Posts Tagged ‘friendship’

Friday September 28, 2012 is the first day I really think I got it.  Everything came together for me in one single moment of clarity.  I was punched in the face with truth, and the truth set me free.  The undisputable morsel of knowledge was this:

I am tremendously thankful that I am a man who does not have a vagina or the ability to grow life in my uterus (if I had one).

I mean, up until this point, pregnancy kind of just turned Whitney into a man….She has been gassy, burps a lot, and doesn’t sit like a lady anymore.  Let’s get this straight, she is dead sexy and glowing, but she has her Al Bundy–Married with Children moments.  I conveyed this to her the other day, but to my dismay, somehow this comment wasn’t met with the merriment I expected.

Friday, September 28, 2012, at a routine pre-labor appointment, turned close but no cigar for delivery, I realized exactly what is going down here—literally.  There were metal tools, monitors, multiple women peering into the nether regions of my wife as she sat in motorcycle rider position on a table.  I had this distinct feeling that the nurses were setting up some form of camp in my wife’s birthing area.  Seriously, it looked like they were the advanced party for a circus that is coming to town and their job was to get the big top set up ahead of the carnies’ arrival.  The sounds confirmed my suspicions.  The clanking of metal sounded like tent posts and stakes being prepared for assembly.  Nurses clamoring about grabbing straps and chains excitedly mumbling random things to one another filled the air with the same nostalgic feelings I had before the State Fair in Albuquerque, NM as a kid (minus the potential to be stabbed or killed by gang members or propositioned by local prostitutes).  Things were getting real.  And more importantly, things were getting really invasive.

I offered my hand to Whit as she lay there victim to the carnival occurring just two feet down from her head.  Whitney looked beautiful, but nervous, and rightfully so.  I needed to say something to calm her down while the nurses resurrected the biggest show on earth, so I blurted the first thing that I thought of, “Whitney, you are doing so much better than I would if the nurses were checking my cervix.”  That was it; that was the best I had.

I mean, what does a man say to a woman in this moment that really contains any meaning?  I don’t want to be a coach who just says motivational phrases.  I want to be a valuable member of the push towards life.  I don’t want to say things for the sake of saying things.  I wanted her to hear my words and know that I understand her pain.  I thought I conveyed it.  I am certain that if the nurses were checking my cervix, it would not be met with the calm look of absolute resolution that Whitney met the moment with.

Whitney was like Xena, Warrior Princess sitting there.  I was proud of her, but I cannot say that there was a moment when I thought, “let me take this pain for her.”  I think women are somehow better suited to deal with this moment than men.  Plus, I want to reiterate that Eve ate the apple, and we men just felt compelled to follow suit, because since the dawn of creation, we have just followed our ladies around hoping for a little attention, and we thought that if we were cast out of paradise at the woman’s side, she might give us a little lovin’ later.  I cannot change history…

In the end, the trip was just the beginning of what looks to be a process that is winding down.  I keep trying to coerce Whit into labor by making her do Jumping Jacks, and through a steady diet of spicy foods, but Whitney is hell bent on an October Baby—and make no if, ands, or buts about it, Whitney is this circus’s ringleader.

I just wanted you to know, because I have been holding it in for years.


I can feel it, there is a baby eager to make her way into the world and meet her father….and her mother too, I guess, but she has been with her mother for a good nine months now, so that is probably nowhere near as exciting as meeting me.  I would want to meet me if I was her. 

There are two types of fathers in this world.  Trust me; I have done extensive research (meaning I asked three people their opinions and a simple majority confirmed it).  First there is the father who will not venture below the waistline during the evolution of labor.  They want nothing to do with what is going on in the nether regions during the most critical stage of the birthing miracle.  The “above the waisters,” henceforth referred to as ATWs, are not wrong for their longing to keep clear of the “zone of the unimaginable,” because what happens down there doesn’t make a whole bunch of sense. 

For one moment in time, all the pressure and energy of a woman’s being is centered on an area that the man has been centering all of his pressure, energy, and attention on for years.  Now, in an ironic twist, the ATW has decided this magical place we men never quite understood, but were lured to like a moth to a flame, is best left alone and he becomes a cheerleader rooting his wife on, face to face.  He leans into her, giving her an arm or finger to squeeze, and says glittering generalities surrounding motivational phrases we used to scream from sidelines, dugouts, and bleachers during sporting events. 

Trust me, ATWs say the same things to their wives during labor that they would when a man gets up to bat and there are two runners on in the late innings of a baseball game.  They just make it sound more breathy and motivating.  During a game, we yell to our teammates, “This is your time, brother, pick one and drive it, don’t leave them stranded out there on base, bring ‘em home.”  During labor, the ATWs go with what they know, they lean in and say, “This is your time, you’re a mother, concentrate and drive through the next push, don’t leave that girl in there, we need to bring her home.”  ATWs never stray too far from what they know.  The mother has become a teammate and they are going to get her through this very individual moment in what is generally a team sport.

The second type of father is a militaristic man (MM), not to imply that he is more of a man than his counterpart, ATW, but that he is very different.  He is a man who is trained to be at the most chaotic point of any evolution.  He believes that is the place where he can provide the best support to the woman in her moment of peril.  The MM believes that the point of friction is where he should be shouting out orders and organizing the next combative muscle movements.  He needs to see the breach point and somehow find a way to gain the initiative and exploit the enemy.  In the case of labor, nature is the enemy, and the natural process of birth is a thinking, breathing, and adaptive enemy at that. 

The MM thinks in terms of objectives, phase lines, stages, and culminating points.  He has divided up “Operation Baby Boom” into distinct phases, and even more specifically, into smaller stages.  He is looking for the best moment to mass his combat power and engage the enemy in what he refers to decisive action.  The woman lying on the bed is his main effort, and the doctors surrounding her are all supporting efforts.  Should something go wrong, the doctors are poised, and ready to assume the main effort.  The MM has briefed all parties involved and he is ready to cross the line of departure. 

The MM has his head right into the business area of his wife’s nether area.  He is fighting back pushing the doctors out of the way and doing this himself.  He is intrigued by the entire process.  Sure, he shouts out motivational phrases, but they are less like cheerleading and much more specific.  After a push, he looks up and gives his wife a situation report (SITREP).  The SITREP includes basic information about the evolution.  “Good push, I believe the baby is close to crowning, the next push is going to be an important one for us, I need you to really bear down; we have the enemy on their heels, and I think that they are just about out of options. The contraction lasted 90 seconds, and was three minutes and thirty seconds from your last.  Using this as a gauge for the next one I believe we can consolidate and rest for two more minutes, but then we will need to press forward. Stand by.” 

Without restraint from hospital personnel, the MM will not contain himself when the baby crowns, he will reach up there and pull the baby through the obstacle belt.  The MM doesn’t understand why the labor takes more than 15 to 20 minutes, and seems to be rushing the process the entire time.  And, as is the case with many military planners, the MM doesn’t necessarily have the best exit strategy.  Once the baby is out of the womb and laying there in all of his or her glory, the MM is overly emotional, and cannot figure out what to do with his hands.  He doesn’t know how to hold a baby, but he is dying to try.  The MM has never felt more masculine than he does at the moment he sees his baby, and this baby is his next General Officer…

I am certain that I will be the father who is all up in my wife’s business.  I am excited and ready for this to occur, and all signs in my house are that this kid is coming with a vengeance in the next few weeks.  I cannot write anymore today, as I have to put together a crib.  Earlier this week I put together a stroller, and a car seat thingy.  We are surrounded by bottle whozits, and pink whatzits, and breast feeding thing-a-mbobs, and some kind of diaper changing magic place.  I have been tasked by my wife to help her nest and I have some required reading to complete on the subject of sleep schedules.  Right now, she is snoring to my left because she can only sleep in small bursts.  The baby has infiltrated every aspect of her life.  This baby, not yet born, has infiltrated every aspect of my life, and I couldn’t be happier.

I just wanted you to know, because I have been holding it in for years.

When my wife asked, I jumped at the opportunity to attend breastfeeding class—this is what husbands do.  We sacrifice for our spouses. I knew that I would be an exceptional student and felt like the class would have been minus a great “boob” perspective should I have declined the invitation.  Breastfeeding is intimidating.  I wanted to set a tone that conveyed to Whitney that I was serious and committed to breastfeeding.  She needed to know that sitting next to her “partnering with her” was a supportive husband who would stand on a staunch platform that come hell or high water, we were going to give breastfeeding this baby everything we had.  In a carefully planned opening comment to Whitney, I think I got this point across.  As the movie started, I said, “Dude, I am going to see a lot of boobs today….”

I wasn’t the only husband there, and I think the wives liked having their baby daddy with them, but what I found was that breastfeeding is pretty much not going to be something I get to be a tremendous help with.  I have spent many hours trying to convince Whitney that her breast milk could be a way we save on protein supplements for the Phillips Household, but I am not sure she has committed.  Although, I learned how to “latch” yesterday and I believe I would be a great candidate for a woman to feed, but that is probably the subject of a much different blog.  But, it reminds me of a time when Whitney was thinking, “hell, I am breastfeeding my own child, maybe, I could make a few c notes as a wet nurse.”  She began looking for some information on the internet and was excited to see that it was more common than she initially thought.  She came to a link that looked like a solid prospect.  Once opened, Whitney was greeted with a link for a 40 plus year old man seeking a woman who would treat him like a baby and breastfeed him.  She was pretty much against the idea from the get go.  I was on the fence; this could be a lucrative deal for Whit, and I knew she gets a lot of her identity from her work, and this could be a solid career move.  ***Will keep you posted should she commit to this new career!!!!**

There was also a second at the beginning of the class where I am certain the teacher wished Whitney and I had chosen something else to do with our Saturday morning.  The conversation betwixt Whit and the instructor went like this:

Instructor:  This is a great course that helps you avoid some of the horror stories you may have heard about from friends and or books.

Whitney:  How long does the course go today?

Instructor:  Two hours, so it is not too bad.

Whitney:  We were hoping for one hour.

Instructor:  ……..

Heath:  mmmmhhmhmhmmhm  (elbowing Whitney)

Don’t question Whitney’s commitment.  It’s more like an A-D-D thing with her.  I took her to the Battle of Fredericksburg once where we joined a tour.  About 45 minutes into the tour, Whitney went all “toddler” on me and separated from the tour so she could chase squirrels and throw rocks at trees.  She was trying to be honest with the lady, and sure as shit, 1 hour into the class during an emotionally charged portion of the movie about getting your baby to latch on to the nipple, she leans into me for what I believe is going to be a sentimental comment about the connection she will have with her daughter.  She had these tears welling up in her eyes and she says, “I am getting excited about the fall season. Halloween will be nice out here—all the leaves changing and whatnot.”

My forecast for boobs was right on track.  The movie did not disappoint.  Even Whitney was impressed with the boobs we got to see initially.  There was even a moment when she leaned into me and said, “That girl has big old knockers” This whisper was met with a calm grunt of agreement from me.  I have learned never to get overly excited when faced with the prospect of analyzing boobs to my wife.  Heath, stay cool, don’t ruin the moment.

I think I became desensitized to breasts yesterday.  They were everywhere.  The teacher was grabbing her breasts, she was playing with this stuffed animal breast, and I was on breast overload.  All of these women in the movies were just throwing breasts all over the screen.  Right now, I could go walk out in town and a woman could fling her breast out and I wouldn’t give it a second look (this is a complete lie).  I posted on Facebook that I was going to write a blog on breastfeeding, and my friends were all quick to point out that my response was probably going to be similar to an immature teenager.  Well FB friends, I didn’t disappoint you.  Something as beautiful and genuinely unbelievable as the connection a baby has with their mother was initially only exciting to me because I was going to “legally” see boobs other than Whitney’s.  It is what it is.  I am a horrible man.

I learned a lot.  A question was posed about what a man can do to help out the wife during the initial month.  The instructor was rambling about support and being there for her for the little things.  This is when Whitney points out to me what my role will be.  She, again leans into me and says, “Essentially, you will be my slave.”

I am off to prepare myself for the work week.  I am hoping this week is as filled with as many boobs as my Saturday was.  I just wanted you to know, because I have been holding it in for years.

You Have to be a Good Team:  Part Two of what could be more than a two part series in this blog depending on how many people like the blog…I do it for you, people.

I have rambled on for hours in this blog about relationships.  I am sure that it is this blog that has kept many a relationship from tanking, or at least four of you that have read this and applied the vast array of knowledge I am putting out there.  For instance, those of the populace that have read my blog know that a pregnant woman with night terrors will, in fact, be able to scale three dogs, climb a post of the bed and race into the bathroom all to save herself from the nightmarish entity floating in the corner of the room (an elliptical machine that comes to life in the darkness of night).  If you read my blogs and apply them to your life, you will be more sufficiently prepared to deal with your wife’s lack of a brain once conception occurs.  This is not an insult to ladies.  On the contrary, it is a reality for ladies and their husbands. 

Take earlier this week for example.  I was tearing the house apart looking for the remote controls that belong to the living room television and entertainment center.  Whitmaster 3K is sitting on the couch massaging her baby bump.  For some reason, the movers did not pack the remotes for living room stuff in the boxes labeled “living room stuff.”  This is where I used to rely on my woman.  Whitney was my “go to wife” for all matters of things that I either misplaced or lost in general.  She could remember that I put my keys in a flower pot on the porch just because she saw them there for a split second five days ago.  Do you get what I am saying here?  I never remembered anything, because I didn’t have to.  I just woke up in the morning and looked to her for guidance. 

So, Whitney looks to me and says, “Remember the mover lady said, ‘I put the remotes for your living room TV in………..,’” and then she abruptly stops, not even attempting to search for the conclusion to her statement.  That’s it.  That’s all she had.  What good does that do for me?  As a matter of fact, why even say that sentence?  It’s like when a friend says, “I have to tell you something,” and then immediately follows it up with, “Nevermind.”  No wait, it is even more like I was like a Pirate hunting for treasure with a map that didn’t have a big ass red “X” marked at the location of the treasure.  She bamboozled me, and then just kept on massaging her belly, which was the reason for her complete inability to help me locate what I needed most at that moment in my life. 

Take a couple days before that, and I want to make sure I relay to you that this one is partly my fault, but the majority of it rests on Whitney, because I am the one writing this blog, and that is the way it works.  When we first moved into the house, it was empty and seemed so big and scary, like scenes from American Horror Story.  I brought in the gun we had been using for “Trailer Protection.”  I looked to Whitney and said very clearly, “Whitney I am putting the gun……”  I write that without an ending, because I can’t remember how I ended the sentence.  In my defense, I have never been counted on to remember my sentence endings—Whitney did all this stuff.  Here we are a week later, and there is a handgun somewhere in this house…  I know that sounds reckless, but rest assured I will find the weapon and put it in a secure place as soon as I can complete that sentence.  I am a responsible gun owner when it counts—don’t judge, the blog isn’t about me, it’s about Whitney.

Back to the title of the blog, you have to be a good team.  Utilizing a teamwork strategy where I just look through every box for the remote and Whitney massages her growing baby bump, we, together as a team located the remote.  A better example is caged in the events of yesterday morning.  Whitney was buying me a special present—major league baseball tickets.  I was pumped, and I am not going to lie, I was sitting on my butt watching her do all the work.  While on hold, she said to me, “Heath, you need to call the plumber, so he can get here and fix the dishwasher.”  She then was taken off hold and continued dealing for the gift she wanted to give me.  Here is where it gets awesome.  I started acting like a teenager who was just told to go mow the lawn.  I pouted; I huffed and puffed; I silently threw a tantrum; I made angry eyes at Whitney aka, Ruiner of My Laziness.   

By the time she was off of the phone, I was done with the tortuous job of getting a plumber here to fix something I probably could have fixed if I was a man’s man.  She looked at me and said in a motivated voice, “See, that’s what I like about us, we are a good team; we get things done, although you act like a little bitch when doing it, we still get things done.”   She saw the offense I had taken with her statement and followed up with, “And, don’t get mad, I censored what I really wanted to say.”

She’s right we are a good team. 

I just wanted you to know, because I have been holding it in for a fortnight.

My intent was to blog daily for the rest of my life.  You would all read the blog, enjoy the blog, tell your friends and it would spread like wild fire.  I would become rich.  I would forget about all of you that were the reason that I had found wealth, fame and fortune, but it wouldn’t matter because you had already helped me achieve it, and I would be doing whatever the hell I wanted to do—I would buy jet skis and other recreational devices.  Subsequently, I would have purchased my own island and invited stars to come out and use it as a place they could produce their next record, or as a place they could begin to delve into Scientology.  I am not a Scientologist, yet.  I will become one if Tom Cruise does something, I do it too.    

That was my introduction.  That is what you say when your intentions as a blogger are merely the best laid plans of mice and men, and they have been acted upon by an outside force beyond your control.  In this case, it is my boss.  I have been forced by my employer to work full days.  I know…..I am frustrated as well.  To be frank, my boss is reading this blog right now, so let me make very clear that I love my job, my boss, his family, and of course everything about the man.

I say all that to say this:  Blogs will slow down, it will be a weekly occurrence, but maybe that means you have all week to get excited about Saturday mornings again.  Seriously, cartoons are no good anymore. For years, we haven’t had anything to do.  They cancelled Smurfs, the Hannah Barbera Olympics, and Jem; I may be all you have now.  I mean Saturdays have been pretty much worthless since 1989.  Plus, the infrequency with which I post these things may drive up the demand, and quality of work I produce simultaneously. 

You have dedicated three paragraphs of your life to me and I have said nothing.  I will now talk about something.

Today is August, 4.  Today marks 13 days in a trailer.  Today marks ten days to go before leaving the trailer.  Today, the trailer that once measured 33 feet long now feels like a ten by ten box.  Today, the three dogs that live with me and the one Pregnant Woman grow restless.  Was my plan to move the five of us here as well thought out as I first thought?  Who would have thought that moving an individual with life growing inside of her and her entourage of dogs could be anything but awesome?

You have to give it to The Whitness.  She has handled it with more grace than any seven month pregnant woman I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.  One of the coolest things I do here is go to work from 0700 to 1700.  This is especially cool because when I go to work, Whitney gets to stay in a trailer all day long and watch dogs.  And, deep down, I know that this is what she wanted; this is every woman’s dream.  I remember back to our vows the day we were wedded for eternity.   Before you think that I am not keeping any promises, I wanted to let you know what went down.  The following are the vows I read from the note card at my wedding.  These are the facts, and they are undisputable.

 I, Heath, take you, Whitney, as my lawfully wedded wife; to have and to hold; to cherish by showering you with lavish trips to unbelievable places like Jacksonville, North Carolina—henceforth referred to as the “armpit of the Marine Corps.”

-To move you into a home and then leave you there alone for two years while I, like Teddy Roosevelt during his days with The Rough Riders, gallivant across the globe to secure peace and prosperity and fight communists. 

-I do promise to rip you from the comfort of every job you gain at any duty station we live and force you to move to an equally intimidating and luxurious new duty station like Cherry Point Marine Corps Air Station, where the cool hang out spot is the Dollar General.  Or, Quantico Marine Corps Base, where I will spend the majority of my time on I-95 and bring you home special gifts like ticks and weird infections on my elbows that cause the skin to blister.  Subsequently, the blistering will cause my napkins to stick to my elbows at restaurants. When I stand up, you will frantically attempt to pull the napkins from my arms and you will think it is awesome and not gross at all.

-I promise to conduct this move in the comfort and efficiency of a travel trailer in which you can place all of your necessities and dogs, under the guise that moving you this way would be more comfortable than staying in a hotel room or going out earlier and getting a house, which would have prevented us from having to reside in a trailer at all.

-Additionally, I promise love, honor and to go to my new job, which will remind you that you no longer have the comfort of a nice work place and its associated people whom you love, and leave you in said trailer where you will be forced to watch “Live with Kelly Rippa” and whomever she chooses as a guest host, because Regis has retired—and every time you see the new host, you will ask me if that is the permanent host, to which I will respond in the negative and then re-explain the fact that Regis has retired and Kelly Rippa utilizes guest hosts to keep it interesting, but since you will be pregnant at the time, you will not grasp what I consider to be easy to conceptualize.  However, you are so cute pregnant, I will continue to act like it is the first time you ask.

– I will also give you the unique opportunity to leash three dogs, well two dogs, because one has three legs and cannot be leashed or she will fall over to her front right where an arm used to be.  I will expect you to figure out, while pregnant, how you get the three dogs down the stairs, when I may or may not have parked the trailer in an area that causes the last step to the ground to be farther than the first two, and then awkwardly try to control the dogs as they all try to get out of the trailer simultaneously as if the trailer is giving birth.  The dogs will do their best to pull your pregnant ass down the stairs in a motion that unimpregnated women would find hard to maneuver through, and you will find this exciting and not an inconvenience at all.

-Finally, I promise that you can buy as many pairs of shoes as you would like to and that I won’t care if you actually ever wear them or not.  On a related note, I will also let you use a portion of the closet space that was previously designated as mine to house the superfluous shoes, because love is about understanding that a closet can never be too big. 

Yes, I am pretty sure that is what I promised our marriage would be like.  I may have paraphrased the bulleted points with the line, “Through better or worse,” but the above is what I really meant…..

Two and three quarter days into my three day trek from Pensacola, Florida to Fredericksburg, Virginia, the phone rings in my truck.  Directly to my front, I can see my future.  Dark storm clouds are billowing towards my caravan pushing their way around the buildings of downtown Richmond.  My caravan, a motley crew, made up of a truck whose occupants include a handsome driver named, me, and two heavily sedated dogs, as their travel anxiety causes driver anxiety.  Following the truck, is a car whose occupants include a seven month pregnant woman, her swollen feet, which the pregnant woman contests are their own entity in themselves now, and behind her, in the rear passenger side seat, a three-legged Chihuahua sits shaking, because that’s what three-legged Chihuahuas do.  I am going to get to the phone call trust me.  Just not yet.  I want you to sit there and wonder why I would start this blog off by alluding to a phone call near the end of the journey and not the beginning of the three day drive that tested every facet of my being, from the fibers of my marriage to my ability to handle stress while manipulating a trailer through horrifying situations.

Trucks.  Huge trucks.  Huge trucks everywhere.  They growl like monsters.  They roar when they pass me, and the inhalation leading up to said roar sucks the trailer I am desperately trying to keep behind me towards them.  For split seconds every time I am passed by these beasts of the roadway I lose control of my train.  I feel it; my stomach feels it, and behind me, my pregnant wife has decided at these moments she should text me, the following, “Honey, are you okay, just checking cuz you’re swerving into the trucks…” 

I don’t know why but I have always felt like truck drivers are intimidating.  I feel the same way I would when I drive around them that I would if I was playing a pickup game of basketball with Michael Jordan—that being, completely out of my league.  I do this thing when they pass me to let them know I think they are cool.  One quick off and on of my brights to say to them, “you are past me, please feel free to come back over into this lane.”  They love me for this.  Sometimes they blink their taillights at me in an expression of gratitude.  I act like the kid who is trying as hard as he can to be part of the “in-crowd.”  At gas stations, I go out of my way to say hello them while standing in front of my trailer, my “beast of the roadway” leaning in the coolest pose I can muster.  I see them in the restrooms of the truck stops we frequent along our route and I probably spend too much time watching their mannerisms.  Once, Pregnant Whitney and I pulled into a gas station and walked in front of about five big rigs filling up their tanks.  I proudly escorted my pregnoid wife from their right to left and for just one awesome instance, I thought, “yeah, this is my lot lizard—I knocked her up.”  I was so proud at that moment.  Seconds later, Whitney did this weird pregnant leap, which actually means she stepped an inch farther than comfort would normally allow.  She lets out an odd whimper and then immediately stops, looks down and pulls the dog away from something that is unbelievably tantalizing.  Moments earlier, I had pulled a chicken bone from the dog that she had found on the side of the lot, so I assumed it was something similar.  Wrong.  There laying in all its awesomeness was a freshly used condom….My trucker brothers had been busy on this very piece of land…..I wanted to take a picture for my scrap booking….

As the trip begins, I can tell that my truck is in an uphill battle against the trailer.  My first acceleration to 65 mph took five minutes and I could watch as the gas gauge fell.  I looked up to the monitor that lets me know the fuel economy: 7 MPG.  Excellent, this was a good decision.  As the trip would wind up, I filled up my tank every 150 miles…..this is not bragging.  My wife filled her car up twice.  Excellent, this was a good decision.  I keep noting that the trailer is riding awfully.  Lurching forward, and pulling the truck downward in such a sharp motion, I thought that it was bad.  At the first stop, my wife, who is pregnant and has extensive knowledge of pulling a trailer or at least in her head she does, points out that the trailer is probably connected incorrectly; I ignore her opinion…remember the phone call…

Day two, my wife pulls out from behind me on the road and snaps a picture of my truck pulling the trailer.  She posts it to FB with a statement worshipping her ruggedly handsome husband pulling the trailer like a professional.  Comments pour in rooting us on as we struggle down Interstate 95.  My father was noticeably absent in my travels.  Not a word, a comment about how proud he is of his manly son who, like him, now pulls a trailer down the highway.  This could have been a connecting moment in our lives.  Maybe it could have been that moment in the father-son relationship where he thinks, “My boy has become a man.”   Nope, nothing, silence.  Our convoy continues northbound.

At some point on the evening of the second travel day, Fred Flintstone had entered my wife’s car and exchanged his feet with hers.  Initially, I was in such a hurry to fill up my tank and get back on the road that I didn’t notice what had progressed from knee down to my pregnant companion on this hellish journey.  Something happened.  It looked as if a balloon artist that worked at amusement parks constructed her legs out of those condom shaped balloons in such a manner that no distinguishable difference existed in the circumference of her legs from knee down.  At the bottom of her leg, where normal people have feet, were five round little balloons extending outward as if the balloon artist had adapted toes by twisting the balloons.  Couple this with her new walking style, and I now had a pregnant wife who looked like she was walking on wooden clubs with nubs for toes.  Cute as can be, but nevertheless, she was walking on wooden clubs.  Somewhere, Fred Flintstone was gallivanting around with Dino on a pair of normal human sexy feet, while my wife was a prisoner to wooden club legs adorned with Fred Flintstone feet. 

The storm clouds continued pummeling the scenery and at any moment, I knew I would be pulling my trailer through unknown roadways in a torrential downpour.  My phone rings and I look to see who would call me at this moment.  Had someone sensed my stress?  Had God shined down upon me with some voice that could calm my nerves?  It was my father.  I hastily answered waiting for the words from his mouth of recognition of my trailer pulling prowess.  My dad started talking, at first bantering about being on the road, but quickly, cutting to the chase.  The following exchange occurred two and three quarter days into my three day journey from Pensacola, Florida to Fredericksburg, Virginia:

Dad:  Son, I saw the picture Whitney posted of you pulling the trailer on Facebook.

Heath:  Yeah? (Said in a manner that knew the following words would be a moment I could not forget).

Dad:  Whitney got a good picture of the moment.

Heath: Yeah?  (Said in a manner that knew the following words would be a moment I could not forget).

Dad:  Two things.

Heath:  Yeah?  (Said in a manner that knew the following words would be a moment I could not forget).

Dad:  Your truck is too small, and the trailer is hooked up wrong…..

I immediately flashed back to when Whitney first pointed it out…I can’t stand it when she is right about things I ignored the first time she said it…..whatever.  So, I sit here in Fredericksburg, Virginia proof that you don’t have to do things right to get them done…  I sit here in the freezing catacombs of my trailer with my three dogs who all want dog mittens to keep their dog paws from freezing.  My wife sits across from me wearing summer gear wiping the sweat from her pregnant brow.  Excellent, this was a great idea….  

More to come…..


Firstly, I want you to know, that I know, that this blog is written in multiple fonts.  I don’t know how to fix it.  Just know, I know.


This is my last blog entry for at least a week.  I know that was straight forward and difficult to digest, but I wanted to lay it all out there for you.  I feel like, as adults, we pull too many punches with each other.  People don’t want to be lied to about everything.  We want to be lied to about some things, but not everything.  Like, I don’t really want to know that you think I suck at life; I don’t care if you think it, and I would venture to say that if you think I suck at life, you are spending too much time reading things I write.  But, if you do think I suck, just keep it to yourself or lie about it.  Lying is really cool when used properly, but conversely, lying is really bad when you use it poorly.  I rarely read stuff by people I think suck at life.  The more stuff I read by people that suck at life, the more agitated I get, and who wants to lead this type of sadistic lifestyle.

So, for the sake of full disclosure, you need to know that I am embarking on a Babymoon.  According to Wikipedia where I go to learn about everything just enough to draw horribly misguided conclusions on things I don’t know enough about, a (pay attention to the italicized and bold font).

Babymoon has several meanings. The original meaning is a period of time that parents spend bonding with a recently-born baby.

More recently the term has come to be used to describe a vacation taken by a couple that is expecting a baby in order to allow the couple to enjoy a final trip together before the many sleepless nights that usually accompany a newborn baby. Babymoons usually take place at a resort that offers appropriate services like prenatal massage.

Babymoon can also be used for a trip taken by a couple even before they get pregnant. As long as the trip is intended to be a final romantic fling before venturing into parenthood, the term babymoon applies.

The term babymoon comes from the more traditional term honeymoon, which is a vacation taken by a newlywed couple after their wedding ceremony.

A babymoon is enticing to me because it means a couple of things for me.

  1. 1.       Wikipedia has me excited that this is the point in my pregnancy where my wife gets those crazy hormones that will make us spend five straight days in our hotel room working on our Olympic gymnastic floor routines……Wikipedia stated, “long as the trip is intended to be a final romantic fling before venturing into parenthood…” (Proper MLA citation here).  My interpretation of this definition offered by the all knowing Wikipedia is that as long as I am romantic with my intentions, Whitney must succumb to my desires…and there will be plenty of prenatal massages, if you know what I am talking about……


  1. 2.      And on a related note.  My actual honeymoon had this incident where Whitney got really drunk off of wine at the resort restaurant.  As she became more and more inebriated she started yelling out to all those who walked by, “Do not drink the wine, it has alcohol in it!!”  When I say yelling, I want you to understand that it was the kind of yelling where the drunk guy stumbles up to you, puts his finger into your chest and slur yells at you.  I took her back to the room thinking she was just drunk enough that I could trick her into some sort of kink.  Not so much.  In minutes, she was passed out on top of the towels that were folded together to look like kissing geese….So, since this time around, Whitney is a forced teetotaler, I plan on drinking 50 Beers from 50 different country and then slur yelling at all the people at the theme park.


  1. 3.      And on a related note.  I took Whitney to Las Vegas one New Years Eve.  Three words: it was a freaking blast!  On two occasions during this trip, my wife’s adventurous drunk twin showed up.  The first instance involved a line for a cab and a guy who showed up to the line later than his friends did that were already in line ahead of us.  Well, Whitney was just drunk enough not to grasp that he was meeting his friends that were in line ahead of us, and felt like the guy had just pulled off the “cut of the century.”  Her reaction has been a story told on Thanksgivings and wherever two or more gather since the day it went down.  She pressed her finger to the guy’s chest and slur yelled the following:  “MY HUSBAND CAN KILL YOU WITH HIS PINKY FINGER….”  Needless to say, I killed no one that day, but it didn’t-not happen without a mighty protest from Drunken Whitney.  The best part about my wife is her commitment to her convictions.  To this day, no matter how blurred by years and the fact she was drunk, she is convinced the guy cut and therefore deserved to die.  Trust me, even as she is reading this line she is frustrated that I am not telling the whole truth in her eyes.  So, when I get all krunk next week, I am going to yell at some random female the following:  “My pregnant wife could kick the shit out of you!”  The second instance involves a concerned woman running up to me in The New York Casino and saying, “I think your wife is doing snow angels on the restroom floor…but I don’t want you to have all the good info in one blog.

In summation, as I am getting ready to end this blog.  I am heading to Orlando, the land of all things Disney.  I am going to take pictures.  I will surely blog about my experiences.  I will woo my lovely bride by offering her massages and then pass out after two rubs.  I will show her I love her by letting her watch as I ride all kinds of exciting thrill rides.  She will hold all of my valuables as we trek through The Magic Kingdom.  It will be an epic babymoon—the first of seven.  I want seven kids all of which will be named for a dwarf they can go see on their own vacations years later to the same spot we had their respective babymoons. 

I just wanted you to know, because I know you’ll miss me.

It’s Monday, and it’s time to reunite with my loyal readers….although, I know some of you are taking a break from my posts or behind as life has decided to interrupt the most glorious part of your day, which should be reading your daily dose of my wife’s wild and crazy antics.  To my friend, who I will call Shari to protect her identity, Whitney is happy she has found her way into your decision making process.  If she could type my blog for me, she would tell you the following:

When you happen upon a decision of any sort, ask yourself not whether Whitney would think it’s cool, but instead, ask yourself what Heath would think, and then you simply do the opposite.  This has worked for me for 10 years. 

In the sentiment of Whitney’s Wild and Crazy Pregnancy, I offer this submission to LifeasIknowit.

Women in large groups are probably the single scariest thing that can happen.  Women in large groups all feed off of each other and plant these things I call “Ideas” into one another’s heads.  I have mentioned for years that I tried to curb Whitney’s horrible habit of reading, because it seemed to cause her to grow intellectually.  Unfortunately, I was unable to do so, and as fate would have it, she is now smarter than I am.  In an effort to stave off any more growth in her brain housing group, I have made her transition to reading only erotic fiction.  A positive result from this switch is that I am certain that 50 Shades of Grey is a huge player in the fact that my wife is pregnant right now (I never heard more shame ridden giggling than I did those few weeks that she read the series).

Back to the lecture at hand:  Whitness’s baby shower was yesterday; and in all accounts, it was an expertly thrown and conducted evolution.  Whitney was raving about the entire party, and she came home with a cornucopia of awesome gifts.  She also came home with a revelation that I am not as excited about….a decision made solely for her comfort and general happiness, without so much as a second thought to my opinion:  Goodbye Thong, and hello Granny Panties…..As she told me her thoughts, I pictured her and 20 other girls talking about the granny panty switch.  I do not think this scenario really happened, but in my head all of these women were super excited about the prospects of granny panties in Whitney’s life.  This shot down my earlier fantasy that a baby shower was a bunch of scantily clad women having a pillow fight…Nope, instead it was like a modern day quilting bee where all of the quilters attempt to coerce the sexy pregnant quilter it is time to go granny.  (Again, I have no evidence even pointing to the women in attendance at the party having even discussed granny panties; conversely, I have no evidence that the party wasn’t, in fact, scantily clad women all having a massive pillow fight). 

People, granny panties don’t bother me that much; she’ll rock the hell out of some granny panties (hopefully, I can get her some Wonder Woman ones and she can pretend to fly in an invisible plane, and lasso me up).  I should have seen it coming when Whitney came home Friday with what I call either a Pregnatard, or a Pregnancy Straight Jacket.  She has these elastic type bands running all over her body now that are meant to help support her baby belly.  It is like S&M gone tragically wrong.  2012, and this is the best they can do….I told her I wish it restrained her arms more so that it acted more like a straight jacket—that would be awesome.  The best part is the front of the box says, “So comfortable, you’ll forget you’re wearing it!”  Whitney might forget, but I won’t.   The coolest thing about the Pregnatard is that it looks a bit like she is a pregnant mummy who has just unwound most of the wrapping she had on.  It fills my “pregnant mummy” check box on my bucket list of things to do…. 

Everything is happening so fast.  I swear to God, as Whitney stands around in her Pregnatard, I can see the baby moving inside of her.  I worry that Baby Shakes, is going to punch through the thing.   I am certain I created a superhero, because this girl can kick.  I can almost play rock paper scissors with her and see what symbol she is holding up through the belly.   

So, my day ended with the Granny Panty Revelation of 2012, and it started equally crazy. 

I walked into the bedroom and found Whitney sitting on the bed.  Here is the conversation that unfolded:

Heath:  Good morning, Whitney

Whitney:  Good morning, Heath.  (In the same breath) You forgot to tell me Happy 17 Days until My Birthday, Happy 26 Weeks, and Happy Baby Shower Day.

Heath:  Wow, I don’t think I have been set up for success here.

Whitney:  All three of these things warrant individual recognition, you know, well apparently you don’t.

This conversation should have forecasted that by the end of the day, Whitney, her mom, and I would be in Wal-Mart in a full on granny panty hunt.  It was like a weird version of Wizard of Oz as we trekked down the aisles. 

So, for those of you who are out shopping, from now on, you should be asking yourself, “Would Whitney think these granny panties are cool?”  First stop this weekend for me is the local Fredericks of Hollywood where I have heard they sell some really sleazy granny panties—this is gonna be awesome.

I just wanted you to know, because I have been holding it in for years.   

By definition, I am a Day Walker.  I can go outside during the day, but I meet most other prerequisites of the Ginger—except I have smaller toes than they do.  True Gingers have longer toes and fingers than the average human—for reals, I am a Ginger, I know this to be true—I would love to tell you it translates to larger than average other things, but I have yet to conduct any conclusive research—but for the sake of bravado, it does translate.  That isn’t to say I have normal toes and are somehow better than Gingers; to the contrary, my feet look like they were mangled in an accident.  My feet are the exact mix of my mother’s, who has Flintstone style feet, and my father’s, whose are dainty and horse hooves.  His feet actually look like they were bound as a child.

My hair has like glittering red to it, but can come across brown, which gives me my Day Walker status, but make no mistake about it, I have no soul.  If I were to grow out a goatee, my gingerality would become very evident.  I just invented “gingerality.” 

Gingers are amazing individuals.  I implore you to befriend one and see what it is I am talking about.  Gingers’ awesomeness is in all actuality a product of the rough life we lead, especially in our early years.  Blondes, brunettes, and all other hair tones have great examples of heroes to look to in times of self doubt.  Little boys with blue black hair have superman and a myriad of other super folks to admire.  Gingers have Howdy Doody, which coincidentally, my mother dressed me up as for my first ten Halloweens of my life.  Hey everybody, its Howdy Doody time.  I actually had to say this at every door for candy, because the people just thought I was a loser ginger kid looking for somebody’s pity candy.  I remember after I said it, they would have this horrible look of sadness for me, tears would well up in the bottom of their eyes and they would close the doors after giving me a package of Smarties and turn and say, “poor kid, he had no other options.”  See Figure 1 for a graphic depiction. 

 Figure 1.1  This is an actual photograph from my early Halloweens.


Now, of course, Gingers are becoming cool thanks to Horatio Cane from NCIS Miami, but I think it got cancelled…..

Gingers have well developed personalities.  Our senses of humor are above average because we are forced to use these attributes to convince ladies we are not alien, and furthermore that we are worth their time.  Now, all men have to come up with some gimmick to get the ladies’ attention, but for us gingers, it takes a little extra effort.    What hurts us are gingers like Carrot Top.  Even if I was Brad Pitt, but had red hair, we are still overcoming the Carrot Top stigma.   I am not saying gingers are ugly, we are not, we are a handsome and beautiful species, but we are different.  Because we are different, sometimes we are viewed as a novelty.  I think, people think about being with gingers the same way they would checking off the “mile high” notch on their list of things to do before marrying.  Also driving our personalities is our inability to tan.  I have a good body, but no one will ever see it because when I take my shirt off, you have to close your eyes.  The only way to appreciate my body is like reading Braille—close your eyes and start touching the contours of my body with your fingertips……just saying.  Every now and then when Whitney is being extra special nice to me, she will say, “Heath, I think you are a little bit tan!”  Sometimes its the little things that mean the most. 

Take some time off from what you are doing today and say hello to the ginger working down the hall from you.  You will find in them the most loyal friend you’ve ever had.  They will make you look tanner in the very least.  We may not have souls, but we have feelings.  You’d be surprised how cool a ginger kid is. 

I just wanted you to know, because I have been holding it in for years. 


My wife would make a stellar super villain or assassin. Her super-power is her brain used in tandem with hypnotic and alluring eyes of death. Because she is a genius, I have to work extra hard to stay alive at home. Every moment I live only increases the possibility I may be walking directly into a trap or ambush of epic proportions. Because she is currently incubating my daughter, I am extra vulnerable to her charm. The unavoidable draw of a pregnant woman cannot be overcome by any super power. Pregnant girls are the worst type of super villain. There are multiple incidents I can relay to you to justify these claims, and today I offer one of them up to you. I have titled this The Croissant Incident of 2012 as it happened in 2012 and deals with croissants.

My wife tried to kill me this morning. She had strategically placed a box of croissants, the huge box that you buy at the Sam’s Club or Costco, on top of the fridge. She is brilliant. She had it set up so that the croissant box relied upon the surface area of the door in order to stay up there. Think “bucket over the door trick” where the person opens the door causing the bucket to empty its contents on you. I saw her last night formulating this, but didn’t realize her evil villain tendencies until it was too late.

She acted as her own bait by looking at me with her deep brown eyes, rubbing her baby bump, where my daughter is currently incubating, and then asked for help getting the heavy stuff to her car. I’m caught. I should’ve known that she was plotting my death. I opened the freezer to retrieve three gallons of ice cream, which were no doubt going to be a part of my death celebration later at the school where she teaches. Like clockwork. The door opens removing a critical piece of surface area from beneath the croissant box; I am bent over leaving my head exposed to blunt force trauma; the box falls. The box weighs what seemed like 80 pounds, acceleration due to gravity 9.8 m/s squared, distance of 6 feet, box has a sharp point putting all the force into a small surface area. Punch all that data into a formula that looks something like this:

  (this photo is not my property, and I am not sure if I stole it illegally)

After completing the formula, the answer you will come to is: Really God Damned Hard.

The Croissant box hit me Really God Damned Hard.

What my wife failed to remember is that my skull is ten times thicker than the average mans, which is why I am capable of writing this blog right now and not dead.  Her longing to kill me was matched only by my longing to survive.

I came up dazed, grabbed the croissant box and put it so high none of us could reach it; it would do no harm to anyone as long as I was in the house. Saying nothing to my wife, I grabbed the celebratory ice cream, ran out the door and loaded it in her car. When I re-entered the house, I realized I had misjudged my wife’s longing for my death. There she is all pretty and looking very concerned over my recent near death scare. Her eyes grow twice their normal size, they are intoxicating. Must not look directly into them….I try to fight it by yelling, “What in the hell would you want a freaking croissant for!” What she says next is genius. “I told you that wasn’t a good place for the croissants……”

I just wanted you to know, because I have been holding it in for years.