Go! Go! Go!

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Near Misses

(Not yet.)

Kristen loves me. At least she says she loves me (and I'm taking her word for it, because without her love, I'm pretty much sunk). But as much as she loves me and trusts me to do the right thing, there are still plenty of times that she has to make sure that I actually do the right thing.

For example, I've been trying to post on this blog at least 4 times a week for the past couple of months. Even though Barnabas is still stubborn and keeping glued to Kristen's innards, there are plenty of other things that happen to our lives. Unfortunately, a lot of those things that I think would be great to share with you, the Barnabas-loving public, are not things that Kristen wants shared. These are mostly funny stories about strange things that happen when you're pregnant. (And when I say strange, I mean strange.)

So that time when Kristen... oh, wait. I can't write that.

Or that time when I... nope, that's verboten, too.

See? See what I mean? All those funny stories, forever locked in my brain, just begging to be released on a weekend furlough. And why? Because Kristen wants a little bit of decorum. Darn her and her common sense!

Well, here's one very short story for today. Yesterday, Kristen called me in the afternoon and in the middle of the conversation, she casually mentions that she almost tripped and fell while crossing the street.

Of course, I go into my overly protective mode. "Are you okay? What happened? Are you hurt?"

Kristen's fine, you see, because she didn't trip, she didn't fall. She almost tripped. And while all's well with her, I nearly had a heart attack. We quickly came to the conclusion that my heart cannot stand "almosts," and that unless she actually does trip (which is never, ever going to happen, got it?), she is not allowed to tell me of close calls.

The same thing will go for Barnabas. Babies and toddlers are always getting into something they shouldn't and are always grabbing at things they shouldn't or putting things in their mouth that they shouldn't or falling or tripping or whatnot. It happened to you and me and will happen to Barnabas. But those thousands of close calls that could possible end in bruises or scratches or (heaven forbid) broken fingers will never be spoken of until he turns at least 15. Then, and only then, will be lay everything out and see how he nearly was in traction every day of his life.

And boy will that be a long blog post.

The Girl Who Cried Wolf

(No baby yet.)

Now, with that out of the way, I have a funny story for you.

As much of an egomaniac this blog may make me seem, I am pretty humble. Honest. Here's an example. For the past year, I've been taking writing classes at the Second City Training Center, which is the school attached to the comedy group's theater. For the past couple of months, my class has been preparing a show (titled, lovingly, "The Devil Went Down to Denny's"). Opening night was Friday.

I don't know how I feel about the show. I think parts of it are funny, and I'm proud of what I wrote (I suppose), but it's not as if it was produced on merit. My fellow students and I finished the program and Second City was obligated to do this for us.

So it opened on Friday, but nobody I know came (probably because I didn't tell anyone the show's specifics, such as the all important "when" and "where"). But Kristen got mad at me because I haven't been talking about it, so here it is:

If you want to go to the show, it's every Friday at 9 PM at Second City (which is on the corner of Wells and North Ave in Chicago). Tickets cost $10. The show lasts an hour, and there are at least a couple of laughs somewhere.

That's not the funny story, however. After the show, we had a post-opening celebration at a bar across the street. All the writers and actors and the director went, and we all had a drink or two (or in many cases three or four). Now I'm not a drinker. I often tell the story of how when we moved into our last apartment the landladies gave us a bottle of champagne. When we moved out three years later, we took the champagne with us. Also, I wasn't really going to drink much because Kristen was at home, 9 months pregnant, so I wasn't going to do anything that could impair my ability to drive like a maniac to the hospital if necessary.

So I had one beer. (A $6 beer, by the way, which never makes me happy. That's lunch, people!) I got home at around 11:30 (Kristen was already asleep), and went to bed.

Here's the funny part (finally, right?). At about 6 the next morning, I feel a poke at my stomach. I wake up, and Kristen is standing there next to the bed.

"I need you to come with me," she says.

This is it! It's go time! Go! Go! Go! So I jump out of bed (as much as I can on a Saturday morning, a morning after I had that one beer), and follow her.

"Are you having contractions? Did your water break? Are you okay? Is it go time?"

No, not go time. She just wants me to look at the cat litter box. Because it smells really bad. And she wants me to do something about it.

At 6 in the morning.

This is not the first "false alarm" from Kristen. Last night, for example, I woke up at around 3 to see her sitting up in bed. Go time, you'd think, right? No, she was just eating some peanut butter crackers. Last week, I was in the living room and she calls out to me, "Raphe, come here. I need you." I go rushing into the bathroom to find that she's run out of toilet paper and needs me to get her another roll out of the hall closet.

Does she not know what every call across the apartment signals? Or that her sitting up in the middle of the night eating crackers could mean something?

The one good thing about this, though, is that I'm ready. Ready as I'll ever be.

I think.

Is This All There Is?

Sometimes you wait for something for so long, and when it finally arrives, it's just not as good as you'd hoped. All that anticipation, all that build up, and then blah.

So earlier... wait. Did you think I was talking about Barnabas? You cads! Of course I wasn't.

It's the ice cream, people! The ice cream.

It was kind of gummy, not very tasty, and it was made by a racist. I'd give it a 5 out of 10, which is pretty low for ice cream.

(Still no Barnabas. We may try spicy foods tonight.)

I Scream, You Scream

Kristen is at the point where she's going to the doctor's every week so they can check on her progress. Today was this week's day, and there really isn't anything new. There may be some dilation, but maybe not. It could be today, or it could stretch all the way out until August 23, when she'd have to be induced. (I wasn't there, but I can only imagine the look on Kristen's face when her doctor said the 23rd.)

The fact that we don't really know when it's happening has made me not put up a countdown clock like some had suggested. I mean, I could do it for the 15th, her due date, but what if it comes and goes and nothing. That "0 days" would be flashing at me every time I logged in, and that'd be no fun.

She's ready to go any time, and I'm ready, too. Of course, I'd like her to wait just one more day. Why, you ask? Why do you want your wife to have to suffer carrying around Barnabas one more day?

Let me explain.

My office is in a high-rise in downtown Chicago, and every high-rise I've ever worked in always has two "parties" for tenants each year. One, around Christmas where they break out the hot chocolate and cookies, and the other in the summer, where they offer ice cream (which is usually just a crummy ice cream sandwich).

People talk about these events as if they're the high holy days. Free cookies? Free ice cream? Where? When?

(In fact, I'm often baffled at any type of free food event downtown. Every once in a while, businesses offer some sort of giveaway -- a free small beverage, a free taco, a free scoop of ice cream -- and people flock to get the stuff. However, the lines involved are usually ridiculously long. But people are willing to wait 20, 30, even 40 minutes. I don't understand why people want to wait 40 minutes so they can get something that usually costs $2. Is your time worth so little? It's just a taco, man!)

Anyway, Kristen's building had their free food even a couple of weeks ago, and I was still waiting for mine. That is, until Monday, when walking through the lobby, I saw the signs.

"Please Join Us In The Lobby For Ice Cream This Thursday From 1 to 3 PM"

Yes! Ice cream! Free ice cream! (And free stuff that I won't have to stand in line for more than 3 minutes for!)

Of course, my ice cream dreams would crumble if Kristen would go into labor before then. So I've asked her -- nicely -- if she wouldn't mind holding off until 1:15 on Thursday. If she feels a twinge tomorrow morning, I told her to just cross her legs and let it ride for a couple of hours. I wanted her to talk to her doctor about this today, but she seemed less than enthusiastic about bringing it up, but if anyone knows anything about free ice cream, it would be a doctor, no? I mean, all that schooling has to teach you something, no?

Funnel Cake > Funnel Cloud

As far as weather goes, Chicago is a strange city.

It's not that windy (contrary to its nickname), although a good breeze off the lake is common. It's cold in the winter, but we don't get much snow (the lake effect usually hits Indiana and Michigan much worse). It's hot in the summer, however I wouldn't say it's that much worse than New Jersey or Pennsylvania where I've lived in the past.

It's typical of the Midwest, I think, except for one thing:

We don't get tornadoes.

Much of Illinois, Missouri, Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, even Wisconsin and Minnesota have more than a few tornadoes touch down each year. It's one of the scariest weather-related happenings I can think of (and this is coming from someone who lived through a pretty rough hurricane), mostly because there is no real way to predict its path or whether or not it'll even materialize. Hurricanes, snow storms, thunderstorms... there's usually a path involved. Sure, things can veer off at the last minute, but in most cases, you have time to board up your windows or, inevitably, run to the grocery store to get gallons of milk and bread.

(I love that. Every winter, when a big storm is forecast, you can't get near the bread aisle without being knocked over by some crazed woman grabbing the last 8 loaves of Wonder. I mean, do people eat that much bread? What about crackers? Or fruit? Of all things you'd want to feed your stranded family, I can think of a lot more interesting and tasty foods to give them.)

Anyway, tornadoes. While certainly Chicago is as likely to get hit by one as any other city in the Midwest, I don't really think about them. And in the 7 years I've lived here, there never has been a significant threat.

Until last night. At around 8 o'clock, the sky opened up and rain came pouring straight down. It was coming in buckets -- the hardest rain I've seen in forever. Then, the tornado sirens started blaring and emergency notices started to take over the television. So, in yet another fit of protection gone mad, I made Kristen go down to the basement.

We never made it completely to the basement, though, as we sat on the bottom stoop of the back stairway -- which is covered but outside -- and we watched the rain and lightening and listened to the loud cracks of thunder. At the first sign of a green sky or a whooshing noise, I was ready to carry her the last few steps down to the basement, but luckily it never came to that.

(There was talk of a tornado hitting two towns which border Chicago and are only about 40 blocks west of us: Park Ridge and Lincolnwood [mostly known for where we bought the crib mattress]. I'm not sure if there was any confirmation however.)

Later, I had to drive downtown to go to my class (a late run-through of a show that I've written something for), and although the rain had stopped on my drive in, it started up again when I was coming home, so much so that I had to pull over to the side of the road and sit for a while. I also had to make a U-turn in the middle of the street to avoid being submerged under water).

Of course, as all this was happening, from the first storm at 8 to my class to the rainy drive home at midnight, was the thought that this was the night, that somehow, on the most rainy, stormy night of our Chicago lives, we'd have to find our way to the hospital or get stuck on Lake Shore Drive and have some fireman deliver the baby.

Although I can't wait for Barnabas to arrive, I'm pretty happy that it didn't happen like that.

Bob Vila on Line 3

Kristen and I bought our condo just over two years ago. For the most part, it was move-in ready, although we did do some painting and wallpapering. For the first 18 months or so, all the work we'd dome was mostly minor -- barely cosmetic.

However, since things started ramping up for Barnabas, we've been going nuts. We painted two rooms. Reorganized offices, guest rooms, and storage lockers. Yard saled. Constructed countless pieces of furniture. Framed and hung pictures. Bought rugs. And even had time to play with the cats. Sleep, on the other hand...

And, except for one or two things, the place really looks great (if I don't say so myself). There are still some things that have to get done that I cannot do (that ceiling fan in the dining/family room has to get hung by a professional and we have to get rid of that radiator in the guest room which I'll need help with), but I think overall we're ready.

Preparation is not easy.

It's a good thing that after the baby comes, everything will be a piece of cake.

Right, honey?