Tuesday, October 11th was a big day for our family. On that date, Stefanie and I found out that we are having a boy - at least that's what the doctor told us. Consistent with the type of tomfoolery I can only imagine that my child is plotting against his mother and I, our child proceeded to stubbornly sit Indian-Style during the appointment where we were to find out whether it was a he or a she. Is that politically correct? Our child sat cross-legged.
With my armpits starting to get damp and my brow starting to glisten with perspiration, I sat next to Stefanie, who was laying on the table with a magic doppler wand on her stomach. As our doctor made measurements of the size of our child's head, counted limbs and digits, and looked at its spine and heart, our child sat giggling to itself, I'm sure. While our doctor tried to get a shot of the "goods" and I waited impatiently to hear if I should start looking under "boy" or "girl" in the baby names book, our child was thinking to himself, "Just wait, Pops, this is just the beginning of a long series of events that I will orchestrate to frustrate the heck out of you." I'm sure I deserve it. It's the universe's way of paying me back for all the times I used to hide from my mother in the clothing racks at JC Penny's while she called my name and I laughed to myself. Soak it up now, mom.
It didn't matter to me whether we were having a boy or a girl, as long as it is healthy. What is it about certain people who have kids of their own that makes them tell a person who is expecting their first child all the things that could go wrong with a newborn? I wasn't really nervous about the health of our child, but now I am. Thank you. Mission accomplished.
To be honest, now that it's somewhat likely we're having a boy, I'm kind of relieved. Matchbox cars are so much more fun than Barbies. But because our child was playing a joke on Stef and I, our doctor said she's only 80% sure we're having a boy. She'll check again at Stef's next appointment. So, for right now, I'm still trying to refer to our child with gender-neutral terms.
So far, this has been the extent of my interaction with my child. I hear Stef talking about how our kid is kicking her in the gut. I see Stef growing to support the new life in her. I even get to see my child once a month on a tiny TV in an exam room that has a life-sized plastic model of the female reproductive system. Stef has made me watch her stomach when she feels our child tap dancing on her bladder. As soon as I start watching, our kid gets gun shy and stops.
Last night, I climbed into our bed for the evening after Stef had been asleep for just about an hour. For some reason, I decided to lay next to Stefanie, who was sleeping on her back, and gently put my hand just below her belly button. At first, there was nothing. 30 seconds...60 seconds...then, BAM! Right in the palm of my hand. And then again, right in the same spot! As our child kept kicking or hitting me in the palm of my hand, I tried to stifle my laughs as I pictured the Alien scene in the movie Spaceballs. Despite my best efforts, Stefanie woke up and indicated that what I was feeling may in fact have been *ahem* stomach problems. But, no sooner as those words came out of her mouth, my child kicked my hand again twice more for good measure.
I know it's pretty small, but up until this point, I had felt a little like a Doubting Thomas. Sure, I believed that my wife was pregnant - seeing our child on a TV monitor is pretty fail-safe. But, up until this point, I had been experiencing this whole child thing from the sidelines. It was good to get in the game for a little while.
*Note: Sorry for the length of the post. When I don't contribute to this site for a month, these are the types of posts you can expect.
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