Girl

We recently had our first sonogram, or as I like to call it, the belly-lubing cinema.

Seriously, does that much K-Y® Jelly need to be used on anyone? My poor wife's navel needed a half hour benzyl and turpentine scrub to dislodge that gunk.

But it was all worth it for a glimpse of our baby girl. Although the initial images looked like nothing human, I soon saw a little butt and two little legs. "It's a girl!" I shouted, loud enough for Lisa, our smiley sonogram tech, to offer a polite "Yup. You've got a good eye, dad." Or, in nice-lady-getting-paid-handsomely-for-excessively-KY'ing words, "Thanks for the wise input and feel free not to do that again, doofus."

After a few minutes, smiley Lisa paused the fuzzy image on the sonogram monitor and left the room to get a chart. The Mrs. decided on a bathroom break.

And so it was, in a dimly lit room, that I found myself enchanted by a 13 ounce girl on a black and white screen. Only the computer's hum accompanied the song of thanks bursting forth from my racing heart. Although her shape and form remained ambiguous, her purpose was unmistakable. She was a treasure, and she was nothing less.

Songwriter Derek Webb said it best, "So could You love this bastard child, though I don't trust You to provide? With one hand in a pot of gold and with the other in Your side." How gracious and compassionate is my Father to lay upon one such as me the blessing of this child.

I suddenly felt grown up. "I have a girl, and I'm a man! I can now grow a beard and talk about fatherhood!" But then an overwhelming sense of parental and facial hair inadequacy flooded my mind.

"You, little girl, will lean on me for support? I bear the responsibility of disciplining the selfish, world-loving nature out of your life? I'm supposed to teach you? This isn't right. But I'm king of selfish! I can't be taught!"

And there she was, my girl, reacting to my muddled confusion with simplicity and quiet. She, being knit together by the Giver of all good things, will be a treasure to simplify and quiet my heart.

Sizeable = Suitable

The Mrs. is better looking pregnant than not. And each day of midsection enlargement brings new appreciation of her physical beauty. It's as if her stomach has become a whole new body part to (ahem) find attractive*.

Sounds reasonable, right? Well to formerly tiny and currently jumbo-sized women it doesn't sink in so quickly. During most pregnancies, a husband's pretensionless comment like, "That maternity shirt looks good on you, honey" mutates into, "Excuse me, nasty walrus woman, why don't you look petite and seductive anymore?" before it hits a wife's ears.

Unlike every message force-fed by our culture, I believe smaller is not always better. This is why Americanized beauty standards suck.

Point of truth: pregnant women turn their husbands on.

Point of instruction: husbands of the pregnant should never³* stop reminding their spouse of the unspeakable beauty surrounding an expectant woman.

Unfortunately, due to the interminable brainwashing by Hollywood culture, it takes some time to convince a woman big can equal hot. The repulsion of largeness can only be attributed to the gravitation towards self love. How depressing it must be to have married a, “I am happy because I’m beautiful because I’m smaller than the average woman because I eat apple peels twice a week before vomiting.”

This brings up another exquisite point: The Wife is not afraid to eat a hearty meal in public and is more attractive to me because of it.

To clarify (and so I don’t become a lonely man at night), I am NOT sticking up for big women because my spouse is that way in her un-pregnant state. She weighs just a hitch over a buck twenty five, looks great in a two piece on a beach and was voted “Sexiest Legs” in high school.*





*get turned on by
*never, never, never
*no way that graph gets me out of the woods

Always Someone Better

I'm a guitar player, although I didn't feel like much of one after taking in a Nickel Creek show this week. In fact, it would now be a stretch to call myself a musician.

Considerable appreciation should be lavished upon three such individuals who can turn heads with their vocal range while playing stringed instruments in rhythm sans percussion all while singing lyrics far superior to the underwhelming crap heard on pop stations everywhere.

Simply put: they kick ace.

And I'm not alone in my feelings. Today, a married male cohort unblushingly confessed a musical mancrush on Chris Thile. Yesterday, the Mrs. noted that the trio (http://nickelcreek.com/) is better than any three musicians on the planet.

I second both of those (mainly the second second).

It's All for The Baby

After beginning this blog, I was encouraged by a professional blogger to "Post, post, post because content drives readership!"

So, dagnabbit, I'm gonna post once a quarter if it kills me!

I've definitely taken my sweet time to get back to brickabrac, and I've a hunch the seeds of my steadfast commitment will not blossom into blogging super stardom without, well, steadfast commitment.

Big news: the wife's pregnant. Better news: I'm the dad. Bad news: the forfeiture of my side of the bed has occurred.

Am I the only one with the rocks to contend that the manly side of the bed is closest to the bedroom door; the door where thieves and murderers would obviously enter before assailing a peaceful, sleeping wife? I've been given a God-ordained duty to protect and cherish my bride. So how, might I ask, can I do this without being first to my feet, bowie knife between my teeth and .38 in my hand ready to pounce on the unsuspecting bastard as the handle reaches 3/4 turn?

My wife, on the other hand, believes my coma-like sleep to be no hindrance to the onslaught of said attackers. She always injects something about my drool and night-gas being of more protective use than my fists and weapons. She also says silly stuff like, "I need an easy way to roll my belly out of bed more times per week than when you need to protect me from rapists."

Humph, women.