, keeping everyone up to date (because I'm sure we're the first parents-to-be to ever want to talk about the baby, right). There will be pictures, stories, laughter, tears. There will be stern looks from Kristen as she tells me that I'm painting the baby room all wrong and that, no, that's not where the crib is going to go, and, yes, I'm sure that's the curtains I want until I change my mind in three minutes.