Full term? Yikes.

Today is officially 37 weeks, which means that the Goose is officially a full-term baby.

That alone is a little bit daunting, but yesterday we went to one of those creepy 3D/4D ultrasounds, because we're impatient and wanted to see our little girl. All I can really say is that she's beautiful, and it's just slightly less creepy when it is your own child. (But it's still creepy.)

The tech who was performing the ultrasound confirmed a few things for us. First, she's definitely head-down, and pretty low into the birth canal. Which is what the doctor said on Wednesday, but it was nice to see it. Second, he showed us different body parts... here's a shoulder, there's a knee, this is her butt, etc, etc. What that did for us was send our hearts racing into triple digit paces.

Her ass is pressed up against my wife's diaphragm.

Sure, that's a little bit funny to those of us who can still breathe normally, but take another second to think about it... her head is halfway into the birth canal, and her rump is that far up? How freaking big is this child? Is she already 24" from crown to toe?

Combine her size, positional readiness, the doctor saying the cervix is "soft and ripe" (though still not dilated at all), and the fact that my wife thinks she's losing her mucous plug slowly... it all adds up to us being on high alert.

-A

The House Mouse

So there we were last night, watching Scared Shrekless. We were sitting on the couch, minding our own business. Our two dogs were laying near us, on the floor.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot movement on the floor of our living room, so I turn my head and refocus my attention. Well hello there, Jerry, looking for some cheese?

Immediately, I start to get up to prepare for the hunt. As I'm halfway off the couch, my wife shrieks like someone laid a red-hot fire poker on her neck, which scares the crap out of every living thing in the house... including the mouse, which goes darting into a corner.

As I'm racking my brain, torturing it into confessing what item or tool would be most useful for not splattering mouse-guts all over our living room floor, I'm pretty sure that somewhere in the background, there's a flurry of high-pitched demands, commands and pleas for help coming at me. Sorry, babe, I can't hear you. I'm hunting.

A few weeks ago, some friends had a couple mice in their house, and they managed to get them outside effectively. I'll take a page from their book; a bucket, with something flat and inflexible pushed slowly underneath to trap the mouse in a mobile container.

The bucket was easy. I just emptied the garbage from the bathroom garbage can (it needed to be done anyway), turned it upside down and, after moving the Rock Band/Guitar Hero guitar from the corner it was hiding in, dropped it on the mouse. There, mouse immobile. Grabbing a serving plate from the kitchen, I very carefully slid it under the bucket to get the mouse off the floor.

Of course, during the sliding of the plate (which is almost as wide as my wife's eyes, at this point), she starts making some noises that I've somehow let the mouse escape. In fact, she seems very convinced that this little animal, which weighs less than an ounce, has somehow transmogrified into a giant pregnant-lady-eating monster, escaped my bucket trap, and is now coming towards her for a little snack.

Now since this little critter weighs less than an ounce, I can't tell if it's really inside my contraption, so I give it a little up-down, and nod to myself that it's still inside once I hear the little thump of it landing back on the plate. Apparently, however, this little mouse-tossing exercise only serves to solidify her belief that it's going to break free and eat her face.

I carry my prize outside, open it up, and let the little bugger go free. Sure, he was a little shaken up (no pun intended) but he seemed unharmed and happy to be out. So happy, in fact, he made a bee-line for the back of our property, away from the house.

The best part about the whole ordeal, other than my wife reaching octaves only our dogs could hear? Our dogs never saw the thing or even really noticed that something out of the ordinary was going on. Some watchdogs.

-A

The Death of Me

Sunday night, I came to the realization that I'm frightened. Not about becoming a father again. Not even about becoming a full-time parent for the first time. No, what scares the ever-living hell out of me is that anytime between now and early December, I am going to die.

See, as soon as Goose shows up, the me that I am today, the me that I'm particularly fond of, is going to be laid to rest forever. Taking his place is going to be some other me that I haven't met yet. Am I going to like this other me? Is this other me going to continue down the path I've set us on? Is my wife going to like my replacement? Are my children? This new person - who is wearing my body like some less-murderous Thomas Hewitt - is he going to treat my family as well as they deserve?

Sure, signs all point to yes, but no one can say that definitively, especially not me. There's a precedent in our species that states that everyone who brings a child into this world is forever changed. And I know that you know someone specifically that was extraordinarily cool once upon a time, but then they popped out a kid or three and now they're the ultimate douchemonster.

Normally, I'm a big fan of change... but this one scares the !@#* out of me.

-A

Friendly Advice

Everyone has something to say about everything. In fact, I've even mentioned this before.

What I don't understand is how or why some people feel it's appropriate to tell a father, expecting his second child, what kids are like. Especially if they don't even have their own children. I mean, it's one thing to tell me what you went through with your kid... but if you've never been through anything? Please.

I know what kids are like, and I can sum it up for you in a rather succinct way: they're all different.

So don't bother telling me that yours really liked apple sauce at bedtime. Quit pestering me with the fact that your kid had to use some hypo-allergenic soy-based formula from a $94 custom-shaped-like-mommy's nipple. Stop sharing what color their poop was after the first time they had Fruit Loops, even if you freaked out and brought them to the emergency room.

Chances are, my child is only going to share three common traits with your child. She's going to eat. She's going to poop. She's going to sleep, sometimes.

I know you're trying to be helpful. I really do understand that you mean the best. But you don't know my kid any better than I do right now (and you certainly won't after she's born), so please just stop talking. And while you're sucking the advice back into your gaping pie hole, remove your hands from my wife's baby bump. She doesn't like you touching her without permission.

-A

35/35

Last Sunday, the 17th, marked the 35/35 point of my beautiful wife's pregnancy.

She was 35 weeks pregnant, with 35 days left until her due date.

Today, the 20th, I think it finally dawned on me. For over two years, we've been trying for and waiting for this baby. Since the day I finally told my wife, "I'm ready," I've had this logical and intellectual knowledge of how life will change once Goose shows up. I know that I'm going to lose sleep. I know that it's going to be stressful. I know that babies cry. A lot.

I also know that I'm ready for it, and that I'm more than definitely up to the challenge.

Today, the 20th, I think it finally dawned on me. Today was the day that the knowledge of the future reached the depths of my emotional being. Today, I said to myself, "Holy @#&*, what the !@*# were we thinking?! We're not ready to bring a PERSON into this world! Pause!! Hold on a second!"

Thankfully, my little panic attack (accompanied by increased heart-rate, breathing and sweaty palms) only lasted about 30 seconds. I think it's out of my system.

Off to put the trim on her little hoodie, so she can be warm.

-A

Opinions

Everyone has them. Some of them, I even agree with.

Anywhere you look these days, someone is trying to force-feed you their opinion. Whether it is someone in an internet community, a fellow driver on the road, a coworker, or even that billboard, there is always someone out there who is trying to convert you to their way of thinking.

Most recently, and most applicable to my current situation, the prevalent opinions are regarding the validity (and even manliness) of being an At-Home Dad.

I think it goes without saying that there are two camps in this debate; for and against. I also think it goes without saying which camp my wife and I belong to; we're for it.

When we first found out she was pregnant, we began the discussion of whether or not it made sense for me to stay home. We talked about everything. Parenting styles (luckily, she already knew what kind of father I am), fiscal challenges, how we thought it would affect our relationship, how it would affect each of us as individuals. Really, the decision was pretty easy to make.

The detractors of SAHDs seem to be saying pretty much the same thing: it is the responsibility of the man to provide fiscally and butt out of everything else, except take the kids hunting on the weekends. Now, this is a drastic generalization, but it sums up the tens of thousands of words I've read about the issue. (Have I mentioned that I like reading? About anything?)

The opponents say some interesting things, like: it's not manly to be the primary caregiver (or even help out in any but the most basic of ways), and men don't deserve respect unless they're earning a paycheck.

The ignorance and intolerance astounds me. Unfortunately, the vast majority of people against men raising children are also including things like, "God built women for children and men for work." And, "The Bible says the man has to provide for the family." Which just pulls religion into it. I'm not going to get much into that aspect of it other than to say, "If you don't agree with it, don't do it... but don't you dare try to shove your religious mumbo-jumbo down my throat."

The fact of the matter is that I am well aware that everyone on this planet is judgmental. It makes me sad, but the only person I can change is myself (and I try very hard not to be judgmental... and still fail sometimes, because I AM human). I know that people are going to judge me as less of a man. For everything I do: knitting, crocheting, parenting full-time, or any of the myriad other "less manly" things I do.

I also know that while, to some extent, I care what some people think, my truth is this: your opinions aren't going to change me, or cause me to change myself.

So, unless you have something nice to say, don't say anything at all... because if you display ignorance, intolerance, spite or hatred, I'm going to cut you out of my life. I only make room for the positive things.

-A

Time for an Update

It's been over a week since I've blogged, and I promised myself that I would do my best to make this be a weekly thing. So here goes...

The nursery has been finished. All the furniture and semi-permanently mounted decorations have been built and placed. The ceiling fan has been installed and doesn't wobble. The changing area is fully stocked; diapers, wipes, Desitin, powder, lotion, hand sanitizer. All of her clothing in the 0-6 month range has been de-tagged, washed in dye/perfume-free detergent, folded and put in her dresser or closet. Pacifiers, and the only bottle we currently own, have been sanitized and stored away. The "Go" bag, for when my lovely wife goes into labor is as packed as it can be; certain things like her nightgown and iPod are going to be last minute grabs, since they still get daily use.

The "Go" plan has been confirmed and re-confirmed. If our 11 year old is with us when it's time, my parents are on call to come get him and hang out until our newest arrives. If he's not with us, his mother knows to expect my parents to knock on her door (time appropriate, of course) to pick him up and bring him to the hospital. My brother and his wife have a spare key so they can come get our dogs and bring them back to their house. They're planning on bringing a blanket home to the dogs from the hospital, so they can be allowed to learn our newest's smell while getting treats.

I have an appointment next week to have the Fire Department's help with making sure the car seat is installed properly. I'm pretty sure I've got it right, but it only takes 20 minutes so I figure better safe than sorry.

The last eight months have been a frenzied flurry of activity and planning, idea generation and rejection and selection, impatiently awaiting the next big doctor's appointment, or grunt-worthy exertion and effort. Our household has been crazy with getting ready for this addition, and now it feels like it's over.

My wife is just shy of the 34-week mark, which means we could potentially be waiting for another 7 weeks, without much left to do to prepare. All this "spare" time has given me the opportunity to flex my creative brain and stretch my creation muscles. In the past few weeks, I've learned how to crochet and knit... and these are the results.

The first is her Nightmare Before Christmas hat, which we're planning on having her wear in the hospital for her first couple days.

The second is an unfinished hoodie. All that's left is adding the fuzzy white trim around all of the edges, throwing on a couple buttons, and cutting off the extra yarn.

The last is actually the first thing I crocheted. My first attempt at a floppy-eared bunny hat. I have plans to make another, in chocolate brown and micro-fiber pink for the inner ears.