Hooters

Hooters-Logo

Wifey and I got just got home last night from a trip back East; we got to spend a long weekend in NYC and a enjoy a Passover seder in the suburbs. We also had a chance to take advantage of some practice parenting with our beloved horde of nieces and nephews, which expanded by one baby girl almost 3 weeks ago now.

When we arrived on Thursday evening and walked into my sister’s apartment – smiles all around – I was anticipating exclamations of delight at the adorable bump already growing on my rather petite baby mama.

My mother, of course, exceeded all expectations. However, the first words of out Paternal Grandpa-to-be’s mouth were in reference not to my wife’s tummy, but to that which lies slightly higher on her torso:

“Damn, girl! You should get a job at Hooters!”

(This is paraphrased, but only slightly.)

Notwithstanding the fact that such a gig might represent a step down from her consulting career, and therefore require the Winedad to go out and get a “real” job, this remark reminded me once again of the many reasons why I love my father.

I mean, if he can get away with boob comments, than surely I can too – right? The “breast bonus” is clearly the most exciting thing about pregnancy, from a dude’s perspective, yet our women have made mention of it as taboo as discussing their hormones. I say, speak freely, boys! It’s about time! One more point for our side, courtesy of Grandpa.

Man, I can only wait to hear what my Uncle has to say.

Solidarity

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Now that I’m spending a fair amount of time reading, writing, and discussing the subject of pregnancy, all kinds of advice has started coming my way from parents out there (both current and aspiring). Some have gone so far as to suggest that I place my own vices on hold for the next months out of solidarity with my lady wife – apparently, there are guys out there who have set such a precedent. (Those mother fuckers, ruining it for the rest of us!)

Clearly, none of those dudes work in the wine industry.

While I’m usually the first person to point out that I truly don’t spend all day consuming vino (really, I don’t, I swear!) the fact remains that it comes at me from all angles over the course of my work week. Besides being victim to an unquenchable thirst for more wine knowledge – always more, always just a bit more, I promise I’ll spit! Just a little bit more… I’m also in the process of actively developing my own wine business. So, call it what you will, but I’m not even pretending. That doesn’t mean I don’t feel guilt about it, though. My Jewish mother raised me well.

The irony is – as I’m sure many men can attest – I actually find myself drinking more. While I won’t deny that some of this is the result of a certain male instinct to numb oneself in the early stages of adapting to major life changes, much of it is purely logistical. There simply aren’t nearly enough half bottles on the market. Once the 750ml is open, what’s a boy supposed to do, pour that shit out?

I think not.

So hell yeah, bring it on. I’ve got my own personal limo driver, DUIs won’t get me down! However, I do sometimes fear that my odds of conceiving a second child may decrease with every sip I take.

 

Competition (Or: An Ode to the Body Pillow)

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Week 12.

Of all the dubious decisions I’ve made in the first couple months of impending fatherhood, the one I most regret is the body pillow that I bought for Wifey early on.

I suppose there’s a case to be made for inevitability; obviously, Wifey’s comfort is paramount for the next 6 months or so. But now I’m in the awkward situation of living with a very petite woman who somehow already managed to take up more than half the bed, and to top it all off, now there’s this pillow taking up space.

It doesn’t help how much she loves the damn thing. She climbs into bed at night – warm, soft, scented. She smiles, reaches closer to me… and wraps all of her limbs around that fucking body pillow. 

I know it’s not another man – God forbid. She tells me she doesn’t love the pillow, that it’s only a marriage of convenience. She says she’ll end the relationship when it’s run it’s course.

But you look at them together and tell me it doesn’t seem serious!

I thought it was the baby in her belly that would drive the wedge between us, after it’s been carried to term. But instead I had to go buy this stupid pillow, in the middle of the first trimester, no less.

Unfortunately, unlike many of the other paternal errors I am bound to make, this one is less easily brushed under the carpet. After all, it sleeps in bed with us.

Taboo

bacon

Forgive me for all the clichés that are about to ensue.

As has often been remarked, nobody is ever “just a little bit pregnant;” this baby thing is all or nothing. Contrary to popular belief, there’s very little about the process that is gradual, other than the growth of the bump itself. In some cases – like ours – even that seems to happen rather quickly.

I’m pretty sure I’m going to get myself into a whole lot of trouble with this one, but there are some things that all fathers-to-be have in common. It’s do or die out there, after all – you either develop a whole new kind of patience, or a bunch of new kinks in the the neck from being forced to crash on the couch due to a lack thereof.

What I’m really talking about here, of course, is precisely what all men are instructed to never, under any circumstances refer to within the hearing of their female partner: the monthly – or in this case rather longer term – affects of their crazy, out-of-control hormones.

So, at risk of eternal damnation, but on behalf of fathers-to-be around the world, I’m going to just go ahead and say it, so that we can all pretend we’ve gotten it out of our systems:

“I’m sorry (first name here), I love you like crazy, and I can’t thank you enough for carrying our child. I know it takes a lot out of you. But for God’s sake, darling – some of the shit you’re trying to pull on me here is fucking ridiculous.”

(Now, don’t you feel a little better?)

I mean, just so you comprehend the extent of the madness at hand: the lovely, goddess-of-a-woman who I am blessed to share my life with said no to bacon this weekend. Bacon, I tell you! This, the morning after ripping me a new one for daring to suggest that she perhaps allow herself to breathe for a moment and digest the changes occurring in our lives, by interjecting a lighthearted novel into the growing pile of pregnancy literature on the coffee table.

Now, I consider myself to be a pretty damn supportive husband. One of the better ones, even. I’m happy to run any errand, to go just about anywhere to track down just about any kind of random-ass food that Wifey is craving, as long as we can afford it. Or to avoid using just about any ingredient when I cook, even if the blacklist changes from day to day and is impossible to keep track of. (Hour to hour?)

However, just because I’m not growing a person doesn’t make me any less human. So don’t you treat me like I am, meanie! Ha. So there. Take that.

Oh shit, look at the time. It’s getting late, and I’ve got this shopping list to take care of. Not to mention those new nursing bras I said I’d pick up for her. I’ve gotta get out of here. Later, boys.