Posts Tagged ‘pregnancy’

This is the second edition of a two part blog that documents my wild ride to meeting my daughter. If you did not read my blog yesterday entitled, From the Womb to the Cold, Cold World, you are reading from the middle of the story. I encourage you to go back and read it. I also encourage you to pimp this blog to everyone you know at the expense of your friendship. Think of it like your friends that sell AMWAY, Tupperware, or some other pyramid scheme that you avoid, because they are always trying to sell you something, except in this case, you are doing it to them and you don’t benefit from it at all—to tell the truth, nobody really benefits from it.

When we last talked, I left you as my wife had invented the Two Pushes and a Gag method of pushing a baby from the womb into the cold, cold world. Without sounding like the beginning of a television show that recaps last week’s adventure, Whitney was doing well and was pushing like it mattered.

True to herself, Whitney did not change anything about her demeanor through the entire process. During the Active Labor portion of the entire show, the woman tends to get tired and needs pushing, or at least I thought that she did. I also thought the best way I could support her was to treat her like I would a Marine who worked for me and was showing the initial signs of fatigue. Marines have a horrible tendency to pontificate that everything can be overcome purely by being mentally tough and exhibiting stick-to-itiveness. Compounding this issue, Marines don’t coax one another, we belittle one another—it is our way.

So, as Whitney pushed and pushed and grew tired, I thought I should step in and motivate her. Raising my right hand exactly two feet in front of my body, while simultaneously forming a “knife hand,” and subsequently thrusting it on every other syllable towards Whitney’s tired face, I said the following: “Whitney, you need to rise above this pain and start pushing for real.” The problems with that statement exist on at least two levels.

The Most Obvious Level: Using the collection of words, “start pushing for real” to motivate somebody relies on the hope that the person you are motivating doesn’t read into the statement and search for what it actually means. To start pushing for real negates every facet of pushing that occurred until that point in time. I could have worded my motivational phrase as follows and received the same look from Whitney, “Whitney, here’s what I am seeing. I am seeing a lot of work and no progress….I need you to start pretending this means something and get your head in the game.” I do not know what I was thinking, but again, you don’t need to worry your little head, because the Whitney that we all know and love doesn’t take shit from anyone particularly when she is in labor.

The entire labor stopped.

Doctors, nurses, janitors, and other patients faded into the surround like ethereal spirits. The air grew so cold that I could see my breath misting as it rose towards the ceiling. Whitney’s head spun 360 degrees and stopped as she centered her wicked gaze upon my trembling soul. Reaching forward and parrying my knife hand to the side like a child’s toy, she spoke. She spoke in three different languages all at once, and to this moment, I do not know what she said, but I do know that what she summoned in that moment is following me. Its every shadow creeping and crawling across my floor, and it is a constant reminder that I need to shut my mouth when I am talking to Whitney.

The temperature returned to normal, doctors and nurses went about their business of delivering a baby, and the world was normal. Whitney smiled and continued. I decided that would be the last time I would use the, “Whitney Needs My Words of Motivation” technique, and all was as it should be.

Whitney pushed for an eternity. Before we entered into the process of labor, we understood that there was a distinct possibility that Whitney would not be able to deliver this child naturally. Without getting into the science of it all, Whitney has the perfect body for bearing a child, minus the minute detail of a pelvic bone structure to let the baby out. The perfect incubator with a bum trap door, but we wanted to try as hard as possible before making the final decision.

Enter the Surgeon.

I would not be exaggerating if I said to you now that George Patton reincarnated would be the doctor who delivered our baby. I could not pick a more emotionless surgeon to conduct the cesarean section. He walked through the doorway and stood there just long enough to appear only silhouetted in its frame. Making his way into the light, George Patton matter-of-factly marched towards Whitney. To shed even more light on the man, this surgeon is honored every year as the oldest practicing doctor in the Army….AWESOME.

He was, by nature of his title, allowed to scour my wife’s nether regions and as such smacked on a rubber glove and began the magic show. While doing so, he made random statements like, uh-huh, yep, okay, there it is, hmmmmmhh, and other sounds of discovery. At the conclusion of the show, he retracted from his scouring and looked at Whitney. This was the doctor’s entire pre-op and informative session with Whitney prior to surgery and it consisted of three sentences:

We can do this for four more hours and you won’t get any farther along, let’s cut this baby out of there, any questions? Good. Let’s do this.

I half expected George Patton to slap Whitney in the face and walk off, but he refrained and we geared ourselves up for the upcoming surgery.

I do not want to make light of the surgery, because it is a major event and it was an exceptionally surreal process. They dressed me up in a big bunny suit and let me record the event as long as I didn’t look past the curtain. As one would expect, Whitney rose to the occasion and was pretty amazing. Britney Spears scrubbed in for the surgery and aided General Patton as he began cutting.

I have never been more nervous in my life as I watched Whitney laying there. She was talking to the doctor about what was being cut and when and she did so with just a tinge of drug induced hilarity, but damn, I was impressed by my little warrior wife during the process.

The doctors made a big deal about the moment before they cut through the uterus, and I thought it was an appropriate amount of drama.
I heard General Patton say, “I’ve reached the uterus.”
Britney Spears says, “Whitney, you ready to meet your baby?”
General Patton continues, “Cutting Uterus.”
Silence………and then boom a baby cries. Britney Spears, breaking protocol, grabs the baby and lifts her over the curtain showing Whitney our daughter. I’m crying, Whitney’s crying, children everywhere are crying, midgets show up again and start crying, General Patton does not cry; instead he made angry eyes at Britney for her breach of regulations.

My beautiful wife Whitney was ecstatic about meeting this baby, and I knew that she was overwhelmed with emotion, tired, and ready for this process to be done. As she calmed down and in true to herself, my wife opened her mouth and said her first words regarding her daughter. She asked, “Is it normal for the baby to sound like Yoda when she cries?”

That was her first question, and I think I have it recorded. I cannot wait until this girl is old enough to understand me, so I can tell on Whitney.

I am not emotionally driven. I do not like when emotions are overly advertised and things like this. It’s my father’s fault, but it is a flaw I think helps me as much as it hurts. But in that moment, when my daughter cried and I saw her make her old man face and look so incredibly unhappy to be joining us in this cruel world, I was a broken man. This girl, this little baby girl punched me right in the heart, and in “Whoville, they say-that Heath Phillips’ small heart grew three sizes that day.”

As I was relishing the moment, things started to change in the operating room. Whitney could feel more pain than she was supposed to, and as a result everything went into some weird bizarro world.

This is an exact transcription of the conversation that occurred next.

Whitney: Shouting “I THINK I AM DYING!!!!”

General Patton: Emotionless “Somebody give this woman something.”

Britney Spears: Excitedly “No you are not dying, Whitney, I am holding your uterus in my hand.”

Whitney: Curiously inquisitive, but emotionally charged and shouting “YOU ARE HOLDING MY UTERUS?”

Britney Spears: Honestly and excitedly, “Yes, and look, you are still alive!”

General Patton: Emotionless, but sternly spoken, “Someone give this woman some drugs.”

Whitney: Very inquisitively shouting, “ARE YOU GOING TO GIVE IT BACK?”

Britney Spears: Excitedly, “Yes, I have my own.”

Whitney: Passes out in a drug induced sleep.

Seated in a wooden chair in the corner of the recovery room, I was holding my beautiful daughter. Outside in the hallway, it sounded as if a parade was approaching and we were about to see the front end pass by our door. The first event in the parade was Dr Britney Spears, who I love for being there, behind her was a train of nurses; doctors; random men and women; midgets and orphans; and last but not least, in the most dramatic float of them all, rode Whitney Phillips spouting out drug induced nonsensical phrases. Britney Spears approached me and my mother-in-law. She leaned in and said, “I don’t know if you’ll believe me, but in the post-operating processes, the following words were heard coming out of Whitney’s mouth: Dildos, Mike and Ike Candies, Hot Tamales, and dear God, Don’t Let the baby look like my husband.”…………..

On October 10, 2012, Shakespeare Ian Phillips entered the world. In doing so, she has given me more material to blog about, I’m sure. I cannot wait to shoot her first boyfriend. There have been many people who have questioned the name we have given her. My favorite is when they tell me it is too long, and I point out that it is only two syllables. Another common concern is that Shakespeare is a boy’s name. For instance, the doctor we have been seeing asked me in a very concerned voice, “You do know that William Shakespeare was a male author, right?” I acted completely surprised and embarrassed of our mistake…

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


This blog is the first of a two-part blog. I would have posted the blog in its entirety, but I wanted to get you to come back and read more tomorrow to boost my ego. Also, I know that the people who read my blogs don’t have four hours to read all at once. But, rest assured; I will tell the entire story of my daughter’s entrance into the world.

Opening a Red Hook India Pale Ale, I was sitting down to watch the nightly news and enjoy the evening. I have routines, and I do not like them to be interrupted; I get anxiety when I am not doing exactly what I did yesterday at the exact same time today. At my most comfortable moment, it happened—everything that I wanted to be doing became the least important thing going down in the city. We were going to the hospital, and we were going to have a freaking baby! But let me not get ahead of myself here. Let me give you the introduction you deserve.

Having a baby is the exact same thing as a 13 hour road trip to Vegas except your chance of winning any money is less likely. I would argue that you are on the losing end of the money train by introducing children into any venture, but that will most likely be the subject of future blogs. When you first hit the road to the city of lights, you and your gang are ecstatic about the impending journey. You scream out the window into the night air, “Vegas!!!!!” Everything in your life has come to a focal point and that is the trip to Sin City you are embarking upon–things could not be more perfect.

Flash forward six and one half hours and take a glimpse into the car now. The gang of committed friends that were hell bent on ensuring you didn’t drive your car off of the road, or worse accidentally take a wrong turn and end up in Show Low Arizona, in the middle of a snow storm, are all passed out in the back seat. The enthusiastic scream into the night just a few hours earlier is more of an apprehensive question, “Vegas?” And your question is overpowered by snores and fogged up windows from the sleeping duo in the back seat.

As you arrive in Vegas, the Dynamic Duo of friends that accompanied you seems revitalized and ready for the ensuing three day bender. As I said, this is exactly how labor and delivery unfold except the three day bender following the delivery of a child, while just as sleepless and physically exhausting, involves less alcohol (barring the swabs for the belly button), just as much coffee, and as far as I can tell, there is no legal prostitution going on post partum, but we still have a few days left, so this could still go either way (If I ever write a blog entitled, You Won’t Believe It, There Was Legal Prostitution, you will know to come back here and read.)

So, that is the way it started—like a road trip to Vegas, but in this instance, you never know how far Vegas is away. When the journey towards meeting my daughter started I was as excited as I have ever been, but my excitement would clash head on with the demands of sleeplessness, watching a woman deal in pain that I cannot understand, and finally the homestretch towards fatherhood. Before, I go any farther into this, I want you to know that I am going to speak frankly about childbirth, its processes, what I had to witness, and most importantly, I want you to leave this blog with a much deeper appreciation for the woman as a species. Regardless of whether the mama receives an epidural or not, pregnancy and subsequently labor–both natural and through c-section are the most harrowing experiences a human can enter into, and I have a newfound appreciation for the experience.

Leaves hanging from the trees colored our drive a blur of oranges, yellows, browns, and fading greens as we made our way down the winding, country road leading from our front door to the interstate. We were on going to the hospital, and I was about to meet my daughter for the first time. I was nervous. I had done my homework, spent the hours reading about what is going to unfold before me, talked a big game about how I was going to be in the delivery room, and of course, I understood that the process we were beginning would end in a life changing addition to our home. Things were getting real, and if the moment itself didn’t sell this to you, then you need to know that Lieutenant Colonel Britney Spears was to deliver our baby. I was out of my mind not to use Britney lyrics in every piece of dialogue with this woman. I even accidently broke out into Womanizer once when she was in the room, but I guess she was ignoring me, or get this, during labor, I was not the center of attention! I know, it was a difficult role for me to bear, but it was my burden to hold.

At 6:00 pm, 1800 military time, Whitney was in a gown and progressing into labor. Contractions are a bitch, and the bitch was visiting the Whitness often. We knew we were going for the drugs, and it was time to make the decision. It is easy before the moment to say we will get the epidural, but the actual event of getting the epidural is a different beast in itself. Enter the drama. The anesthesiologist had to come brief Whitney on the what’s-it’s and how’s-it’s of the epidural process, and we were anxious to ask the doctor questions. The door swung open and I shit you not, in walked a woman who looked like Bill O’Reilly with a mullet. Bill O’Reilly looked like the last time she slept was during Nam and she had lived through a world of shit since her harsh days in the jungle. Helping complete the “This Is The Craziest Experience Ever” trifecta, she was dressed in a Kermit the Frog green set of scrubs and nestled on top of her head rested a shamrock chef’s hat perfectly accentuating the party end of her mullet—her entire ensemble screamed that what we were getting was a professional put you to sleeper.

Bill O’Reilly is, of course, required to convey to us the risks and such of the process of being “epiduraled,” but let me make sure you understand completely, there was nothing about Mullet Bill O’Reilly that compelled me to let her stab me through my spinal cord and deaden my body from the legs down, much less my wife. In the end of the fiasco, I had to go get Britney Spears to convince Whitney to let Bill O’Reilly plug medicine into her back. Very weird.

Enter my first task of the evening. I was to hold Whitney while Bill O’Reilly plugged her with meds. I remember watching a class we attended earlier in the pregnancy. I was a statue and I was unbelievable. Sure, Whitney had a needle in her back, but I had to hold her steady. Who wants that job? It was the scariest moment of my life, and I straight up rose to the occasion. I was better than the silver spray painted statue guys that work the streets in New Orleans. I was locked so stiff and for so long, that I was sweating. I would say things like, “you’re doing so well, Whitney,” but I would do it like the Tin Man asking for oil in The Wizard of Oz. Again, I was amazing, and as such Britney Spears gave me accolades.

As the epidural epiduraled Whitney’s legs and girlie areas, the contractions began coming more and more regularly. We were not pushing yet, and I say “we” because I want some credit in this whole deal. From my count, there were four people who at any given moment were allowed to scour my wife’s birthing canal, I was not one of them. They checked for all kinds of things, and I kept waiting for them to pull out a rabbit, or a long string of multi-colored handkerchiefs that never ended. The four would scour and then discuss, scour and then discuss, and then they would all busily read printouts and type things into computers. I had the distinct feeling that Whitney was glad she neither saw, nor felt the excitement taking place three feet south of her nose.

I wrote in an earlier blog about the types of fathers that exist in a delivery room. As the process unfolded, I never had a choice—I was going to be a part of this thing from the get go, and things were getting ready to go, but not before the doctor showed up and we paused. We paused so that we can discuss important information that needed addressing before we had this kid. For a 15 minutes, I worked feverishly to teach the doctor about the Pumpkin Spice Latte that Starbucks offers. I explained to the doctor that the Pumpkin Spice Latte is a warm glass of the season of Fall. You drink it in and you are magically wisped away to a pastoral environment like in the Viagra commercials (minus two bathtubs) where the trees are changing colors, and you can feel the harvesty goodness going on all around. I pleaded to the doctor that as soon as his shift is over, he needed to go to Starbucks and get the latte. He agreed that he was missing out and made me a promise to try it immediately, or as doctors speak, STAT. After he conceded, we decided we should get back to delivering the baby.

Two Pushes and a Gag

I never attended any breathing classes. I have seen television shows that are all based around the HEE-HEE-WHO method, but we never discussed the breathing to my knowledge. However, all of the classes that I did attend had pregnant ladies and their respective breasts in them and I may have been distracted, because pregnancy is sexy and boobs are, well, boobs. In the end, Whitney breathed like a marathon runner and I was in no place to say something like, “Whitney, you’re not breathing in the proper sounds…” I will tell you this: Whitney came up with a much more productive means to pushing this baby. Her method was simple and involved two incredible pushes followed by a severely destructive dry heave. Britney Spears and her gang of scouring thugs all commented that the dry heaves were actually very productive pushing mechanisms, and so it began that Whitney patented the Two Pushes and a Gag method to birthing. I plan to start conducting a travelling school that visits all major cities and metropolitan areas in 2013 to instruct this method to expecting mothers.

My second task of the evening was to hold her right leg while she pushed. There was no curtain, no stirrups, no separation from me and the vagina. I was right in the mix and it was amazing. I am not sure where the man would stand in the room should he not have wanted to witness this, because I could have caught the baby should she have made a move. I am a man, I wanted to help her, and the only thing I could do was just be there and not say stupid stuff. This was more difficult for me than one might think.

Here’s how it went:

The nurse would say a contraction was imminent and then I would act as a force for her to push against. The problem was that I underestimated my wife’s longing to get what is on the inside of her body out. My wife is strong. I was not ready for the forcefulness with which she pushed and found myself ineffective during her first push and pretty much ruined it. “I am better than this,” I thought to myself. I am a man. I fixed a mailbox with my bare hands and a hammer only two weeks ago. I can punch a hole into dry wall (as long as there is no stud directly behind it). I am a freaking man, and I just nearly got thrown through a wall by my wife during her first official push. I messed up, and Whitney in the midst of the warzone that is labor was still a very efficient identifier of my weakness during the push. She stopped and looked at me and said, “I hope our daughter is stronger than you….” I just wanted to curl into a ball and drink a pumpkin spiced latte…alas; I would have a chance to redeem myself.

Whitney pushed for two and a half hours and she looked like she could’ve done it for five more. I was extremely proud of her, and I was also overjoyed and thankful that I was without a uterus and vagina, because I would have made it to the first dry heave and been cashed.

As I said, I will continue this in the next blog, but as a teaser, I offer you this excerpt:

Seated in a wooden chair in the corner of the recovery room, I was holding my beautiful daughter. Outside in the hallway, it sounded as if a parade was approaching and we were about to see the front end pass by our door. The first event in the parade was Dr Britney Spears, who I love for being there, behind her was a train of nurses; doctors; random men and women; midgets and orphans; and last but not least, in the most dramatic float of them all, rode Whitney Phillips spouting out drug induced nonsensical phrases. Britney Spears approached me and my mother-in-law. She leaned in and said, “I don’t know if you’ll believe me, but in the post-operating processes, the following words were heard coming out of Whitney’s mouth: Dildos, Mike and Ike Candies, Hot Tamales, and dear God, Don’t Let the baby look like my husband.”…………..

I just wanted you to know, because I have been holding it in for a week and one day….

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.

If you ever want to feel good about yourself and your beliefs, you should call my father.  My dad and I agree on just about everything, but somehow, by the end of the phone call, we are yelling about how much we agree.  Take everything going on in politics right now.  I won’t even call my dad, because we would yell at each other for hours about everything.  I believe that whomever my dad is talking to as he gets amped up actually morphs into the people he is fed up with.  I so badly want to go on a tirade over politics, but I am certain that I would lose all ten loyal readers of this blog.  But isn’t that what writing is supposed to do, get people spun up and make them think even if they think that what I wrote is incorrect?

Recently, I handed in a writing assignment.  The assignment was to answer a question.  The question was the thesis of the paper then.  So, I answered the question, and then the teacher said there was no real thesis in the paper.  I told her that the question she handed out was the thesis.  She said that is not the way it works.  I told her I had the same degree she did.   I lost.  But, in my head, I won, and knowing is half the battle.

So, here is the thesis of this blog.  Lane Phillips, my father should be President of the United States.

I want my dad to be president.  I want to watch the news in the morning and see my old man walking down the hallway, out the doors, and then I want my old man to brief the press.  I want the press to piss my dad right off, and then I want to watch.  I want my scary, conservative father to stand up in front of a nation and fix the shit out it.   More specifically, I want the nation run like our house was.  My dad never takes more than four seconds to make a decision, and he is right every time.  He can take a square peg and make it fit into a round hole.  He can do it by scaring the square peg round.  There is no problem my dad cannot fix.  My dad uses three things to fix everything, and they are as follows:  New skin (that stuff you put on wounds to seal them), Quicken (the program you use to balance your checking account), and empty coffee cans (you would be surprised how much an empty coffee can will do during any situation you may find yourself in).

My dad understands economics better than any man I know.  He would use Quicken to balance the entire nation’s budget, and somehow, using the same program he would have money stashed everywhere so that he always had enough to get a bigger TV.  He would only borrow money from China on the “6 Months, Same As Cash” method, and he would always let China believe he wouldn’t pay in full on time, only to screw them over on the sixth month.  You see, my dad gets this weird sense of satisfaction from setting aside the monthly payment for six months, except the minimum required (which never gets the debt paid before interest hits) and then boom, he pays that shit off.  He has relayed to me on multiple occasions a fantasy he has where some pretentious accountant is crying when Best Buy receives his payment just before they were going to make a killing off of interest.  These are things a President dreams about.

My dad understands military tactics and how to employ our nation’s most powerful asset.  He was a member of the Navy for 20 plus years, and now continues to serve by playing first person shooter games.  He would be the only president in history that could explain to you how to correctly knife the enemy while simultaneously switching to your pistol and shooting him in the face.  He has also proven that, regardless of the age of the person he is playing online, he will drop an “F” bomb into his headset and remind the kid that wisdom will beat stupid and inexperienced youth every time.  I want my president to do that.

I have told you in previous blogs that my dad hates everybody equally.  This is a required trait for a president.  Hating everybody is essential to running a country where no one ever agrees.  Every American is the smartest person in the room when it comes to politics.  We all cannot believe how asinine the opposing opinions are.  Some of the most ignorant people I have ever known, during a politically charged conversation, suddenly develop opinions, and there is nothing worse than ignorant people who believe in something.  It’s usually based off of getting something for free, but whatever.

Religious values will not dominate my father’s campaign.  The family is the most important unit of America, and thusly, he would concentrate on the family’s role in government.  Religious values should be taught in the home and fostered and nurtured in the home.  My dad would concentrate on making families function better by fixing the economy with Quicken and giving America’s families freedom of movement.  Because my dad is brilliant, he would remind all of the fathers and mothers out there:

“Your kids should fear you.  Your kid should respect you.  Your kid is not your friend; do not be afraid to lay the smack down when your kid acts like an ass in public.  More importantly, do not let your kid just get by and don’t give him or her everything they want.  Don’t pretend that giving your children more opportunities than you had as a child means losing discipline and handing them everything.  Teach your child about losing, because they will lose.  They will lose something awful, and it will suck.  Teach them how to get back up, so that when they lose in real life, they don’t look to the government to take care of them.  Mothers and fathers have helped create an environment where entitlement trumps hard work and perseverance.”

My dad would not care who you love.  You love a tree, marry the damn thing—just don’t be a jackass, pay your debt, and quit looking to me to bail you out.  You love a man, marry the man, just don’t be a jackass, and pay your debt and quit looking to me to bail you out.  You want to be a religious whatever—do it, but don’t be a jackass, and pay your debt.  Jackassery leads to failure and failure just might be what you need to remind you that people lose in real life.  You’re gay, congratulations, get married, but for the love of god, be gay, fiscally responsible, and don’t be a jackass.  My dad would point out that the government is getting caught up on things that should be left to the individual.  The government should be working to give its citizens a stable platform in which to work and live.  Just as important, my dad would remind the individual citizen that relying on the government to save you from yourself and your own irresponsibility is futile.  The government doesn’t’ work that way, except recently.  Then my dad would kick in a door and make Harry Reid resign, and he would do it solely because Harry Reid sounds like an idiot.  My dad cannot stand people who sound like an idiot.  Idiots have no place in society.   He would also say that an empty chair would be a more effective president than some that have been elected.

The people that would suffer the most under the 8 year reign of my father are criminals.  Criminals deserve it.   Criminals are terrorists, and need to be treated as such.  I guess communists would suffer too, but they would be fiscally responsible while they are suffering, and probably more successful than they are used to.

Dad, I cannot wait to see your name in every front yard.  If you win, you will be my boss again….

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.

Day 20 In a Trailer:  The Natives continue to grow restless.  We have gone without a home for almost four weeks, and we are surviving—barely.  I am not sure whether Whitney doesn’t want to start a torrid love affair with the weird guy who mows the lawns for the campground.  Their relationship started innocently when he was voyeuristically looking in on The Whitness while she was getting ready for the day about a week ago.  It is the way his face looks like he was an extra in the movie, “The Hills Have Eyes” that seals the deal for the man. 

Day 22 In a Trailer:  Whitney has reached an all-time low.  I believe she has voted me off of the island.  Today, I left my shoes in the car and tried to maneuver barefoot through a gravel paved driveway to get to them.  The agony was too much for my soul to bear.  Every step was met with the excruciating pain of a thousand rocks digging into the virgin flesh of my feet.  I called out to my wife hoping she would come to my rescue.  She would be my pregnoid in shining armor.  She emerged from the trailer as happy as I have ever seen her.  “What did you do now?”  I responded in a whimper, “I need my shoes; they are in my truck just there, not too far away, can you please grab them.”  Without complaining, Whitney retrieved my shoes and started walking toward me.  Our eyes connected and I tried to convey the gratitude that I had for her in the moment.  In her eyes, she held a blank stare void of any emotion.  I stood quivering with my blistered feet desperately wanting for my shoes.  Whitney neared my position, and bent over putting my shoes on the ground—a foot beyond my reach.  She stood up and looked down on me in silence.  Turning to walk away from me, I heard her exhale a sigh of breath.  It was a breath of satisfaction.

Day 24 In a Trailer:  Whitney has tried to kill me three times.  In an argument over whether what we are doing here is camping or living, I believe I started to win.  Utilizing my vast understanding of rhetoric and logic, I had cornered Whitney.  She was left with nothing to say.  I was certain that I had convinced her that if we were really camping this would be more exciting, but since we are actually living in this trailer, it has lost its luster.  The exact phrase I used was, “If we were really camping, this would be a much more fun experience, and it would be a much better place to be at.”  Her response to me sums up why I can never really beat Whitney in anything.  She said, “Heath, I am not interested in the details as you see them, I am interested in the facts….”  She quickly followed with a sentence that nailed it for her, “And Heath, don’t end your sentences in a prepositional phrase if you want to be taken seriously in an argument…”

Day 25 In a Trailer:  We had our first work social at my boss’s house.  I learned one really solid thing about myself.  Given an opportunity to innocently say something that would sound so wrong, I will do it.  Whitney and I gathered around the buffet style food table and started filling up our plates.  Whitney does buffets differently than most people do.  She likes to knock it out in one shot.  She gets her main course and simultaneously gets her dessert.  I like to go back like seven times and just graze on things for about three hours.  Anyways, Whitney had her little plate of main course dessert combo.  I noticed people gathering around the buffet table and decided I needed to be the center of attention, now if I could only come up with something to say…..Here is the statement that will live in infamy:  “Whitney (said as loud as I can), we don’t need to get it all in one sweep, damn.”  I look to the crowd for validation with a look that said, “c’mon people agree with me…am I right, or am I right?”  The crowd scattered.  All I could hear was a collective grumble of disappointment in my statement.  I am brilliant.  The look on Whitney’s face was one that said, “later, in the car ride, on the way home, I am going to kill you.”

Day 26: Last Full Day in a Trailer:  I make it exciting.  After the argument I won/lost earlier in the week, I thought I would try to make this feel like a camping experience.  I started a fire.  We got marshmallows out and made s’mores.  It was fun.  As the fire was really getting going, I noticed it was billowing smoke.  I looked to Whitney, who had made knife hands and was attempting to waft smoke away from her by rapidly moving both hands in front of her face.  She looked at me in anger and said, “Heath, this is how you kill a baby.”  End result:  Camping is awesome!

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

The ferry to The Magic Kingdom lumbered ahead pushing the water out of its way forcing it to ripple away from the bow as if to send a warning to the distant shore of our arrival.  Above, the weight of a bazillion people, half of which were students from foreign countries waiting excitedly for the impending magic of Disney, placed a noticeable strain on the ferry’s engine.  Mounted on the horizon stood the most recognizable feature in all of Disney, the famed castle we all recognize from the beginning to our favorite movies.  The tower seemed to grow bigger as we approached and I am not going to lie, if the chatter from the zillion teenage girls encroaching into my personal space without remorse were to die down, you may have heard a sigh of satisfaction, but the girls would never shut their mouths, and they would only continue to get up in my personal space. 

To my right, snuggled up in my arm and snuggling tighter as the teenage girls continued to press up into her personal space, clung my wife in the most beautiful, brightly colored dress.   Her baby bump sat perfectly and was accentuated by the flowing fabric that hugged her curves.  Whitney proudly displays her growing baby like a badge of courage, and I am a fan.  I think women need to wear their baby bump like it is the coolest accessory.  Hell, you have to deal with so much other crap like gas, cramping, discomfort, swollen feet, waddling, no alcohol, no caffeine, heartburn, and all of the other punishment for eating the apple—which in all fairness us men only ate because we thought we might get sex out of it…..just think, man could have been chilling in paradise whilst women lived in constant strain and labor for their inequities, but again, and I bet if I went back in time, Eve gave Adam a look that struck fear into the heart of the man, and boom, not only are us men banished from paradise as well, but we are suffering under the thumb of a woman…just sayin’. 

Two adults, one seven months pregnant, one married to woman who is seven months pregnant, two camelbacks, two four day park hopping passes, one hotel with two pools, five days to kill, five parks to hit, one thousand miles to walk, over five quadrillion tourists, one woman who is seven months pregnant and has at least four different personalities, and finally, one pregnant woman and what do you get?  The following blog:

Be Our Guest…

I could tell as we drove into the park by the look on Whitney’s face that she was confused as to why all these other people were meandering about and forming lines everywhere.  That moment should have been the omen I needed to understand many of the comments that would come out of her mouth throughout four days of braving huge crowds of people.  As a matter of fact, I believe that the tickets we held in our hands were, in Whitney’s mind, park rentals and not merely general admission stubs.  She wanted a Griswold vacation where she got an amusement park to herself, and for just a moment, one small fraction of a second, hidden in a fleeting glance from Whit, I saw it.  I saw a distinct look of disappointment in me for not making the park her own.  It was her pre-birthday celebration after all.

Arabian Nights…

Listen, I am not saying that it is wrong or right, or that one person is better than another person, but we need to remember a couple of things about enclosed spaces, heat, and their direct relationship to body odor.  I breathed in more mustiness than I ever wanted to.  I remember Pregneeping Beauty turning to me and saying with the saddest eyes.  “People stink, and it’s just not fair….”  Seven words have never had so much meaning before except maybe, “We hold these truths to be self-evident .”  And maybe the same seven work here.  “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equally capable of emitting an odor that to a normal nose would be difficult to stand, but to the heightened senses of a Pregnosed woman, it is unbearable.”  Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should.  (Coincidentally, “just because you can doesn’t mean you should” also applies to teenage boys and their stupid longing to grow whatever facial hair they can). 

The best part of the body odors from all over the world isn’t that it is just awesome, but that Walt Disney placed wind fans in the waiting lines meant to provide refuge from the Orlando heat.  The collateral damage from the fans is that they also serve to waft the delicious scents from those in front of you into your face and the face of the pregnant woman you brought with you.  Wait, it gets better, Walt Disney put fans in that blow at hurricane force.  Thanks to Walt, the sweat from the brow of the guy in front of you acts like a mister from Hooters.  So, to clarify, the perspiration from the guy ahead of you lands on your face and is then cooled by the wind from the fan.  Awesome.

Can You Feel the Love Tonight…                         

Going to restrooms as often as we did meant much of our shenanigans occurred in or around a bathroom.  One of my favorite instances occurred outside of the latrine at The Magic Kingdom.  To be honest here, The Magic Kingdom is my own little hell, at least in the way I experienced it. 

Finished doing what I do in the bathroom, I was standing outside waiting for Pregnerella to finish her business.  Suddenly, a cacophonous screaming sound emanates from a family just next to me.  I, being a natural rubber necker, look to see if there is anything worth judging others about.  Right there, a balling child, I mean crocodile tears of embarrassment and horror, is being forced to disrobe and use this portable toilet.  The image is burned into my eyes.  Mere feet from the bathroom and these people are forcing the child to use a camping toilet in the middle of the street.  There is absolutely nothing magical about this.  Worried that this is something that is normal for parents, I turn to see PregnAriel walking up terrified at what is going on.  The child’s mother then proceeded to dump the urine in the gutter….

I am all for field expedient urination, it’s what Marines do, but given the choice for a restroom, with no line, and dropping trouser in The Magic Kingdom, I choose the former.

Neither Preg-White, nor I understood whether this is normal parenting, but the good news is that we agreed it won’t be normal in our house, or our Magic Kingdom.   Awesome.

I Can Show You the World…

SeaWorld was amazing.  I have been before, and I think I like it every time I go more than the last.  Whitney, being an insane animal lover, was going to enjoy the hell out of this place.  Rain was threatening the entire process and as we settled in to see Shamu, it looked bad.  The show was delayed, but the extra time offered me some time to get some snacks.  As my pregnant wife was going through the decision making process that she has to go through before engaging in a snack eating session, I notice that a crowd is gathering below us that slowly passes from my left to right looking up my way.  At first, I thought they were eyeballing the seats behind us as a possible arena from which to watch Shamu. 

Returning from my trek to get snacks, I pass Whitney and realize that while Shamu was what drew the crowds to the stadium, it was another show keeping the men here….Let’s just say that what was being displayed were the prettiest show of lace these men had seen in years.  It was indeed shining, shimmering, splendid….and from this point on, every time she sat down, I would say the following:

“Are we going to sit like a lady today…or a tramp?” (Get it, Disney reference). 

The funnier part of this is that Whitney was never as amused as I was about it. 

Cruella De Vil

Hustling to get out of The Magic Kingdom, we were gliding in and out of foot traffic with precision.  We broke into an opening and started gaining speed.  Now, because Whit has to waddle, we were going ½ normal human speed—making really great time.  I have discussed before Whitney’s propensity to engage in redneck fighting, and let me tell you, Whitney found her a redneck to spar with. 

The only two people in the opening in the crowd, besides Pregoid and I, was a teenage girl and her mom.  The teenage girl, like all teenagers, believed she was the only person in the world that mattered.  Apparently, the teenage girl didn’t know what to do with her awkward arms, and she was kind of just going to flail them about the area.  Her plan also seemed to make it look like an old “clothes-line” maneuver from the WWF (I refuse to call it the WWE).  Teenage girl whipped her arm back just as Whitney passed, and thankfully, missed Whit’s neck.  Instead, Teenage girl hammer punched Whitney in her pregnant boobs.  As the blow landed, knocking the air from Whit’s lungs, Whitney forced out the following words:



Teenage girl:  (Dumb Silence….not even sure she knew she did it)

Teenage girl’s mom:  SHIT YOURSELF

This is where it gets good…Whitney took decisive action and hurled herself around, clinging desperately to her sore pregnant boob.  She drew her fist up to shoulder level, extending her index finger outward, in a pointing gesture towards the Teenage girl and Teenage girl’s mother.  In the same voice that I picture Satan using as he addresses a demon who has failed, Whitney rattled off,


The crowd had formed a circle around the action now, and as much as I wanted it to spiral into a better form of chaos (picture the fight scene from Beat It), I managed to get out the following phrase:

“MMMmmm, mmmm, mm.”  I grabbed her arm and we wobbled off into the crowd.

A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes

I have to tell you that among all of what I saw and heard this past week, there were moments when everything was right.  There were moments when I didn’t think humans were disgusting.  There were moments when all that mattered was standing next to me, or leaning on me, or rubbing her little (big) baby bump.  There were moments when I watched tears well up in her eyes, and in the saline, I could see reflections of fireworks dancing about.  I could see the colors crackling from orange to red and red to blue and then fade back into the night’s sky.  I could feel her hand in mine and its grip tightening as a familiar tune brought feelings of nostalgia to Whitney and her face would brighten up.   There were moments when I could see her as a child without a care, a Whitney before life started playing its games, a Whitney where all she dealt with was the moment in which she stood.   There is magic there, in her eyes, and I have to tell you it made the crowds worth the trouble.  I am not sure that there is anything better than seeing Whitney get so excited just to be standing in a moment with me.

I remember watching her kind of wobble up onto the tram that was to take us back to our car, and I thought, this woman not only walks funny now, but she is worth travelling anywhere with….she brings the magic.

And this is why, after all of the years, most people you see at Disney are adults, I think.  I think we all need it.  We all need to be kids, right, for a second.  I promise you that the bills and the wars and heartache will all be there when you get back…

I just wanted you to know, because I have been holding it in since Friday…


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.   

This morning, as is my usual, I found myself in a war with a high school student, who is probably smarter than I am. To avoid sounding like an internet predator, this high school student is a family friend of ours. Long story short, I found myself going back in forth with her in a war of words. Sounds easy, and more importantly it sounds like I should have won, right? Well, in my head, it sounds like I should have. The great equalizer is we only fought in Haiku form. People, this means that 17 syllables are all I had to desecrate my enemy. Well, I lost, oddly enough; I lost because I miscounted syllables on two occasions. Sometimes six syllables looks a lot like five syllables. I even put my hand under my lower jaw and spoke the haiku, counting every time my mouth opened to monitor syllables. What a failure.

Anyways it got me thinking, I need practice, so I now present to you ten Haikus about my life dealing with a pregnant wife, who I love. Each are works of art that you should print out and put by your bed to wake to every morning. I fully expect that these Haikus will be used in the poetry section of your children’s high school English class, so you might as well read it to them now. The meaning of each can go in so many directions, and moreover, they really speak to my mastery of the English language.

1. Pregnant Morning Rising

 I wake to Whitney.

She wants to be fed right now.

She wants some pickles.

2. What She Said Part One

I peed ten times and

I again feel the need to

Pee. You’re a bastard.

3. Bladder River Dance, What She Said Part Two

Baby is dancing

on my bladder, I think I

just peed a little.

4. What She Said Last Night Part One

We have reached a point

Where I need back and foot rubs.

I’ll find a boyfriend.

5. What She Said Last Night Part Two

I hope our kid is

Psychic, so she can make us

Rich like real housewives. (Real is one syllable).

6. My Husband, the Slumlord (A Haiku from Whitney’s Perspective)

I hate picking up

After you in the kitchen.

You are weak sauce, Heath.

7. Air Conditioning Is Not Free

Pregnant chicks cannot

Ever get comfortable.

House is freezing now.

8. Your Cologne is Disgusting (A Haiku from Whitney’s Perspective)

Although I bought it,

I hate your cologne. It makes

Me throw up in mouth.

9. Pregnancy Fetish (A Haiku from Heath’s Perspective)

Pregnant Girls are the

Sexiest girls in the world.

I want ten babies.

10. Falling Down

Pregnant women seem

To trip on everything.

They are a menace. These took me at least 15 minutes to write, so I expect you will need hours to explicate their individual meanings and how they have impacted you. Your assignment for the evening is to pick your favorite and let me know how it affected you. Its due first thing in the morning. I just wanted you to know, because I have been holding it in for years.