Woody Cavenaugh

Fiona slept all the way over to the other side of the county where mom and I were meeting a family friend we hadn't seen for 30 years. Phone calls were occasionally exchanged along with as many holiday cards, but a face to face meeting was a long time in coming. Communications were so sporadic that when my mother mentioned bringing the baby on the phone, the woman replied; "WHAT BABY?!?!"

Fiona had had a couple of injections the day before and that can and will make her uncomfortable for a couple of days, but the morning and come and gone and Fiona was back to her usual cheery self. That is, up to the point that we stepped inside the new place with the new people and the new smell. This is expected though. Fiona always gets a little out of sorts around new smells, but she quickly gets comfortable and returns to her normal happy self.

Usually.

We walked inside and she started crying. We greeted old friends and she's still crying. My mom takes her and calms her down slightly but the distraction is short lived and she returns to Unhappyville, population us. Maybe I should take her out to the car for a diaper change, I am instead directed to the woman's bedroom where I can put the changing pad on her bed and change to my hearts content.

Ah, that was the problem, Fiona was wet and in a new place. Problem solved- for about 18.5 seconds that is. My mother and I take turns for a few minutes trying to calm her while apologizing to our friend (Mother of two grandmother of four) for her behavior. We are assured it is no problem, babies are babies and we shouldn't have too high an expectation for their behavior. While this is all true, we know that Fiona is a happy child and crying is a signal that some need is not being met. I tried the pacifier which worked about three minutes and change.

Mom sends me back into the bedroom to see if another diaper isn't in order. There is a tiny blue dot meaning it was a little wet, probably not wet enough to change, but if Fiona was crying, it meant she probably felt it and needed changing.

In the process I notice that she's peed a tiny bit on the pad between her knees, and quickly I wipe it, her and get that new diaper in place. I move my hands around the changing pad fearing that some tiny bit of pee has managed to get on the comforter. Crap. I found a small wet spot about the size of a golf ball. I try to blot it up and now its about the size of a tennis ball. Crap. Fiona is still wailing all the while, and my normally laid back attitude is starting to crack in several noticeable places. The harsh lights of anxiety is starting to shine through.

I hear a clock chime in another room. What time is it anyway? I look at my watch, it is three hours since her last feeding. Crap. Yesterday the pediatrician told us to strive for three hours between feedings and not two as we had been doing. I had upped her food per meal, but hadn't gotten the proportion down to science yet. Fiona had been hungry this whole time. Crap. Bad dad.

While Fiona is laying on her changing pad on the bed, its as good a time as any since I have free hands to prep a bottle from the traveling feeding supplies we keep in the dad bag. I pulled out three packs of formula, I remember that each pack holds enough powder for two ounces of formula. I need six ounces of formula so three packs. One...two...three...now for the water. I can't seem to get that much water into the bottle. Crap. Check the instructions on the formula packs. Fiona is still wailing. "Each packet holds enough formula for a four ounce serving". Crap. Four ounces per pack, three packs equals twelve ounces of formula in a six ounce bottle. Crap. I pull out the second back-up bottle and try to split the formula sludge evenly between the two six ounce bottles. I finish filling one bottle up with water, shake, and go to pick up the wailing Fiona to serve. Her back is wet.

Her back is wet. The back of her neck is wet. The back of her butt is wet. The back of her legs are wet down to the tips of the footies. Crap. No, make that double crap.

I put her back down and fish out baby wipes and the emergency back-up outfit from the dad bag. I get her out of the wet cloths, wipe her down, wipe down the changing pad, and start putting her into her emergency back-up gown. This done, I put the still wailing Fiona on the bed away from the changing pad and start to pack up the dad bag so I can feed her in the living room. It felt like it had been about a month since I had set foot in the bedroom and they would be wondering where I was.

Underneath the changing pad was a changing pad shaped wet spot on the comforter of the bed of the friend that we hadn't seen in thirty years. Crap. Double crap and crap two times more for good measure. I pick up the still wailing Fiona while I try to figure out how I'm going to apologize for ruining the nice ladies bed. Mom comes in about this time and I tell her about the bed, very quietly so between us we could figure out how to broach it. About that time the nice lady comes into the bedroom and is saying something I can't hear because Fiona is wailing into my ear. I put the bottle in her mouth just in time to hear these words from my mother; "We've ruined your bed."

Please god, make me a stone so I may not hear or feel.

"So what? Did you forget so soon that I'm a grandmother of four! I've had things like this happen all the time." Said the nice lady whom I guess I probably won't be seeing for another 30 years. She adds, "So she was hungry the whole time huh?"

The rest of the visit went perfectly. Fiona was the happy bubbly girl she usually is, and it was everything we could do to get away so we could get back to the house and cook dinner for Sara and ourselves.

And with that we left the house where Fiona spent an eternity wailing while daddy slowly figured out that the real problem was hunger, while ruining a comforter on the bed of the family friend whom we hadn't seen in thirty years in the house where 30 years previously, as a child I threw up in the floor of her den. I guess the nice lady was sort of expecting it at this point huh?

Posted by Woody Cavenaugh at 8:10 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

The circumstances that bring me to Round Rock Texas to begin my transition into paternity leave parenthood are complex, so I'll sum it up quickly. IWFL Football.

There, now that this is out of the way, we can talk about how I'm doing so far in the Dad roll and how Fiona's doing with me filling in as Not the Mommy. To sum up, "so far, so good".

I've heard a lot of advice about traveling with babies, around half of the advice is "don't do it". Well, we did it and it's been great. Babies haven't picked up all of our bad habits. Babies do what their biology tells them and little more. Everything rises and falls in a nice even natural cycle, feed, poop, sleep, repeat. Every two hours we have to stop to diaper, feed, burp, and play. It takes about a half hour and we're off again.

Without the baby we would have ignored our natural harmonious cycles. It would have gone something like this. "Yeah I gotta pee, but I really want to stop at the Flying J because in 2006 they had fried chicken gizzards and that was the last time I had gizzards and I really want to munch on a pound of gizzards while I'm driving, so I'm not stopping until I can stop at a Flying J." Most of that drive would have been really uncomfortable.

Traveling with a baby means that sure you might not get gizzards at this stop, but look around. They might have alligator jerky. I did see alligator jerky at a stop and I almost bought a half pound bag for Mark. It was a little pricey though.

Another thing that has helped this drive is technology. We now own a Magellan GPS (we call her Madge). This means never having to stop for directions if we take a wrong turn. Come to think of it, having a GPS means never having to accidentally take a wrong turn. Nice!

Other handy sanity and bladder saving technologies that have come out are the modern energy drink. In the old days we had two choices, Jolt Cola or coffee and we liked it that way (damned kids). Now thanks to modern marvels like Five Hour Energy Drink, we can get the boost we need to keep the wheels rolling, without having to drink so much. What used to be 20 ounces, has now been condensed down to two. In theory one could drive a long time without having to take a nature break at that rate. Of course, I'm driving with a baby so I have my five hour energy drink WITH my coffee, I know that in two hours she'll have to stop, and so will I.

Babies make road trips better!

However, traveling with a baby means that you'd better have room for the extra bags. When I travel I keep two bags, one for clothing and one for technology. Sara is the same. The baby requires the Dad Bag, the Pumping Bag, Baby's clothing bag, the Extra disposables bag, the stroller and the Pack and Play. There might be room for a second car seat, but there is not room for the extra baby baggage!

Holy crap! If I have a second child, I can justify an RV! SWEET!!!

Yeah, that was the second end of entry punch line there. Just when I think I'm going to end this thing, I realize that I haven't gotten back to the point yet.

While Sara is doing delegate duties for The Phoenix, I'm in the hotel room with Fiona, where for the first time in her very short life there are periods of time with no mommy in them. I judge my skills as a father by how traumatized she is by this fact. So far, we are going on three to four hour burst with no momma around. So far Fiona's been aware but nonplussed by this fact. See there, I'm a good dad- at least in these closed, controlled experiments. If Sara can return to work for nine hours and Fiona can stay at home happy and moderately well adjusted then and only then will I be successful in the role Dad Man.

Get her through college with a minimum of tattoo's and piercings into a descent paying job that brings her joy and then and only then will I TRULY be a successful Dad Man eligible for dying happily as an old man surrounded by a whole passel of grand-kids. What? I'm not allowed to plan ahead?

Posted by Woody Cavenaugh at 2:43 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Baby was born on Tuesday, it is Sunday. Baby is five days old.

They say that having a new baby means that you won't sleep. I think we have established that this is true, now I want to qualify it further. The first couple of days the baby sleeps but in cycles so quick that no mortal man can keep up. As time goes on, the baby falls in to a pattern that your doctors told you to create. First two weeks baby gets fed every three hours. This means that every three hours you don't sleep for an hour or so while you negotiate feeding and diapering. You are getting sleep, just not in the pattern that you've set up for yourself since the end of your first twelve weeks. I'm having trouble adjusting.

My wife on the other hand seems to operate at some kind of higher plane of consciousness than I can. She seems to be at the same level of wakefulness all the time while in my case, I find myself wandering the isles of the grocery store trying to find the spark plugs. I typically don't need spark plugs when I go to the grocery store but I absolutely HAVE to know where they are. I even dream about it, or at least I think I'm dreaming. Am I a new dad or is this Davey Jone's Locker?

I rediscovered caffeine today. Glorious stuff. I was in the grocery store looking for the spark plugs again when my eyes happened to land on a can of Starbucks. I'm not quiet sure what the product was, but it was cold, wet, and had the picture on it that told me daddy likey. Who can argue with that?

Sometimes I find myself looking down at this perfect little face and I think "There is no possible way that something that cute could be the fruit of my loins." Then she farts with such force that the diaper is ejected right off her hind quarters. Yep, that's my girl. Her mom's good looks, all my special powers.

I can't remember if it was before or after Fiona was born but the news was on the TV in the hospital and there was some commotion about a dark skinned doll who came with a toy monkey and wore a hat that said "lil monkey". It was very cute but some folks said you can't do that because dark skinned children aren't allowed to play with monkeys or some non-sense. I think these people need a constructive hobby. I haven't seen any toys that I would be offended to give to my little cracker. Except maybe the breast feeding one. I'm a little on the fence on a doll that makes sucky sounds when its head gets next to one of the little plastic flowers on the chest of the halter top that the child wears.

While in the store I saw a couple with a baby in a car seat riding in the shopping cart. It looked like the seat would almost latch to the cart, so I asked them if what I was seeing was true. They said that no, the car seats don't seem to mount smoothly to any shopping cart, but some were worst than others. Someone could make a whole pile of money if they would create a shopping cart that a infant car seat was designed to lock into. I'd change stores to shop at the ones that did.

Giraffes. I just realized that there is no damned way that I am going to let any child of mine play with a long necked herbivore. How dare the even imply it? There should be a law!!!

Posted by Woody Cavenaugh at 6:26 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

A friend of mine we'll call Eric, becaue that's his name gave some parenting advice that was both sage and well timed. He said, "Sleep when the baby sleeps". The advice is simple, and true. I have a couple of other friends, we'll call them Ike and Rob who both gave the following tidbit. "You will not sleep for two weeks." Simple, but as advice goes not filled with hope. I quickly realized that these two pieces of advice could not exist in the same reality and since babies spend most of their time sleeping, then it was Eric who had the right of it, and Rob and Ike who were just pulling the n00b dad's leg.

As it happens, ERIC IS FULL OF SHIT!!!

Babies sleep most of the time. Fact. Also fact, they do this sleeping in one second on one second off bursts. To try to sleep like a baby would require mind altering drugs and electrocution. Neither of these things do I have. Thus Ike and Rob have the right of it. If I knew what day it was I could know how much longer I would be living in the sleepless zone. Now to be fair, I am allowed to take naps. Naps are good, I'll drop down for a couple of hours and later will cover for her between feedings. This always ends in disaster, as lets face it, sometimes you need daddy and you need him RIGHT NOW!!!!!! I'm starting to fear sleep...

Kidding aside, it is fun and easy to play off of the characterature of the sleepless new dad. Heck, I can knock new dad jokes out of the park and I have slept since the morning of the first contraction.

The strait truth of it is that this is a rewarding gig that I would highly recommend to anyone that hasn't tried it yet. There's a certain joy from walkng around in cloths that smell like your offspring. And in case you weren't aware its called "baby powder" because that is what babies smell like. Pretty crazy.

I could go on about the day and how things are going, but lets face it, I'm informed its none of your business and you wouldn't want to hear about it anyway. Plus, if you haven't spawned yet, I'd hate to spoil it for you.

Posted by Woody Cavenaugh at 8:21 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

This morning, Sara got her first shower in a couple of days, it was a joyous occasion though it was also the first time I was to be left alone with Fiona. Everything was going fine, in fact I think I was editing the last blog entry when she got the hick-ups and started fussing. Dad Man to the rescue! I swoop in, and just inches from actually touching her the horrible truth emerged that I didn't have a clue in the world as to what I should be doing. Panic followed truth and I went quickly through all the fight or flight responses I had in my repitore, After what seemed like an eternity I chose "touch her reassuringly" and "sing her a song". Hoping to make up for lost time my mind seized the first song I could think of.

It was The Ballad of Captain Robert, by Abney Park. I'm putting the lyrics below and hope they don't mind me doing it. It was after all, Fiona's very first lullaby.

Captain Robert took his men
And flew to Prague and back again
Some fell off, some dropped dead
And some put bullets through their head

A skeleton crew is what came back
And once in port he filled his sack
With bribes in cash and fame and coin
Things to make a new crew join

Captain Robert took his crew
To Shangri-la and Timbuktu
Some went crazy, some got mad
Some they kicked off ship in Chad

A skeleton crew is what came back
Who lived through mutiny, plague and flak
Strong and calloused, brave and tired
All those who could stay inspired

Captain Robert took his ship
To Beijing and to Mozambique
Stir crazy so in irons he clapped them
One of them tried to kiss the captain

Captain Robert looked at his crew
And saw that everyone was new
The crew got broke through misadventure
No-one could take another gut wrencher

A skeleton crew is what came back
Who lived through mutiny, plague and flak
Strong and calloused, brave and tired
All those who could stay inspired

A skeleton crew is what came back
And once in port he filled his sack
With bribes in cash and fame and coin
Things to make a new crew join

Captain Robert took his crew
To Shangri-la and Timbuktu
Some went crazy, some got mad
Some they kicked off ship in Chad

After the first verse the "WTF" look on her little face was replaced by "Hey, this is kinda nice". I know she's going to give me the "WTF" look for the rest of my life, and I will always cherish this memory of turning it into something pleasant for her. Likely I will never let her forget it.

Posted by Woody Cavenaugh at 9:47 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

1am August 11th
There is a whole hierarchy for how people want their deliveries to go. First choice would be to have the baby delivered by two angels hand picked by the all mighty himself. Second would be to deliver in a pool midwifed by a pod of dolphins. From there it goes to:
At home with in a big tub with a midwife
At home with a midwife
In a birthing center with a midwife
In a birthing center with a doctor
In a women's hospital
In a hospital
At the zoo by a zoo keeper
At the zoo by the animals
At your senior prom in the bathroom
At your best friend's wedding in the bathroom
At your wedding in the bathroom
In the car on the way to the hospital
In a cab delivered by the cabbie
In a bus delivered by the bus driver
On the subway delivered by a homeless schizophrenic
Under an overpass by a hobo camp
Anywhere Using Pitocine
Anywhere By scheduled C section
Anywhere By emergency C section

6am It was a long night, I slept between her contractions, she didn't sleep at all because of her contractions and a bed designed during the Inquisition by Torquamata himself. It was one of those adjustable beds remarkable in the fact that every position it was capable of getting into was more painful than the last. So she spent long cold night in a chair.

My big worry is that our nocturnal bat baby is going to go all vampire and hibernate when the sun comes up. We...who am I kidding, SHE has worked her butt off for these two centimeters and she doesn't want to lose ground now because baby girl is worried she might sparkle in the light. (Dumbest vampire concept ever by the way).

We're here because yesterday at the OB the doc noticed that the babies bathwater was a quart low. He worried that baby was unhappy so he had Sara admitted immediately so they could put her on the fetal monitor. Turns out the baby was happy, healthy, and rehearsing for a dance recital. IN YOUR FACE doc!

So the wife with the bladder the size of a bb spent the night uncomfortable, unhappy, and generally unhooked from the fetal monitor as she kept having to go to the bathroom. I was very supportive and didn't tease her once about her hospital gown.

The night was spent in pain and sleeplessness. I managed to catnap between contractions. Sara was awake, alert and in agony the whole time. We were expecting some Eastern aid which hasn't come yet and the hospital was happy to heed our wishes for a natural experience.

Sara was given a good drug about 8am this morning allowing her to sleep for two whole hours. Baby got the drug too, and she seemed to like it also. They both rode the waves of contractions while otherwise sleeping through them.

We were both feeling pretty dissed by our Acupuncturist as we left fragmented and incoherent messages at all the phone numbers we had for her throughout the night. Unfortunately the one number we actually needed we didn't have, or at least we had it wrong. Once she arrived at her office and checked her office voice mail she called immediately with white hat, shiny needles and a hearty hi-ho silver!

Things that were once going in a bad direction are now happily back on track, even if we did cave on an injection or two of pain killer. Now we wait. I don't know what for, I guess once the contractions get up a good head of steam the baby comes in an explosion of stork feathers. I'm sure it will all become clear to me later. For now, I will dream of coffee, and document the experience for future generations. OK, screw it, I'm gonna nap too.

Mark, Ervina, and Cameron came by with provisions, I ate way too much and brought two grocery bags back to the room. The Doc had spoken via telephone. If baby doesn't show by 1pm, it is pitocin O'clock. It was 12:30. The nurse spoke of some magical number 200, Sara was at 120. All I know is that we were 80 short on something, so in went the pitocine. For those not in the know, pitocine is a cheep knock off of oxitocine which is produced naturally to induce labor. The cheep knock off is really good at making really strong butt kicking contractions, but it isn't very good at any of the other things that the real stuff does. Dr's love to use it because they can sell more epidurals that way. Rather than a nice easy on ramp up to delivery, it is like strapping a JATO rocket to the roof of a Chevy, and we all know how that turned out.

For Sara's part she is taking it like a warrior woman, she acknowledges the pain and lets it go with an exhale. Truth be told she's a serious bad ass. I would have begged for sweet merciful death twelve hours ago.

2:15pm Mr Toilet is Sara's friend. It is the most comfortable seat in the room, and its cold, I can see the appeal. Sure the baby is average in both estimated length and width, but if you've never done it before it may as well be a Bogue Sound Watermelon for all it matters.

4pm. I woke up. Sara was coming off of a dose of pain medicine, and she and the nurse had a long talk about other options. Sara is a badass. The delivery nurse rates this experience as about average which made us both feel better. Nothing too easy, nothing too hard. The "real" experience. When she spends time drinking coffee with the other veteran mom's she will have an honest story to tell, that wasn't colored by false expectations or fear uncertainty and doubt.

7:15pm Its about GO time! Cervix is at 9.5cm (which is a funny measurement since they use their fingers instead of a ruler). There is a table being set up as we speak with a blue plastic shower curtain over it and a whole mess of clamps. Looks like a dozen matching clamps. I suppose one of them must be scissors. One of them would have to be scissors right? You know those blue disposable shammies you can buy at the car wash? There are a pile of them here each one as big as a twin bed sheet. Its wild. Sara has her game face on, and my expression is most likely comical. I'd better put my shoes on.

8:00pm I was wondering what that little bucket was for. Its for barfing in.
8:25pm The nurse has Sara give a little push to see if baby is ready to come.
8:26pm The nurse tells Sara to STOP pushing or baby will come without the doctor!
8:30 Doctor comes.
8:35 Baby comes. with three pushes.
Fiona Bronwyn Cavenaugh
8.6lbs
20 inches tall
13.75 inch head
14 inch chest

8:38pm Daddy's P0WNZD. Doctor notes it and warns Sara that she's going to have to be the disciplinarian.
5:08am August 12th We have our first documented fart! That's my girl!

Posted by Woody Cavenaugh at 5:13 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Throughout the process of waiting for baby, (we are at this moment 40 weeks and six days waiting) I've been faithfully not blogging about nothing...err not blogging about lame stuff. I mean not blogging. This is an exaggeration of course. I've been blogging my skinny butt off, but not here. I've been microblogging via Twitter. 140 characters maximum, no other rules. Their limitation is 140 characters, my limitation is to end on a punch line. I discovered that I'm really a better writer when I have a word limit.

• I've decided not to teach my child about pants. Instead she will know "executive leg coverings". Double barrel slingshots come much later.

• I looked at her and asked, "is it a contraction?". She nodded and replied, "Yep. I'm gonna have to poop soon." Then we had ice cream.

• Still no baby. It was a very quiet night. Thinking its time for the bull horn. "THIS IS YOUR FATHER SPEAKING. COME OUT WITH YOUR HEAD DOWN!"

• Like projects 50% of babies are delivered late. If they're over budget they are like IT projects. I hope she's not a university IT project!!!

• Pregnant women make nice human shields when mosquitoes attack! Didn't know that, now I do. Only 10 more days to exploit it, what a waste!

So here I am with the due date six days behind me. We've had two acupuncture "nudges" and we have a third scheduled for an hour from now. This afternoon its off to the OB where they will do a sonogram and decide if the placenta is still under warranty. If so they are willing to give baby another six days or they will come in after her. If the placenta is worn out they will go in much sooner. Me, I think the third nudge might be the charm were it not for the issue of baby's nocturnal habit. There are no contractions so long as the sun is shining, and yes, I think that is totally weird. Cavenaughs are a diurnal bunch. Sun goes down, we go to sleep, sun comes up we go to work. That is the way it has always been. Leave it to me to have a baby with her biological clock twelve hours off.

Saturday night through Sunday morning for instance (this is after the Saturday nudge), baby caused contractions every half hour until sunrise. The sun comes up and baby gives the morning the finger and goes off sulking into the womb. Sunday night you'd think that things would pick up where they left off, but no. Momentum is lost and we pretty much start from pre-nudge scratch. It is almost like pushing something uphill. You go as far as you can, let it rock down and do it again building momentum each time. If you lose the rhythm, you lose the motion. (we get together we'd be causing a commotion) First nudge pushed us a little up the hill, second nudge pushed us almost to the top. Hopefully today's nudge pushes us over the edge. Either that or Sara gives in to her innate impatience and tells the acupuncturist to just give her the "big whammy". The "Big Whammy" is six hours after the treatment you are in full active labor. Our acupuncturist would rather not give the "Big Whammy" because it rushes things, and she feels like things should always be done gently and at the rate it wants to go. However, she isn't going to let some western alchemist stick experimental drugs into Sara's veins either. Several million years of evolution (or 6000 years of God's Plan if that is your preference) isn't going to be beaten out by a drug that has only been used thirty or so years. That's foolish talk. This is why we are relying heavily on the medicine with a couple of thousand years of success, and using the one with a couple of hundred years of history for observation. Each to their strengths. If words like "emergency" or "trauma" are thrown around get me to a hospital, anything else and I'll go to the Eastern Doc. Keep your chemicals to yourself please.

Or to sum up this blog entry:
Wasn't there supposed to be a baby or something around this time?

Posted by Woody Cavenaugh at 10:10 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

At first I thought that there would be no way I would blog about baby. I mean, heck I can hardly find time to blog even without a baby lately. Plus some of the other dads who blog about their little ones are...well, they kinda come off like pansies. There's no doubt that daddies get wrapped around little baby fingers, but do they have to get all mushy about it. Its like one day they're guys in the sports bar yelling at the TV screen, and they next they put on a little floral bonnet and wax on about how their lives are more complete by the addition of that perfect bundle of joy.

*gag* Keep it to yourself fellers. That wasn't fair. Keep doing it, it is your experience and your muse, but don't be insulted if I personally don't get into it. Everyone's experience is different, and all of them are equally important. People will gravitate to the stories that more closely match their own.

Recently I read this guy, and realized that here was a daddy dude speaking my language. I read his stuff and I learned. I learned a lot. Some of it magic, and some of it tragic. Little girls are strange creatures who can't pee standing up.

Suddenly, I found my own muse. I don't even have the baby yet, but it impacts my life daily and some of those stories may be an inspiration to others. First of all, it is an "it" until the day I get to hold "it", at that time "it" graduates into "she" because we know already that once it is born "it" will (or is supposed to) be a she.

It interacts with us through kicks and punches. Sara and I enjoy playing the remote game. We put the remote on Sara's belly, and It kicks it off. Sara's just thrilled that it is playing along, but I'm secretly keeping track of distance records. It is possible the baby has inherited my super strength. This could be important to know come baby proofing time.

Another game that is based on the remote game is the spill mamma's coffee game, the spill mamma's root beer game, and the river dance in mamma's torso game. All of these games are fun, and we have only had a few bruises and small burns from it. Mostly on mamma's torso.

At this moment we're five days from our scheduled "launch", and have just gotten back from the OB. Sara's dilated fully 1cm and is 75% effaced. What this means is that baby sets her own schedule and no one has any real clue when she's going to make her dramatic entrance. Mamma and baby's bag has been packed and in the car for over a week now, and the other day I installed the car seat base. "It" might be in charge of choosing its birthday, but I won't be caught unprepared. It is bad enough knowing that "It" will likely choose the middle of the freakin' night to make its appearance, my pants not only will be down when I get caught, they will be off entirely. This cannot be helped.

My job at the baby launch is to keep an eye on the hospital folks that don't understand the words "natural birth". They have an epidural that keeps mom's from feeling pain, we have an acupuncturist. They have a drug that is almost a copy of a drug that mother's make naturally to help kick off contractions. We know that mom's make the real thing naturally, and if she needs more, its just a different set of needles from the acupuncturist. They will try to tell us about pain, we'll tell them to hush up because she's trying to listen to her hypno birth CD. They might try to scare us with stories of things that "could happen". We'll only worry about if it DOES happen. What luck! if it does happen we're in a hospital surrounded by people who just want to do whatever it is that they do. They just don't get to do it unless it is necessary for them to do so. Easier, faster, completely painless, these are not the ways of the Jedi.

I've always found it ironic that the hospitals want you to get the drugs and the needles and the scheduled elective c-section, but they expect daddy to cut the cord. I think they have it all backwards. We've been having babies without any medical help at all for anywhere from 6000 to several million years depending on your religious affiliation. Why they think they are so necessary after only a hundred or so years on the baby delivery scene is beyond me. In my perfect dream world "it" will be born turn to me and say, "Give me my sword father, I must cut my cord." I understand this is fairly unlikely, I mean she won't even be able to hold her own head up let alone raise a sword. That's why the Doctor is there, to cut the cord for her. Oh, and in case something goes wrong. If something goes wrong we will need and want professional medical care. Duh. I'm not an idiot.

I read a lot of talk about how so many fewer babies and mother's die because of things like drugs and c-sections. I also hear about how of all the first world countries the US is one of the highest in infant mortality. I believe that the US probably leads the world in conception and high risk pregnancies because we have technology to overcome what other countries, even developed ones would call, "impossible to conceive/come to term" pregnancies. I'm not anti-doctor, I'm pro let nature take its course unless it can't THEN pull out the super science. You don't bully us into an epidural and I won't demand you install a laser cannon into her left arm.

Although a laser cannon would be really handy...

Posted by Woody Cavenaugh at 1:19 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

It was a scant few months ago that I managed to buy a couple pairs of low rise jeans, they were perfect more or less. I could wear them where I've always keep my waist and my crotch falls at my crotch and not half-way down my thigh.

These details are important when you are a fencing coach with massive thighs and really surprisingly short legs. The only thing they weren't good for was walking or teaching fencing. For working in the office, sitting in a chair, driving down the street, or dining in a restaurant they were perfect. The thing with me and walking is that the longer I walk the more oxygen enriched blood goes into legs and the tighter these pants become in my legs until they look like a masochist idea of tights.

But that's OK. I've got my other pants. My other pants are plenty lose in the legs but unfortunately are cut for someone who wears their waist about six inches higher than I do. In fact, if you were to go look at a sizing chart they would suggest that where I keep my waist is about six inches lower than it is supposed to be. Sizing charts, HA! So funny.

I'd made my peace with it all and life was good, I chose pants based on the activity of the day and they seldom let me down. If for some reason they DID let me down, I've got my emergency pants in my office that I can fall back on. Check and mate.

Then my world went spiraling into the absurd. I'd always heard that when there is a baby on the way there would be some "Eating for two". I had always assumed they were referring to the mom. During the first trimester my lovely bride lost nine pounds. Well, she says she "lost", but I know exactly where they are. They aren't lost at all, I've got them right here...in my pants. Or more precisely, just over my pants.

Sara had real trouble with nausea during that first trimester and doing my brave duty as Father-to-be-Man I swooped in for the rescue.
"What's the matter honey, your dinner not setting well? Don't worry, I'll save the day!" Twelve weeks of eating my food and hers too and suddenly things are getting a little out of sorts. Undaunted our hero devises a new plan,
"What's the matter honey, your dinner not setting well? Don't worry, we'll get a box!"
By twenty weeks I discovered that the phrase "get a box" translates into "Husband will eat it later."

And here we are at week twenty three. My skinny jeans are in a box, and I've unpacked my fat jeans. Yesterday at the OB's office Sara had gained a pound in the past two weeks, Father-to-be-Man packed on five. Those maternity pants are starting to look like a good idea. I mean, I've always carried my weight in just one place which happens to be where a baby would incubate on a woman. Who would notice right? I'd lose the ability to tuck in my shirts, but lets face reality here, there's no room in my pants for shirt tails anyway. Summer's coming, I can pull off the relaxed out of the pants look.

Yesterday I put on my largest pants, those pants that were in a box slated to go to Goodwill. These pants are the last line of defense between my underwear and an unsuspecting world. It took ten minutes, and a hand cramp to get them buttoned. An hour and a half later I realized that I was so tired from trying to get them on that I had completely forgotten to zip them.

Swell.

An hour after that I had to go to the men's room. You know, number two. Now I'm trapped in a tiny stall trying to get my pants buttoned up. By the time I managed to achieve this high minded goal I had two hand cramps, I was soaked in sweat, my face was red and more than one men's room patron suggestion that maybe I should get a room. It was about an hour later that I realized that I was so out of sorts from the battle of the button I had forgotten to zip my pants.

Swell.

I blame genetics and the knowledge that food taste good. Genetics purpose built me so I could move heavy things. A car, uphill, onto a trailer. I'm your man. Short powerful legs give me leverage to get low on something and power it up. Up-sized rib cage has more surface area to attach chest muscles too. Extra long torso gives me plenty of room for abs. All of my body fat stored in my stomach area-- Well, I'm not sure what they were thinking when they did that one, unless they knew that I was going to spend a lot of time in my adult hood living in the country out working in the yard naked as the day I was born. Yeah, that's probably it. They knew that was going to happen so they put all my extra weight in the front to protect my junk from sunburn.

Of course, its impossible for me to really verify this. I haven't seen my junk since high school. So here I am with a 29 inseam, 42, 44, maybe a 46 waist wearing extra tall shirts to cover me over the up and down and 3X to cover me in the around. Maternity clothing might not be too bad an idea after all. Its time to do some research! We've been wearing cloths for thousands of years, surely in all of fashion history there was a period of clothing that would suit my rather utilitarian build. The toga comes quickly to mind, as does the kilt, but the answer may in fact come from my taste in Steampunk.

There was a period in fashion where men wore pants six inches above where I wear mine and rather than being held in place with a belt (which wont work because of that whole breathing thing) are held in place with suspenders. I'm wearing the vest and cap already, it may be time to suck it up and embrace the breeches and braces as well. It is time to tap my inner gentleman. Only I'll never word it like that again, my hand to god.

Seriously. I promise I'll never say that phrase again.

Posted by Woody Cavenaugh at 8:18 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

This morning we went out and had a consultation with a pediatrician. This wouldn't be so strange except for the fact that it's March and the baby isn't due until August. I wasn't surprised that he was shocked to see us. I was shocked to find out why, "Most people are days from delivering when they suddenly realize that they haven't picked out a pediatrician. You two are way ahead of the curve." Maybe it was my upbringing. The doctor that delivered me was a general practitioner. He delivered me and was my doc until I was in my early teens and had the courage to say to my mother and father, "I'm really uncomfortable sitting two hours in the waiting room with all those prisoners." Yep, my doc delivered babies, and was the official doctor of the local prison. Apparently he didn't do house calls for them either. He used to book himself such that his waiting room was always standing room only, and it took forever to get your turn. I have no idea why. Maybe that was the way it was done back then. Since I've gotten out in to the brave wide open I notice that most doctor's offices have more chairs than patients, and you seldom have to wait more than fifteen or so minutes.

Sara said the appointment was at 8:30am which worked for me, I had a 9:30am meeting, and surely we wouldn't need a whole hour with the doc. At 8:35 as we are driving over, I commented that I'm going to have to pack Sara's overnight bag for baby delivery a few weeks in advance because, as it stands she would be late to her own delivery. To this she responded, "Yeah, that's why the appointment is really for 8:45." Then she called me a dick. Yeah, I earned that, but now I'm much more likely to be late for my 9:30 meeting.

He said some things that I really liked, for instance he's not going to reach for the antibiotics every time sparky gets the sniffles. I like this, I'm not a fan of the pill for pill's sake. He also doesn't mind that Sara and I are being seen by an Eastern practitioner. It works for us, so it works, and he see's no reason to knock it. Plus, we are of the opinion that the job of the Eastern practitioner is to keep us well. If we break an arm, we go to the emergency room just like everyone else. Each to their gifts.

He said some things that made my skin crawl. He mentioned that in the first few months of life, dad doesn't really have much of a roll, but if I'd like he could put me on hormones so I could help with the breast feeding. He was smiling when he said it, but my skin crawls non the less. I HATE getting hair in my mouth. Why would I subject that to a child of mine? Oh, and no as a matter of fact I'm NOT going to consider shaving for this purpose. I don't need that kind of neurosis, my shrink's busy enough already thanks.

After about two questions Sara was tapped out, and I had no questions to start with. At this point the doc chipped in by asking and answering the best of the questions of the other people who come in and interview him. Good stuff. We learned about big practices, medium sized practices, and small practices, both the good and bad points of each. He told us about what he would be doing in terms of delivery day activities, and he even told us a list of things we absolutely needed around the house when baby comes home. These included, a place to sleep like a dresser drawer or a cardboard box, anything that can be really close to our bed without being in our bed. We need a digital rectal thermometer. I was bothered by this, but the logic is sound. Baby's have tiny ears, already filled with crap, the ear thermometer won't be accurate until later. Baby's temp reaches 100.4 that's an automatic hospitalization. Glass bottles. Plastic bottles have a bad rap these days and glass is easier to clean. Good advice.

For me, I'm done shopping, sign us up and see you in August. I arrived at my 9:30 meeting at 9:50. It had ended about five minutes before I arrived.

Posted by Woody Cavenaugh at 4:46 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

The Pod and parasite have become an electric generator. Either that or baby is displaying a precocious electrical superpower.

Sara is shocking herself on everything she touches, up to and including a slice of pizza. No lie. Fresh tomatoes, garlic, pepperoni, black olives and several thousand volts. I've seen her arc to the door of the car, go "Ouch [expletive deleted]!!!", repeat four more times until discharged enough to close the door.

My theory for the mama-baby generator is this. Baby is floating in a fluid surrounded by placenta, which is connected to mom. Baby (armature), placenta (coil), mom (unwitting light bulb). Baby spins while suspended weightless in fluid, charge is generated in placenta, mom touches ANYTHING and goes ZAP. Oh yeah, all this is made easier by the enormous amounts of iron pod must consume in order to construct new unit. Mom just graduated from light bulb to capacitor.

Well, its either that or baby has a superpower of the electrical kind. Which makes more sense to you?

Me, I'd rather the child have super strength anyway.

Posted by Woody Cavenaugh at 4:40 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I said I wasn't going to blog about Sara being Pregnant. Not out loud mind you, I said it to myself, a solemn oath. What I actually said to myself was that I was never going to write one of those sappy miracle of life kind of blog entries about how my kid was born so perfect and how my life is now complete for it being here. How I interpreted that was that I wasn't going to write about any part of the process. Especially the first part- My mom reads this blog.

Besides, the world is full of sappy mommy and daddy blogs about perfect little angels. I think I just made myself nauseous. Don't get me wrong! ...You already got me wrong didn't you. You've made up your mind without hearing my side of this haven't you? Fine be like that! This explanation isn't for you anyway. This is for all those open minded, non-judgmental types out there who really want to know what I'm thinking. I have nothing against the sappy story about the perfect angel. Its just not who I am. I will never write a sappy entry like that. I've got a reputation to maintain, and that would do nothing to help my cause.

So, without ever seeing an example of a non-mushy piece of writing on the subject, I opted to say nothing, until now that is. That's right folks, I'm inspired to take my life in my own hands on this day the first day of the 17th week of Sara being with pod. I was heartened by quality hard core information like is offered at Dad Labs. That is news I can use. Next up, some true inspiration. Occasionally someone just gets it right and you know you can't top it. You can only imitate it and hope to be compared favorably to it. Thus I give you Irony Central's Story About The Baby. Don't drink when you read it, you have been warned.

Now suitably inspired I have a few little things to share with you about the last seventeen weeks of Baby's development:

During Sara's first trimester she had morning sickness noon, night, and beyond. I couldn't cook without her horking her guts out. You want to know how I found out? I got in the mood to have a good eastern NC clam chowder. I had some fully cooked carefully canned clams to start from and I began to create magic in a pot. The smell wasn't appreciated, but she was hungry and gave me the benefit of the doubt. It just so happened that while I was cooking, a little virus Sara picked up at work was doing some cooking of its own. I served, she ate, she even enjoyed it. We watched several hours of TV and went to bed. Six AM the following morning, two minutes before my alarm went off she sat bolt upright in bed. She moved so fast it woke me up. Before I could say, "Is something wrong?" she was kneeling before the porcelain alter and cursing my name in strange gurgling tongues. When she regained the ability to speak in English, she told me that I poisoned her. Her evidence was that all of the clam chowder from hours earlier came back for a second engagement and brought their SAG lawyers. So now I had a big pot of wonderful clam chowder in the fridge that she wouldn't eat, and couldn't stomach me eating, or heating, or anything else. I had to throw the entire batch away. A block away, in someone else's trash can.

She couldn't get much restaurant food down either. If she happened to feel like she could eat, she would be lucky to get past a few bites before she had to stop and go sit in the car. She lost nine pounds her first trimester. I put on easily twice that because I learned that if Sara couldn't get it down the first time, she wasn't going to be able to get it down as left overs. I got double rations for three months, so it wasn't all bad.

It was during the first trimester that she finally started smelling the stuff I've been smelling my whole life. Then she surpassed me. One night she commented on some stench or other which I couldn't smell. The dog looked at me, and used his telepathy to say to me, "Light weight". A couple of days later, she mentioned a smell, I looked at the dog and said; "Well smartass?" he just shrugs and sends me the though, "Dude, I'm as confused as you." I think she could find the Higgs-Boson particle by smell alone. (I'll bet it smells smug. Its called "The God Particle" if that doesn't make you smug I don't know what would.)

The Quickening: I never realized this was a pregnant mother thing. The idea is that during "the quickening" the mother feels the baby moving for the first time. This happens for first time moms between 18 and 20some weeks. All I know is that for some reason about the time Sara started feeling the flutter of tiny baby feet, the windows were in danger of exploding, and I lived in constant fear of losing my head. Coincidence? Unlikely. I don't go anywhere in the house where there isn't a sword or axe outside of arm's length, just in case I have to defend myself.

One night one of our friends proclaimed loudly and publicly that our child would be a girl. I'm not sure if it was a true prognostication of the baby's bits or a more feral wish to share his own pain. Ike has two children. His son is a perfect angel, his daughter brings balance to their household...with unholy fire. When the day comes, we will announce that either he has a 90% percent chance of being right or a 90% chance of being wrong. Apparently you don't get 100% until you lay eyes on the child's junk personally. This is true even if the tyke poses for the ultrasound.

One of the players on Sara's football team proclaimed that because of the possibility of accidents, Sara was no longer allowed to drive our car. She didn't want to risk the possibility of the baby being born with the word "Airbag Equipped" stamped on its head. Hearing this, I made a further proclamation; Sara was no longer allowed to ride in the front of the vehicle. I didn't want the risk of us getting in an accident and then our child mistaking Sara's breasts as flotation devices in the event of a water landing. This would surely be confusing to the child should Sara end up with the words "Airbag Equipped" stamped on her breasts as a result of a crash. Hey, I'm just looking out for everyone's best interest here.

Progesterone is a harsh mistress. The other day, riding in to work Sara out of the blue shouted "What the hell!?" I still have no idea why. Its like the baby gave her Tourette's syndrome or something. I will keep you all posted on this.

Its odd, half of our friends and family want us to have a boy for reasons of birthright, and stuff like that. The folks who want us to have a girl just want that so they can get rid of the all the stuff they've collected by having a girl themselves. Except for Ike of course, Ike still wants to share his pain.

More news as it happens...

Posted by Woody Cavenaugh at 3:05 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)