Tastebuds

ardeche

Week 18.

A couple of weeks ago, the baby books and apps that my wife and I regularly refer to informed us that our baby had developed his taste buds. Coincidentally – or perhaps not – it was right around this time that his mother began enjoying the scent of wine again for the first time since his conception.

I like to think that the little guy has finally developed a taste for vino. They say it’s an acquired taste, I know, but this is my kid growing in there.

Now now, don’t worry, she hasn’t had anything to drink in months, but as part of my ongoing enological experiments I’ve asked her to smell every wine I’ve had open. Really I should say forced her to smell – everything I’ve put in front of her, from Champagne to Barolo, has gotten more or less the same “eww, get this shit out of my face!”

Until, all of a sudden, a wine buddy of mine showed up for a visit from the east coast with a rather esoteric – and incredibly aromatic – Viognier from Ardèche, in France’s Rhône Valley. Wifey’s face lit up at the bouquet, and I almost had to fight her to get the glass out of her hand.

Not only does baby dig vino, he digs funky vino. I love this kid already.

Of course, in proper Winedad fashion, I pushed the point too far by also encouraging her to taste the bottle of mead that we opened on a whim. While it did launch a nice historical discourse on the world’s most ancient fermented beverage, it was probably not the best thing to use on Mama’s newly re-awakened palate.

I guess I got a little ahead of myself with this one. But that’s ok, there’s still 5 months left to play around with.

 

 

User Error

photo copy

Week 17.

On Monday night, Wifey met me for a quiet dinner at a restaurant we’ve long been meaning to try. She was coming from yoga (more on that later) and I from a meeting nearby.

I arrived a few minutes before her, and as soon as she walked in the door I knew that something was wrong. She sat down, all flustered, and it poured right out of her:

“There’s something wrong with the lights on the Prius! When I got in the car after yoga, the brights turned themselves on. Nothing I did would get them to go off again – I swear, I tried everything! It was terrible, people were honking at me all the way over here. I pulled over and tried again, I don’t know what to do!”

While I was pretty sure this situation was not panic-worthy, it also occurred to me that laughter was probably the wrong way to go. So I took a deep breath and encouraged her to do the same. (I’m all about picking my battles these days.) I promised to take a good look after dinner.

We had a pleasant enough meal – despite the weight of the terrible events in Boston earlier that day; we’ll definitely be going back to Alchemy. Afterwards, I walked her to the car, and she got in the driver’s seat to show me what was wrong.

“See?? The brights are on!!”

In our Prius, the lever for the brights is exactly where it is in most cars – to the left and slightly behind the steering wheel – and it functions in much the same way. I pulled it gently back, towards the driver, and the brights went off immediately.

There was nothing at all wrong with the car – my pregnant (and highly intelligent) wife had simply forgotten how to work the lights. User error.

See? “Pregnancy Brain” is a very real, yet totally unexplained phenomenon. I’m living with Exhibit A. Good thing she and that belly are adorable. 

 

 

 

 

Skinny Jeans

(Disclaimer – this photo is not Wifey.)

Week 16.

Last week, Wifey finally bought herself a pair of maternity jeans. After a few weeks of using a rubber band to keep the waistband closed on her old favorites, (as per my sister’s suggestion) she finally took the plunge.

These are totally your mom’s jeans, except that depending on when/where/to whom you were born, your mother’s may have had bigger flares at the bottom.

Now, this was a milestone purchase. To this point, she had been incredibly resistant to the idea of going shopping for maternity clothes – with this implicit “I’m going to wait until I literally can’t even get my pants on before I start buying new ones.” Despite her (previously) slim figure, mine wasn’t really a “skinny jeans” kind of gal to begin with, so this reluctance was a bit surprising. (Some of you are also probably stumped by the need for maternity clothes at all, given that this is still only the beginning of the second trimester. Blame it on that petite-ness again – there’s nowhere for the little bugger to go but out.)

In all fairness, my body will never experience the degree of change that hers is going through; despite my best efforts, I’ll never fully grasp the accompanying psychology. But it did strike me, this contrast between her pride and joy at being pregnant, and her hesitancy to go out and purchase the appropriate clothes. (Strangely enough, it didn’t take her nearly as long for to send me running out for maternity bras…

In fact, the new pants actually accentuate my wife’s beautiful, changing body, which may really be the key to it all. Once she donned her new threads, any remaining ambiguity went out the window. That there’s a baby in there (my baby!) – I would walk around with my hand on her tummy all day if I could. But I guess she had to get there on her own time.

As far as I’m concerned, bring on the maternity gear – I love it, I can now see that bump coming from a block away. Then again, as she likes to point out, I’m not the one baking a person. So take it all with a grain of salt.

 

 

 

 

Munchies

pizza

Week 15 – we’re officially into the second trimester now. God knows, it’s about fucking time.

Not only does this mean that my name is finally published in the “about” section on this blog, but it also signifies an end to Wifey’s incessant napping. What’s replaced it, however, is the single-minded pursuit of one simple thing: food. (Ok, maybe two simple things, with a close runner-up being a bathroom to pee in.)

Last week, as I witnessed a total pre-dinner meltdown, it occurred to me that the level of irrationality in play here is enough to hearken me back to my college days. After all, that’s the one other time in life when it somehow seemed appropriate to stumble around in one’s pajamas, attempting to satisfy totally random munchie cravings.

To take this this line of thought one step further, I’ve put together the following visual aid:

muchies chart

Now I’m not suggesting that my baby momma is smoking pot over here – although we do live in California; the truth is she won’t even go near a glass of wine. (Apparently all she can discern is the smell of alcohol, which the little guy is not [yet] a fan of.) You truly never know what this woman is going to eat next.

As I mentioned a few weeks ago, early on in her first trimester my beloved partner suddenly stopped eating meat all together – I mean seriously, not even bacon. Then, last week, at brunch with my family during our recent visit to New York City, she went ahead and ordered a cheeseburger. You should have seen the shock on my face, and the look the waitress gave as I exclaimed:

“What the fuck? You’re having a cheeseburger?!?” 

I realize that if you don’t know us and our dynamic, this is exactly the kind of statement that is prone to easy misinterpretation. Rather than expressing concern for my wife’s diet, however, this was just a declaration of surprise (read: utter shock). As a wine professional I’ve dedicated a decade to learning the individual tastes of my clients – as well as friends and family – yet my own wife stumps me every time.

In response to my frustation, she’s got one simple response: “I’m going to keep you on your toes for the rest of your life, honey. You might as well stop trying to figure me out now.”