The Post about the Girls meeting Parker March 13th

And then it came time to introduce the girls to Parker.

Although they would spend the next few days at Grandma’s, we’d taken care to see that school, dance class, and playgroup would proceed as usual.

The idea was for them to see Parker as an addition to their lives, not an obstruction.

As 3 o’clock approached I picked up Olivia, my youngest - oops, my middle child - from my Mom’s and went to pick up her sister at school.

Grace was a bit more subdued than I expected - a hangover from a late night at Grandma’s I imagine - but she was eager to hand out the blue bubble gum cigars I bought for her classmates.

Read that bit again: bubble gum cigars. I had a whole box of chocolate cigars, and yet I chose to give the bubble gum version to a room full of three-year olds that have yet to master zipping their jackets.

Bet the other parent’s loved me.

At the hospital they both seemed relieved and happy to see Mommy up and about, but while their initial attention was on her, it didn’t take long for them to notice their little brother.

This was the stuff video cameras were made for: my girls beaming as they were introduced to Parker, doting on him and saying things that were so cute they'd make Art Linkletter smile:

"Your tummy looks a lot smaller mommy"

"Why his belly-button all icky?"

Unfortunately I didn’t have a video camera; just after the birth the night before, one of the nurses had dropped the camera bag and broken my camcorder.

I would curse her name forever. . .if I'd thought to get her name in my post-birth glee.

And then it was time for the gifts from Parker. When Olivia was born she ‘bought’ Grace a doll. Grace is many things, but a doting caregiver is not one of them. It lay unused until Olivia was old enough to appreciate it.

This time around we tried to be a little more precise. Livvie - the nurturer - got a dolly, while Grace -the diva - opened a gift bag with sunglasses, lip gloss, glittery belts, etc.

All dollar store stuff, but they loved it enough to fight over it.

I was a little nervous when they held and fed Parker, but they did just fine. By then visitors were rolling in - including my mother-in-law, who'd come to take Grace to dance class.

Before they left I wanted to take them down to the cafeteria for dinner - an ode to an old McDonald's commercial about a father and a new big brother who bond over french fries.

Yes, I fashion my sentimental moments from the refuse of fast food ads.

It was in the cafeteria that I had a good scare.

I was busy picking out a motley collection of fruit, Cheetos, yogurt, and milk for the girls (hey, it was a special occasion) when I did the standard head count.

And came up one shy.

Olivia was nowhere to be found. Not just temporarily out of sight, but gone. I put down the tray and with panic rising, hurried around the salad bar.

In a small room that was nearly empty, I couldn't find her.

And then I felt a tug on my pants leg.

Olivia had been behind me the whole time, her little legs keeping her just far enough ahead/behind to remain hidden from my sight.

Meanwhile Grace was calming standing to one side.

"Why didn't you tell me Olivia was behind me?" I demanded.

You see where this is going, as did I even as I asked the question. But what shocked me was how slow and deliberate her answer was, like she was explaining it to someone with head trauma.

"You didn't ask Daddy"

Maybe she has reason to think that way - after all I volunteered to bring another one of these monsters into the world.

What else but head trauma would explain that?

Hodge Podge & Arlo and Janis

I'm aware that there hasn't been a non-Parker related post since March 4th, and while I know this may bore/irk some people, I'm afraid you'll have to live with the fact that the next three or four posts may be more of the same.

Also, a brief flare of disgust for BE - in its continuing efforts to please everyone (and therefore no one) I've found my readership halved, as folks now are limited to surfing the sites in specific categories. So what about me?

Aside from posts about my kids, I write on politics, TV, current events, and esoteric rants. Kinda makes it hard on Slapinions, you know?

And don't get me started on the insanely detailed new rating system. Who has fifteen minutes to evaluate a site? In order to be accurate you'd have to read half the dang blog.

Ugh.

This next bit was originally published Friday, March 11, 2005

Arlo and Janis

I don't know how many of you have followed the links to the left, but I encourage you to check out Arlo and Janis, one of the best - scratch that, THE best comic strip around since Peanuts left us.

Now that I have the picture function working, I'll occasionally rashly challenge copyright laws and post an especially witty strip.

Follow the link and enjoy!

Posted by Slapinions at 9:34 AM
Labels: general

The Story of Parker's Birth March 10th, 2005

One thing nice about having an inducement date: with the nursery out of the way and a concrete end to the pregnancy in sight, we could sit back and relax for a few days.

But if it happened that way, we wouldn’t have much of a story, would we?

So I wasn’t all that surprised when I came home from work Sunday morning to the news that my wife was in labor.

I wasn’t surprised, but I still didn’t believe her.

Through three pregnancies I’ve developed an irrational belief that Lisa is incapable of knowing when she’s in labor. At least I’m consistent; I don’t believe her when she says she’s pregnant either.

So we sat there and timed her contractions, and sure enough: every fifteen minutes Parker came one step closer to entering the world.

Lisa then did the only sensible thing: she sent me to bed, and she went out and got a manicure and pedicure.

At four o’clock I met up with her at my parent’s house, where my niece Stacey was celebrating her 4th birthday.

Although March 6th is a historically significant date - it’s the date the Alamo fell, and yes, I’m a big enough dork for that to matter - no one wanted Parker to share his birthday. My wife and father share a birthday, as do my sister and my wife’s brother, and her childhood friend and mine.

Enough was enough.

But it wasn’t looking good. At 5:30 one of my nieces ran in with big news: Lisa’s water had broke.

At a child’s birthday party.

Lisa moments after her water broke; yet another pic my wife will hold against me. :)

Of course, this wasn’t a movie. Nobody started boiling water and shredding sheets. Instead, after consulting her doctor Lisa again did the sensible thing: after cutting my hair, we went shopping.

With some gifts in hand to give our girls after the birth, we returned to the party to say our goodbyes and hit the road.

At 8:15, on a gorgeous 48 degree evening that resembled a brisk May night more than early March, we arrived at the hospital.

Almost exactly ninety minutes later, with Lisa stuck at 3 cm dilated (despite being almost completely effaced) the doc started pictocin, a contraction-inducing IV drug that Lisa dubbed “the devil’s serum” two births back.

Whatever its faults, it works. Lisa’s contractions began coming a minutes apart, with only enough time between each to catch her breath.

At 11 o’clock Lisa caved and asked for an epidural. Why this should even be an issue to women escapes me, but trust me on this: for a woman, being able to say they had a medication-free birth is the equivalent to a guy saying he used to do porn.

It is, at its core, a female dick-measuring contest.

By the time the epidural was in place and they were starting the medication it was almost midnight. With Lisa still at only 6cm, I took the opportunity to jot outside and have a cigarette.

While I was out there I called both our mother’s and told them to start heading out the door - both were supposed to be there for the delivery, just as my mother-in-law had been in the room twice before.

In all, maybe ten minutes passed.

When I got back to the labor and delivery floor the nurse flagged me down: the baby was coming.

It’s like the old adage while waiting at a restaurant; the minute you light a cigarette, dinner will arrive.

What followed is horribly embarrassing to my wife, again for reasons I can’t fathom. Should I ever find a child pushing out my genitalia, I would do far worse.

Still, with the epidural still - and never to be - working, my wife was rather vocal, and with a Hollywood flavor: in a nod to every pregnancy scene ever written, she stated she hated me. She also tried to quote The Exorcist, but failed: “It burns” came out “It’s burning, it’s burning!”

I could see Parker crowning but everything was on hold until the doc arrived. In the meantime a nurse tried some tough love with my wife, telling her the epidural wouldn’t have taken away all the pain - she lasted all of ten more seconds in the room before Lisa drove her off.

And then the doctor arrived, a petite athletic Filipino woman caught off guard by the speed of Lisa’s progress and about to deliver my son wearing a “Real Chili” T-shirt.

Two pushes later, my son was born.

He’s the smallest of all my kids, coming in at 7 pounds, 10 oz and 20.5 inches with a beautiful, perfectly round head and almost none of the typical ‘leftovers’ from the womb.

Even though he was early he came out with wickedly chapped hands and feet, the latter being big floppy appendages that can bend all the way back to his knees, to the amusement of visitors of all ages.

In my opinion, his, ahem, male parts are also capable of reaching his knees, but that may just be a father’s hope for his son (and the fact that like his father he is all torso and no legs).

I was the first person to ever place a diaper on him, and to my sorrow it was not the last.

He has my youngest sisters ears (they curve inwards in the middle, resembling a letter “E”), a cleft in his chin like me, a nose that’s wide on the bottom like mine but seems inclined to grow into my wife’s perfect button nose.

He came out alert and has remained so, with a pretty docile disposition that changes to that of a tiger when he’s wet or in need of human contact (which is pretty often).

Although I regret that they didn't have the opportunity to see the birth, I appreciate the fact that my wife and I were able to experience our son's birth with only each other for support.

Parker soaked my wife, a curtain, and my jacket with urine before he was 48 hours old, first christening his Mom sixteen hours after his birth.

He has yet to urinate on his Daddy.

In short, he is perfect.

One pic of Parker!

This pic, courtesy once again of Oftencold, was taken mere minutes after the birth.

I'll post more later (as if you were afraid I wouldn't :) But I gotta tell you, I don't think this page has ever looked better . . . .

 

Parker Is Born!!!

Parker Daniel was born at 12:13 am this fine March 7th. He weighed in at 7 lbs 10 oz and 20.5 inches long.

Mom and son are doing fine.

Much more to follow, including pics, but I just wanted to quickly let everyone know.

:)

Finally- some working pics

After four months, and through the intervention of Mr.Oftencold (as featured on the links to the left), I have some working pictures on the site.

Check out the bunk bed entry for new and updated displays of the room in question.

Oh, by the way - the 'boy' in the castle pic is my youngest daughter. My youngin's don't have much hair when they're little, and she was just shy of one at the time. And ignore the date stamping - that's wayyyy off.

 

Pregnancy Update

Ugh. The hospital called back and said they have no slots available for an induction except on the 9th. Worse yet, they don't do inductions at 11 at night, so there's little or no chance of the birth happening on the 10th.

Not only does that bump the date back a day, it also screws up the symetry of having my son born on a day I saw in a dream (yes, I saw his name and March 10th in a dream before the doc even mentioned induction. How new age is that?)

So, unless he pops early it's gonna be on the 9th.

The Post about Lent and Fish Fry's March 4th

Today, shortly after midnight, a co-worker offered to buy me dinner -albeit from McDonald's. As his offer is as rare as extra cash the day before payday, I was tempted - but declined.

It is Lent, it's Friday, and I'm Catholic.

And no, I don't like Fillet O'Fish.

I'm under no illusions that my afterlife will be determined by what I eat, but to those who snicker and see no point to it all, I respectfully disagree.

It's not about avoiding some dire consequence; it's about committing to something.

The Church asks that I not eat meat on Fridays for a few weeks. Since I'm Catholic, I choose to abide by that rule as a sign of respect. With a few tweaks, it's the same rationale behind turning down a bribe to look the other way at work, because for better or worse I agreed to the job and I'm damn well going to do it.

Likewise, as a married man, it's why I say no to the supermodel's that are always asking me out.

Commitment's important, you know?

And it's not so bad skipping red meat now and again. In fact, it's only gotten easier since I met my wife.

Back in the day I didn't like fish, had no interest in Italian food that didn't come out of a can, and wouldn't touch tuna or egg salad if my life depended on it. I was a bit of a poor man's version of a snooty food critic.

A few years of raging poverty cured me of my tuna-phobia real quick, while my wife's fetish for the Olive Garden introduced me to several vegetarian dishes. Somewhere along the line my tastes changed and I even acquired a liking for seafood.

Which works out great, because Fish Fry's are to Milwaukee what Mardi Gras is to New Orleans.

Forget the stereotypes that say tourists should hit a German restaurant and a custard stand. Bratwursts are about as much German culture as you'll see on a daily basis.

You want to taste what Milwaukee really eats? Visit on a Friday.

There's not a restaurant in town that doesn't feature a Friday fish fry year-round. Family restaurants do it. So do local fast food places, greasy spoons, and four star restaurants.

Boy Scout troops hold fish fry fundraisers, as do churches. Serb Hall crams hundreds of folks into their fish fry at once, and their drive-thru line stretches out to the street.

I've even gone to an authentic Mexican restaurant and been served a fish fry complete with fries, rye bread, and coleslaw.

Ole.

Trust me, Milwaukeean's consume enough mercury in a given year to take their own temperature when they're sick.

I don't mean to pass this off as a religious mandate. While Milwaukee has its share of Catholics, it's morphed into more of a cultural phenomenon than a religious requirement.

After all, it was my wife's family - Lutherans by and large, with the oddball Catholic thrown in (damn Democrats and their quotas) - that introduced me to the gluttony of the all-you-can eat fish fry.

The fact that this feast falls on Friday seems to be just a bit of good luck for me.

Sadly, the best fish fry in Milwaukee, a title held by a small bar here on the south side, is no more. Once I could complement heavenly baked cod with the best shaved onion rings on earth; now I simply mourn the memory. The bar closed its doors for good a few years back.

Which leaves only 10,000 other places to vie for the title.

My sister's Birthday

Today (well, yesterday) marked my sister's 30th birthday. I don't think she's ever visited this blog, but if she ever does - all the best and lots of love.

Pregnancy Update

We had another doctor's appointment Wednesday, and the news is as follows: if Parker doesn't pop out on his own before then, Lisa will be induced on March 10th.

The due date was/is floating between March 5th (ultarsound results) and March 14th (traditional, last-date of period dating) so he shoud be fully cooked either way.

Knock on wood.

I'll keep you updated.