ducks, taxes and death

So the image at left was attached to one of those oft-forwarded emails with a series of humorous images.  Perhaps it is because of my current tenuous status as a future father but I found it more disturbing and sad than funny and amusing.  If I were the father of ducklings (which I hope I am not), that looks like something I'd do.

Stepping back from the day to day apprehensions and waxing momentarily philosophical, I feel somehow connected to the generations that came before me.  Whereas I have in the past always identified myself as separate from my parents and grandparents (I was the child, they were not), I somehow now feel a greater connection to them.  Whereas it was always a stretch to imagine, for example, the apprehensions of my grandfather flying a B-17 over Nazi Germany in 1941, I feel absolutely in tune with the apprehensions he no doubt felt as the nine months ticked away to the birth of my father in 1946.  While there is comfort and a certain amount of pride in feeling connected to something so much larger than myself (the extension of the bloodline, continuation of the species, etc.), I also am becoming acutely aware of my own mortality.  While it may seem counter intuitive to acknowledge the certainty of death at the very moment I am to help bring new life into it, the fact that I now identify my role as that of my father and grandfather before me forces me to realize that I am no longer a child and that I too will grow old and someday die.

On a happier note, we should find out the gender of our child next week.  Can't hardly wait!

practice makes a puddle

In a continuing effort to build up my limited experience with small children, I was pleased to have the opportunity to spend some time with my niece in Arlington over the weekend. My brother was kind enough to trust me with his only child and I am proud to report no one was seriously injured. Little Chloe decided my lap was a secure enough place to take a nap and I appreciated the gesture. I even appreciated the little puddle of drool she left (on) me.

BabySagoBlog

So in our front yard there is a Sago Palm that we transplanted last year. We thought we the moving process had killed the plant but it clung to life and has recently shot up a new throw of leaves (see right). In addition to reassuring Clara and I a little bit concerning our abilities as parents, the recent development of the Sago has provided a meaningful reminder of the remarkable event that is developing in my wife's womb.

Stay with me here.

In a relatively short period of time this palm (or Cycad or whatever it technically is) started creating new life in the form of a new throw of leaves. With little or now outside help it produced tiny little shoots that in a few days developed into little embryonic leaves. Miraculously it "knew" to do this and miraculously this plant with no brain was able to create something well-formed and perfect. I can't help but see the connection to the embryonic child forming in my wife's womb, though naturally I hope it is creating little hands and feet as opposed to leaves.

In other news, Clara and I went to the doctor yesterday and the doctor reported everything is proceeding nicely. Apparently the apple-sized bundle of joy has a heartbeat of 160 bpm and as the little fruit was moving around a lot, the doctor announced "you've got a swimmer in there."

Michael Phelps, you are officially on notice.

bump ahead

So while my official policy continues to be to say "No, Clara, you don't look pregnant at all" when asked directly, a discernible bump has appeared on my wife in the last few days. It's more apparent in the evenings (I guess that's when the little guy stretches out for the night) and you'd have to be looking for it and somehow how manage to convince Clara to take her shirt off in order to see it. Still, I suppose this proves she isn't faking it after all.

In other news, while discussing the relative merits of the male versus the female body, I tried to argue for the relative merits of the male physiognomy. We can, for example, pee in the woods - a task that poses countless complications for my wife and her gender. Clara was easily able to counter this, pointing out that the life she is currently creating has itself the ability to pee anywhere it wants.

wuv, twue wuv...

NIOSA is billed as "a four-night event that celebrates San Antonio's diverse cultural heritiage with 15 ethnic areas that serve fabulous in over 250 food booths and provides entertainment to over 85,000 revelers." What that description fails to mention is that 80,000 of those revelers are morbidly obese and wearing inappropriately revealing clothing while ravenously consuming fabulous foods from over 250 food booths. I, as you may have guessed, am not a fan of NIOSA but Clara is and so once a year I dutifully agree to go and spend an excruciating couple of hours seeing far more flesh than one man should ever be required to witness. Due to the fact that she is great with child, Clara felt going herself wasn't such a good idea, though she still craved chicken-on-a-stick and funnel-cake. Being as how here pregnancy is partially my fault, I agreed to enter this wretched hive alone. I went in with a list and came out with a sack containing various fried food items as well as a mild case of post-traumatic stress disorder.

If this be not love, then truly I know not what it is.

mind the gap (and the passed out pregnant lady)

So Ms. Clara and I just returned from our holiday in London.  It was a great trip in which we had the opportunity to see a great city and visit with some great friends.  Whenever I would complain about having to carry around her luggage she would point out that she was carrying my child.  There was little I could say to counter that.

Despite doing a considerable amount of walking, Clara did remarkably well.  There was one slightly scary moment where Clara began to feel faint while we were making a connection at the train station at the King's Cross tube station.  Luckily our friend, Navvab, offered up her bottle of water and after a minute of resting on a bench all was well.

With a little narrative embellishment, this will no doubt make for a good story to tell the little one.

200 days and counting

We made our three-month visit to Dr. Villanueva today and while he did not employ the ultrasound machine, he did pull out this fun little piece of equipment that consisted of a little microphone that was connected to a speaker clipped to his belt. As sophisticated as this piece of medical equipment no doubt was, it looked to me an awful lot like a Mr. Mike toy. Dr. V said it might take a moment to locate the heartbeat – apparently the little guy might have crawled down one of Clara’s legs or perhaps was hanging out in her upper chest cavity. Nevertheless we soon heard the heartbeat – 170 of them a minute to be precise – and we all breathed a sign of relief. Then Dr. V’s phone started ringing and because it was a musical ring, we momentarily thought our fetus had installed a sound system in my wife’s womb. When this was pointed out, Clara began to laugh and that chuckle translated through the Mr. Mike toy made it sound like there was something demonic inside my wife. I do not think I like the Mr. Mike toy.

In other news I downloaded an iPhone app yesterday that allows you to set a date and then the phone counts down the number of days until that date. As luck would have it, today is 200 days until October 26.