Tag Archives: pregnancy

Celebrating a birthday

Fatherhood, , ,

Today is my birthday.

When I woke up this morning, I walked downstairs and saw balloons stretching up to the ceiling and streamers hanging from the chandeliers and door jambs. The colored, helium-filled balloons said Happy birthday in white letters and fake confetti. At the end of the streamers were pink cardboard flowers and white cardboard circles with scalloped pink edges which read, in pink lettering…

Happy 1st Birthday

None of the decorations were for me. In fact, the streamers had been up for days and some of the balloons now drooped a bit from their once ceiling-level heights. The balloons and streamers were for Abigail, whose birthday had been four days prior.

Doesn’t matter. Her birthday has made me enjoy celebrating my own again.

***

Last year it was already clear to me that my birthday would now and forever be overshadowed by my daughter’s.

Abigail wasn’t even a week old yet so I know I hadn’t gone back to work but other than that I can’t remember much about my birthday last year. Whether that’s a result of the ongoing betrayal one’s body and mind commits with increasing frequency as the years go on or some stress-induced by-product of the first week of our daughter’s birth – maybe there wasn’t anything worth remembering other than how much parenting we did – I don’t know. I think it was the day before we came home from the hospital. If Erin were awake right now, I’d ask her and she might remember as she’s always been better about birthday-related matters than I am. But she’s asleep and so I turn to the electronic tools that I use as crutches in countless moments now.

Google Calendar says on the night of my birthday last year we were working on “paperwork [for] lactation consultant.” That, I remember: The struggles Erin went through trying to breastfeed and all the stops we pulled out to try and make it the primary means of feeding our child before realizing a good while later we weren’t going to be able to no matter how hard we tried. Rude Parenting Awakening #7 by that point.

Gmail and Facebook don’t reveal much else aside from a pregnancy-related to-do list I emailed myself on my birthday that read:

To Get:
Ibuprofen
Lunch
Guinness
[REDACTED ITEM THAT RELATES TO WHAT HAPPENS TO A LADY AFTER GIVING BIRTH THAT ERIN PROBABLY DOESN’T WANT ME TO REVEAL TO THE WORLD]

But a big parenting high-five to 2011 Erin and 2011 Scott for March 4th because the Calendar also says that day we A) Had a 9am pediatrician’s appointment B) met with a lactation consultant at 11am and C) went to a midwives’ appointment at 2pm. How insane is that? There’s no way we’d attempt that kind of schedule now, for crying out loud.  Although our subconscious rationale at the time was probably “Let’s surround ourselves with as many people as possible who know that the fuck they’re doing.” Come to think of it, I think we might have gone right from the hospital to the pediatrician which means I probably spent that day in the hospital.

So whatever else was going on that day – aside from finishing up this cathartic post – I did not trust myself to remember a four-item list that was crucial to the happiness of my still-recovering-from-daylong-labor wife. I certainly wasn’t celebrating my birthday. My mind was on other things. (On the plus side, I had beer.)

***

It’s a little later in the morning now. Erin’s now up and off to Derby Lite and Abigail’s down for her nap. We spent the first part of the morning as we always do on Saturdays, giving Abigail her breakfast and enjoying some extended playtime that our jobs don’t allow for during the week. The house is quiet aside from the occasional rustles from the baby monitor as AG kicks and moves in her sleep.

I generally don’t like making a big deal about my birthday. I think Ron Swanson has it right:

Well-wishes from friends, a nice dinner out with Erin and time to read and relax is my idea of a perfect day and that’s how today’s shaping up.

But now that Abigail’s birthday is days before mine I have a whole new reason to celebrate. At 37 – jeez – I get more joy out of buying presents for Abigail than I do getting them myself. We had a party last week for her and I don’t know about you but I enjoy making a fuss over someone else on their birthday way more than I enjoy having a fuss made over me. Especially when they look like this.

I’ve never been big on reflecting on the past but I’ve spent the morning revisiting Abigail’s birth, looking at pictures of how tiny she was and thinking about how far she’s come in just a year. I’m sure next year I’ll re-read this and think about how we spent that morning playing with her ukulele, listening to James Brown during breakfast and entering Day 3 of No More Bottle. A day full of things worth remembering.

Best birthdays ever.

In brightest day, in blackest night

Fatherhood, ,

[A quick note here: The following is a truncated account of our labor and delivery. It’s very much from my point of view. I’m sure Erin will give you her perspective at some point but just know I’m skipping some parts to get at a specific narrative. [UPDATE: Erin’s posted something here.] Also “and then Erin had another contraction” would have gotten old by about the 457th time.]

Nothing about our daughter’s birth went according to plan. The original plan, that is. But plans are about choices made based on available facts. So whatever plans you make for your life ought to have room enough for change should new facts present themselves. Since we started trying to have a kid, new facts presented themselves often:

Fact: We’re having trouble conceiving children
Choice: Go get tested; try harder

Fact: Conception difficulties solved due to trying more frequently
Choice: Start rehabbing the upstairs so we have a nursery

Fact: We prefer a natural childbirth experience through hypnobirthing
Choice: Read, read, read; go to classes; hire a doula

Fact: Erin’s now-former OB-GYN didn’t care much for hypnobirthing
Choice: Find a lovely group of midwives

[By the way, if you need a doula, let me recommend Tricia Fitzgerald, our hypnobirthing doula. She is incredible and as you’ll soon read pretty much saved me from losing my mind during delivery. Hiring a doula – and Tricia in particular – was the smartest thing we did during our pregnancy and as a first time parent it made the whole experience much less stressful. Our midwives group, West Suburban Midwives, also comes recommended by me, especially Cynthia Mason who worked with us. As a former OU student, I chalk up Cynthia’s awesomeness to her Ohio upbringing.]

All of this is just to say our birth plans changed a couple times before our due date arrived. As it is, most due dates are guarantees of a change of plans. Ours was. We were five days “late” though Erin had off and on contractions that whole time. Eventually, we got to active labor around 9pm the night before we were ended up delivering. I figured the five-minute-between mark meant go-time but the midwives and the doula know from what and what involves a dilated cervix of 4 centimeters which our five-minutes-apart contractions are no sign of at all. Instead of spiriting ourselves to the hospital we spent some time birthing at home.

As with the rest of our pregnancy, Erin takes the lion’s share of the efforts: sitting on a large rubber ball to encourage baby movement, soaking in a warm tub to relieve birthing pain, squatting in various ways to let gravity do its thing. Meanwhile, I do many supportive husband things like offer encouraging birth prompts, massage her back and fetch towels. I’m eager to leave for the hospital – we’ve had the car packed for the better part of a month – but our doula counsels us that time spent laboring at home is far better than in the hospital triage unit. I’m quiet through most of this time. I’d been running birth prompts with Erin all weekend so I’m happy to let our doula take that role for a bit. Frankly, I think Erin’s tired of the sound of my voice and could use a break from associating it with abdominal pain. Plus, my usual coping mechanism – cracking jokes – got on Erin’s nerves pretty quick. So I shut up and go for the strong, silent partner routine.

Finally, we’re consistently 2-3 minutes apart. By now it’s 4:30am and we’ve been in active labor since 9pm the night before, nevermind the four days of off and on contractions prior to this and an incident two weeks prior that had us thinking our new plan would involve a medically-necessary inducement. Long story short: We’re finally ready.

Here’s where things started to unravel. Into the car we go with Erin on her hands and knees in the back, leaning over the baby’s car seat for support. With all my thoughts and concerns on Erin, I jump in and start a very cautious 40mph down 95th street with our doula following close behind only to remember through a sleep-deprived, adrenaline-fueled haze that I have not only forgotten to set our burglar alarm but I’ve also forgotten to lock the front door or even bother to close it at all. Yes, we were a quarter of the way to the hospital before I realized someone – anyone – could waltz right into our house.

Thinking about it a few days later, I know this was the moment when I let fear creep into my head. For months prior I’d been training myself mentally for this event, adopting Hal Jordan as the Green Lantern for my “spirit animal.” My life was about to change completely and I knew keeping my wife and unborn child safe would be too much to bear unless I could overcome fear. Jordan was called the greatest Green Lantern because of his ability to do the same. So in addition to reading books on pregnancy and a baby’s first year I’d been ritually reading Green Lantern comics for weeks and even carrying a small plastic Lantern ring as a talisman of sorts. I was up to the challenge. I’d be able to acknowledge the fear to overcome it, just like Hal.

Then I left that door open…how am I supposed to care for my wife and daughter if I can’t even close a fucking door? I can’t do this. I can’t keep my wife and child safe. I can make all the well-laid plans in the world but I can’t keep them safe…I’m going to throw up…

A frantic series of calls to Erin’s sister and mine follows before my sister says she can run over and put the alarm on. And, you know, close the front door. Problem solved inside of half an hour and the house is secure again but the fear keeps tingling in the back of my brain. Knowing how silly it seems even as I’m doing it, I quietly recite the Green Lantern oath over and over, mantra-like, to keep from barfing all over the dashboard as we arrive at the hospital and…I make a wrong turn and miss the entrance. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Get it together, Scott. I turn around and park at the entrance. Our doula – who I’m now more grateful for than ever – escorts Erin into triage while I park and grab our bags. I can’t make jokes. I don’t know how to deal with all of our plans changing…

Triage presents new challenges. We labored at home, according to our plan, but based on Erin’s condition – she’s making clear “I’m about to give birth” noises and is 8-9 centimeters dilated – the nurse and our doula are saying she might not make it into the birth center. We might be giving birth right here in the triage center.

Damnit! This isn’t right, I knew we should have left earlier. We shouldn’t have labored at home for so long. This isn’t the plan. Erin needs to be comfortable, this isn’t right. The baby needs to be safe in the birthing center.

I lose it. I start crying. Not so much because of the fear – but boy is it there! – but because I look at Erin and see how amazing and strong she is. The contrast between the woman in front of me and my inner turmoil is striking.
She’s been in active labor for half a day and having contractions for days before that but she isn’t complaining, she’s focused on the goal and I realize I have married the most amazing woman in the world.

Gathering my mental faculties together for her sake, I learn we have enough time to get into the birth center and we get settled. The way everyone’s been talking about this imminent birth I assume we’re minutes away from seeing my daughter’s face but things seem to be progressing slowly. We get Erin into the bathtub to relieve some of the pressure and the midwife arrives. She checks Erin and says she’s…8-9 centimeters dialated.

And so plans change again…

We spend all of Monday morning in the birthing center trying everything we can to move the birth along. Turns out the baby’s head is pointed down but at an odd angle – there’s a term for it but I forget it now – and can’t get past Erin’s cervix. We try different positions, we try the bath again, we try reducing her cervix, nothing. Erin takes it like a champ and keeps apologizing to everyone for everything because she is from the Midwest and that is what we do. Her physical strength astounds me. I didn’t get to see Erin run the half-marathon last year but here’s the proof in front of me that she was up to the challenge. Meanwhile, the pain on her face is enough to make the fear creep back in my gut. I start crying again which makes Erin feel bad.

“I’m sorry you’re so upset, baby,” she says.

Oh nice, Scott. Give your actively-laboring wife something else to be concerned with. You’re supposed to be the tough one in this relationship. You’re the one who overcame fear, remember?

Then I feel the Lantern ring in the front pocket of my jeans. I put it on my finger. In my head I start thinking “I’m Hal Jordan. I am capable of overcoming great fear…” I know this probably means I’ve gone off the deep end but I don’t care. For my wife and child’s sake, I need to recognize this fear to overcome it. I’m going to shut that fucking door now.

“I’m Hal Jordan. I am capable of overcoming great fear…”

I look at my wife and see a woman who, despite being in the worst pain of her life for the past 12 hours, can take the time to console me. I remember who I am. My eyes dry. My head clears.

Then the plan changes again. Our doula, who prefaces what she is about to say with the words “I’m the last one to suggest this kind of intervention but…” says we’ve done everything we can to labor naturally and it’s time to think about some medical assistance in the form of pitocin to move things along. Erin looks up at me and I know what she’s thinking. This isn’t how we planned for things to go. What’s this going to mean? I take Erin’s hand in mine and tell her she’s done everything she possibly could. “You’ve done everything right. You were perfect.” We remind each other that this birth wasn’t about avoiding medical intervention but was about us making the best possible choices based on the facts at hand. And the facts said it was time for some help.

At this point in the story, the pitocin should have done its job, Erin should have given birth and all should have been well. But it didn’t. The pitocin intensified Erin’s contractions but still didn’t get us any further along than 8-9 centimeters. A couple hours later our midwife suggests Erin’s body is probably too tired to give birth right now and we need to give it a break. And an epidural. Erin and I look at each other again. Not according to the plan…but we make an informed decision and say yes. As the anesthesiologist arrives Erin says to me “You might not want to watch this.”

Me: What? Just because a guy cries all morning that makes him some kind of wuss?
Erin: Well you just seem a little sensitive this morning.
Me: I’m over that now.

The epidural allows Erin to take a nap. She and the baby are still healthy so there’s no reason to rush. The doctor ups the pitocin and we wait. But nothing happens. So finally we talk and decide a C-section is the only possible option. In terms of hours spent, Erin’s labored three times over by now. She and the baby did all they could. All the same, a C-section just wasn’t in the plan. It’s the first time in days I see Erin look scared. But after all she’s been through she knows she’s up for it.

Things move fast after that. Within an hour Erin’s in the delivery room and I’m sitting beside her in an outfit that looks like I’ll be leaving immediately after for the international space station. In fifteen minutes, I see the doctor holding a quiet, purplish body and my mind flashes to the APGAR test. Quiet and purple aren’t the ideals. I wonder if…no…everything’s going to be fine. We’re safe. Seconds later, I hear a baby crying and hear someone say “She’s pinkening up.” I turn to Erin and say “That’s our girl.”

Her name is Abigail Grace. Born February 28th at 523pm. Not according to plan, but right on time.

***

It’s two days later as I’m writing this and Erin’s been asleep with Abigail dozing on her chest. We went through our first night of near-constant feedings and diaper changes. I learned what it feels like to exchange sleeping through the night for a disconnected series of naps. I’ve watched Erin and Abigail breastfeed from their first few minutes together like they’ve been doing it their whole lives. And I was reminded again of all the reasons why I love Erin and am so grateful she’s my wife. I know there will be more challenges and difficulties to come but right now everything’s perfect.

Our daughter is amazing. Watching her figure out her little world is the best. I’m not wild about hospitals and I’ve been sleeping in a chair for two days but this little bunker of ours is full of love and wonderment and it rules.

As for my freakout, I’m almost glad it happened now. We had plenty of support around and it helped me make peace with something on my mind for weeks. I had to experience a taste of the fear, a bit of the poison so as to fashion an effective vaccine. Fear is just part of the plan.

Post-script: Our daughter is now four days old. One of those days involved Erin and I losing any confidence in ourselves due to bad-but-well-meaning advice and the fear of being bad parents, which I’m sure I’ll write about at some point. Luckily, we seem to have moved past that and gotten back to trusting our instincts. Everyone we’ve talked to says that mindset is better than a thousand books or tips from old vets. [UPDATE: Erin’s written about some of the difficulties of the last couple of days here.]

Tom Petty knew what he was talking about

Fatherhood

This past week, Erin’s been symptomatic of something called cholestasis. Now you could argue Erin’s been symptomatic of cholestasis for the past nine months –

SIDEBAR:
Ladies and gentlemen of Earth, there is a major conspiracy going on surrounding pregnancy. First, women are pregnant for ten months, not nine. Somewhere along the line, human behaviorists must have figured out if a pregnancy were described in double digits then it would reduce the number of people who got pregnant. So they propagated the lie of nine months. I think this also explains why no one mentions that “morning sickness” really lasts for your entire first trimester. The people behind this conspiracy use movies and television to propagate their lies but do not be fooled. There’s a bunch of other stuff but I’ve already said too much. (Except, dudes? If you play your cards right with foot massages and back rubs you can likely parlay the whole nesting thing into a new big-screen TV.)

If I do not survive, know that the Pregnancy Police have come for me in their black helicopters and ferreted me away to Room 101.
END SIDEBAR

– with the nausea, abdomen pain and digestion trouble but she also had itchy hands and feet so off for testing she went. The trick with cholestasis is the method of treatment is to treat whatever’s causing it: alcoholism, sarcoidosis, hepatitis, etc. In Erin’s case what’s causing it is her pregnancy. Treating it means making her not pregnant anymore which means inducing her and getting that thirty-nine-week little girl out of there. So the bags are packed and sitting in the car. The car seat is installed. Tick, tick, tick. Spending an entire day ready to go to Defcon 1 and…

…and then we find out it takes a week to get the results of her lab work.

I’ve tried to get my brain around this, but I can’t. The solution to the problem is to induce pregnancy but it takes a week to know if we have the problem? Shouldn’t you have an interim solution then? I have a computer that fits in my pocket but this we can’t solve?

***

People have been asking us “Are you ready?” and I answer “No. I know we’ll never really be ready to have a kid. Something’s always going to happen.” That hasn’t stopped us from trying, of course. Nor has it meant we’re leaving events solely to chance. But that thought – “Something’s always going to happen” – keeps my mind trained to accept fluidity. I don’t know how you mentally prepare yourself to assume the responsibility of not only keeping a human being safe from harm but also teaching them to live as full a life as possible. They’re just not compatible goals and I’d probably have a breakdown if I thought about it long enough. I have to assume the answer reveals itself over time.

So here I sit, occupying myself with comparatively nothing pressing. The last three weekends were flat-out sprints in the three-month race to turn our upstairs into Smith Family Central. I’m left now with to-do items of no real need like “Set favorites on car radio” and “Fix weird outlet in the living room.” I’ll likely do a couple hours of work to stay ahead during my time off. Maybe review the stages of labor or something.

***

We really thought Friday was going to be The Day. I figured I’d go to work in the morning and by noon I’d hear from Erin we were positive for cholestasis and I’d be off to the hospital. The night before I poured myself a glass of our best scotch and watched a couple episodes of “Chuck”, enjoying what I was sure would be the last moments of guilt-free selfishness for a good long while.

And then…nope.

Like that other Smith of some renown, I love it when a plan comes together. Not escaping my notice is how inducing Erin’s pregnancy means hypnobirthing and our plans for natural childbirth get tossed around a bit. We’ll still be able to use our hypnobirthing techniques and stick to most aspects of our birth plan but we’ll be getting a push – so to speak – at the start. We’ve said from the beginning that we’d do whatever we needed to do for a healthy birth for Erin and the baby. Our strategy remains the same but the execution has changed.

There’s little else to do now. We have a house, a nursery, a crib, a changing table, and many, many onesies and diapers. Our bags are packed, I know the route to the hospital and even familiarized myself with methods of “sleep training” so we might help our little girl avoid difficulties with colic. As far as I know, we’re all set.

We’re just waiting for something to happen.

(As a reminder, I’m using this space for longer, personal posts every once in a while. But I’m posting a few times a day at my Tumblr blog. Follow me there if you’re so inclined.)

Here, now, some words about impending fatherhood

Comics, ,

There’ve been several reasons why I haven’t felt like doing any personal writing as of late, most of it having to do with what appeared to be an immovable cold front of Internet crabbiness hovering over Chicago last month, which caused several localized shitstorms. But Erin is leaving me in the dust when it comes to writing about the pregnancy so I need to get back to it.

Rather than knock myself around trying to come up with a proper piece about it all, I’m just going to sloppily jam a few posts into one. I want to apologize now for not going into appropriately significant details on all of this, especially the hypnobirthing stuff. Not doing so may jeopardize my intent in advocating for an alternative point of view but I don’t think I’m ready to devote this space to doing that just yet. (Though I’m happy to do so one-on-one via email or in person for those who want to know more.)

Reading material
This might come off as a blatant plug for work, but if you’re an expectant father or anyone who enjoys good writing, go check out Jeff Ruby’s Push blog. I’m still enjoying Brott’s books because the quiet text is soothing for someone who’s never done this before. But Jeff’s work is a perfect counterpoint due to its passion, honesty and humor. Someone give this man a book deal.

The Kid
We’re about six months in and…God, I can’t wait for this kid to get here. Not because I’m tired of Erin being pregnant but because…I am so excited to meet our daughter.

I didn’t let myself get at all excited for the First Three Months because that’s the part when things are most likely to go wrong. And even though there’s much that could still go wrong, all of our doctor’s appointments have gone well so damnit I’m excited.

We’ve been getting a lot of people asking us whether we’ve picked out a name yet. We’re telling people we’re batting around some names. Technically, this is not a lie. But we’re definitely favoring one in particular and it’s made her seem less a steadily-growing but an invisible-but-for-an-ultrasound presence inside my wife’s uterus and more a real person who already exists and has a personality and enjoys it when I read portions of Winnie-The-Pooh or the script from Superman: The Movie. (I create a narrative from the directions and do all the voices. I’m pretty proud of my Lex Luthor, in fact.)

Speaking of reading to the kid…

Hypnobirthing and doulas
There was a time in my life when I felt everything I knew about myself was wrong. Once I got past that and learned to trust myself again, I was left with both a more refined bullshit detector and a willingness to at least listen to a point of view that I might previously have dismissed.

When my wife told me she wanted to have a natural birth, I was supportive but skeptical. Erin’s what I’d admiringly call a “tough broad” but her tolerance for pain isn’t exactly Viking-like. On the other hand, I wasn’t a fan of pumping all manner of drugs into her system either and that feeling only intensified after watching The Business of Being Born. Still, when Erin mentioned hypnobirthing and a doula, I was again skeptical. Let’s be honest, if you don’t know what those words mean – and I didn’t at that time – it sounds like hippie talk.

I’ll defer to the above link and to Erin (here and here) for a more detailed explanation of what a doula does and what hypnobirthing’s about what we went through but I got on board pretty quick due to our doula’s academic bearing and matter-of-fact view of birthing. Plus, having someone who’s gone through this many, many times before and will be an advocate for us during the birth is a calming force when you’re having your first kid.

As for hypnobirthing and the classes we’re taking, I’m an evidenced-based person when it comes to the world around us and telling me “Well, that’s how it’s always been done” is a guarantee I’ll just do the opposite. So hypnobirthing – despite its basis in hypnosis – is right in my wheelhouse.

It’s also helped us to remain close as a couple, not just two people who will likely be parents in a few months’ time. Part of the process of hypnobirthing involves me reading several paragraphs of text to Erin before she goes to sleep. Not only does it help us end the day together, I think it’s also making my voice more familiar to our in utero’d child which is supposed to be all manner of good.

How we’re approaching the birth is not for everyone, obviously. But it feels right for us just as however someone else approaches birth feels right for them. And that’s all that matters.

Which brings me to…

Green Lantern
At some point during our first class, our doula said something about not apologizing when we tell the doctor exactly what we want in our birth plan (at that point, I didn’t know that’s what you call it, but that’s what it’s called). She may also have mentioned something about not having fear about giving birth or maybe a switch just flipped in my head…

And that’s when I started thinking about Green Lantern.

It’s common knowledge that I’m partial to Superman. And taking Superman as your inspiration can be good and bad. But for the purposes of going through a pregnancy and coming to grips with raising a child, there’s not a lot I’ve been able to draw from Superman. With Superman, you get certainty. But pregnancy and – if I may be so bold – raising a child doesn’t seem to carry with it a lot of certainty.

In the early days of the Green Lantern comics, it was said that Hal Jordan became the greatest of the Green Lanterns because he had no fear. In the more recent stories of the character written by Geoff Johns, it’s made clear that Hal Jordan is the greatest Green Lantern because he overcomes fear through sheer force of will, not because he doesn’t experience it.

There’s plenty of fear to experience in a pregnancy. I was fearful at various points in our first three months, wondering if we’d clear the takeoff part of our flight. A couple weeks ago I feared that maybe we we making a mistake in both of us planning to go back to work after the baby was born. I fear…well, plenty of things. But I’ve been getting through it through sheer force of will. (And the love and support of my wife who’s going through all this and plenty more, too. She is, put simply, a daily example of strength.)

So I decided to stop being afraid of having a kid or raising a kid. Because this isn’t going to be just a kid. This is going to be our kid. And our kid is going to be awesome.

That’s nothing to be afraid of.

Comic books are for girls – Essay Fiesta, September 20, 2010

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This is the essay I read last night at Essay Fiesta at the Book Cellar in Lincoln Square. Essay Fiesta happens there every third Monday as a benefit for Howard Brown Health Center. The mission of Howard Brown is:

…to promote the well-being of gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender persons through the provision of health care and wellness programs, including clinical, educational, social service and research activities. Howard Brown designed these programs to serve gay, lesbian, and bisexual persons in a confidential, supportive, and nurturing environment.

If you’ve ever felt like you had no one to talk to, had a professional or counselor dismiss your health concerns or felt marginalized by a system you thought was set up to protect you then know that Howard Brown has helped someone like you in the past.

If you want to support an organization like that or if you enjoy my work below, please consider making a small gift of $5 to Howard Brown or, if you’re in Chicago, stop in and buy something from a Brown Elephant resale shop. Proceeds from Brown Elephant help pay for the services for the more than 50% of Howard Brown clients who are under- or uninsured.

Big thanks to Alyson and Keith for asking me to read and for doing the work to benefit Howard Brown.

—-

Now that my wife and I are pregnant, there are probably more important things I should be thinking about than comic books.

Quick aside here: I’ve heard more than a few people say “Well…she’s pregnant.” I understand what they’re getting at: It’s entirely clear my wife’s doing the lion’s share of the work when it comes to our pregnancy. But “my wife and I got pregnant” is the best phrasing here. I could say “my wife got pregnant” but then it sounds, at worst, like she was fooling around on me or, at best, like it was an accident. “Yeah, Erin was watching a rerun of Saturday Night Live when Jon Hamm was hosting and then she put on that second D’Angelo record and then next thing you know…”

Also, I’m not complaining here but there’s a lot of weird stuff you have to deal with to support your partner in her pregnancy. Like sleeping next to her as she slumbers in your bed with her arms and legs wrapped around a body pillow that’s one-and-a-half times the size of you and even though you’re happy because it makes sleep more comfortable for her you start to get a little jealous of the thing and even find yourself inexplicably calling the body pillow Maurice for reasons that to this day aren’t quite clear to you…

Let’s just say it’s as much “we” being pregnant as it is “we” who are going to raise our kid. And according to the doctors that kid’s going to be a daughter so I’ve been somewhat obsessed lately with how we’re going to raise her.

Which brings me back to comic books.

Last month, I was in Brainstorm Comics in Wicker Park. I was reinstating my account, which had been on hold during a bout of unemployment. Robert, the guy that runs the place, asked what was new. I told him my wife Erin and I were pregnant. After a hearty “Congratulations!” he said:

“I know I’m going to lose you now…”

At the end of last year when I told Robert I was moving to Beverly on the far South Side of Chicago – a good 20 miles away – he acknowledged in a good-natured way that, due to distance, he might lose me as a customer and reminded me he could always mail me my comics. But I’m cheap and don’t want to pay for postage and since I’m still getting my hair cut on the north side, it’s a quick stop in at Brainstorm on the way home. Even when I put my account on hold when I was unemployed, I told him I’d be back as a regular customer and here I was.

But now I was telling him that I was about to have a kid. Though not a father himself, Robert undoubtedly knows how children alter your sense of what’s important. Perhaps in his view I might, despite all intentions to the contrary, not have the time or extra money for comics. If that was all comic books were to me then he’d probably be right. But inherent in both the content of comic books and the character of Robert’s comic book shop are things I want to teach my daughter about the world.

Ours is a house where we read the news online, watch movies via a Netflix subscription that streams into our Nintendo Wii and listen to music via a laptop or iPod. The only analog forms of mass media in our house are books and magazines and I’m reading more of the latter on an iPad these days. I’m not one of those people who thinks this means the Death of Culture because ask anyone with similar patterns and they’ll likely tell you it means they enjoy a more diverse blend of news, movies and music than they did ten years ago. I also absorb it faster than I would in analog form and for someone who often views life in terms of what he hasn’t done yet, that’s some measure of relief.

Books are a different matter, literally and figuratively. For me, books are the one form where speed is not of the essence. I like watching the left side of the book get fatter while the right side gets thinner, new accomplishments – one page at a time. The same goes double for comics; I’ve tried reading comic books on an iPad and while the best comic e-readers evoke a cinematic aura, I’ve yet to find one that coveys the scope of the best comic art or preserves the context required to communicate the ideas found in the stories.

I’ll admit here to a certain bias toward the superhero genre. Because for titles that specialize in outsize stories that often take place in the far reaches of space, superhero comics are full of characters that have a lot to teach my daughter about humanity: There’s Superman to show her the power in being different from everyone else, Spider-Man on the need for self-imposed responsibility, The Fantastic Four on the importance of family and the Justice League on what it means to work as a team and also why you should never base your home office in Detroit.

Although if she does consume a steady diet of superhero comics, there are some follow up conversations I’ll need to have with her about the portrayal of women. It’s probably going to break her heart to learn polite society will not tolerate a young woman walking around without pants.

Most of all, I want her to know that no matter what others might tell her, her options aren’t limited. A couple weeks before we learned we were having a girl, one of Erin’s relatives told us she hoped we were having a boy as she – owing largely to my fascination with all things Kryptonian – had bought us a few Superman onesies. Not missing a beat, Erin and I said our unborn child’s gender wasn’t an issue in this case as either way our child would wear the shield.

Yet even Erin – a woman who more often than not shares my point of view – said to me at lunch last month “Our daughter might like pink and Barbies” in a tone that left unsaid the words “and that’s OK” as well as “and you might just have to suck it up and deal.”

None of this should suggest I’m set on Turning Our Girl Into A Boy. I want my daughter to be free
to form her own identity, irrespective of the expectations of others, including – or especially – her father. My wish for our daughter is that she would be the human equivalent of an order in a Chinese restaurant: a little from column A and a little from Column B, becoming a well-rounded, thoughtful, multi-talented individual who’s sees nothing in terms of gender and everything in terms of territory to explore at will.

All this brings me back to Brainstorm. If it’s important to have comics in our house then just as important is the source of said comics. I’d once heard most comic book shops unfavorably compared to porn stores as many are dark, poorly-organized and everyone inside seems to be anti-social and somewhat ashamed of their habit. And if a woman enters, she’s treated as a trespasser and given sidelong glances the whole time. I’d deny that’s the case for comic book shops in total but there’s a places in my current neighborhood that is exactly that, so there’s some truth there.

Brainstorm’s never been that way and it’s almost wholly attributable to Robert who shatters every Comic Book Guy stereotype out there: he’s personable, welcoming, enthusiastic and indulgent of everyone who comes in the store, kids especially. Women are as much a presence there as the natural light fills the store. Brainstorm reflects his personality and it’s why I’ve remained a customer through seven years, four jobs and five different neighborhoods.

I’ll continue be a customer at Brainstorm for as long as it’s possible. Because when my daughter sees the inside of a comic store I want her to think “There isn’t anywhere I can’t go.”

—

Note: Sharp-eyed readers will remember that three paragraphs of the above are pulled from a previous post, “Pink.”

Pink

Fatherhood, , , ,

Sometimes I think I have no idea how to raise our girl to be a woman.

Sure, I’ve witnessed my parents do so with my sisters two. But then it’s only “I have an idea how to raise a girl to be a woman.” Not our girl to be a woman of my union with Erin. Because lo this is to be the girl who will grow to cure cancer, slay vampires, bring peace to the Middle East and will one day best monetize the websites of newspapers and magazines throughout the land.

She is to be The Chosen One.

Or so I’ve built it up in my mind.

In reality, she is but one more young woman who will be brought into the world by well-educated, over-read, liberal parents who are trying to steer their daughter clear of sexist influences and give her every choice in the world…except Pink.

Pink.

Last week, Erin and I were discussing colors for the nursery and I said “Anything but pink!” Because, of course, this will prevent…I don’t know.

Something.

It’s just too easy. Accepting pink as the default color for a girl is the equivalent of saying you liked The Joshua Tree when I was in high school: doing so raises far fewer questions about your personal point of view and allows you to get through a stressful situation without a bunch of weird looks.

In my mind, Pink is the pastel specter that hangs over our pregnancy. A threat far greater than any other, leading our daughter down the path of various princess-branded toys, which as everyone knows are the gateway drug to playing dumb to get boys to like her. And here thar be dragons!

***

A couple weeks before we learned we were having a girl, one of Erin’s relatives told us she hoped we were having a boy as she – owing largely to my fascination with all things Kryptonian – had bought us a few Superman onesies. Not missing a beat, Erin and I said our unborn child’s gender wasn’t an issue in this case as ours was a child destined to wear the shield.

Yet even Erin – a woman quite contrary – said to me at lunch last week “Our daughter might like pink and Barbies” in a tone that left unsaid the words “and that’s OK” as well as “and you might just have to suck it up and deal.”

My wife said these things after I expressed concern over exposing our daughter to – of all things – Phineas and Ferb as none of the female characters were women I’d want her to aspire to be:

* Candace – tattletale
* Isabella – boy-crazy (or Phineas-crazy, as it were)
* Mom – unobservant
* Vanessa – the child of an evil, if largely unsuccessful, mad scientist

My wife is more intelligent in these matters and reminded me that our daughter would likely want to model herself after Phineas and Ferb, the resourceful, charismatic, unstoppable heroes of the show. This brought me some measure of calm.

None of this should suggest I’m set on Turning Our Girl Into A Boy.* I want my daughter to be free to form her own identity, irrespective of the expectations of others, including – or especially – her father. After all, it’s not like I’m a typical male: I fake it pretty well but I know jack about sports, avoid dude culture at all costs and have preferred cocktails over beer since college. I’m far more Oscar Wilde than Oscar Madison.

My wish for our daughter is that she would be the human equivalent of an order in a Chinese restaurant: a little from column A and a little from Column B, becoming a well-rounded, thoughtful, multi-talented individual who’s sees nothing – even the color pink – in terms of gender and everything in terms of territory to explore at will.

* Let it be noted here that there’s an incredibly nuanced discussion to be had about gender constructs. Let it also be noted here that I’ve had a few glasses of wine and am unable to fully explore said discussion in the above but am aware of the issues surrounding it.

Trying to be both here and there

Fatherhood, , , , , ,

If you only follow my work here, you may be thinking that I’m a sad excuse for a writer/commentator. But as I noted in a previous post, I’ve taken to Tumblr and I find it suits my needs better than this blog. (Note: If you follow the link above, there’s currently an image there of me flipping the bird. Trust me when I say it’s for a good reason.)

The biggest surprise, to me, is the consistency Tumblr provides for my writing on media and such. My devotion to this blog always came and went in waves. I attribute this partly to a usability issue. Not to get too wonky, but this blog is tied to an old Gmail address that I no longer use and if I’m logged into my new Gmail address, I need to log out, then log in to this one and if I need a link or piece of text from an e-mail I need to log out again and….you see what I mean. Try as I might, I hadn’t fixed this problem. Plus, I’ve wanted to redesign here and devote this blog to longer pieces though I hadn’t quite figured out what I wanted to write about in this space.

It took an e-mail from my friend Fuzzy to remind me that not only hadn’t I posted here in a long time, my last update made it look like I was still out of work. So it was definitely time to stop thinking and start writing.

I’m now the director of digital strategy and development for Chicago magazine and have been since mid-May. This means I’m ultimately responsible for anything we do online – website, digital subscriptions, mobile, etc. I’ve got a great team of editors and producers under me who work hard and make the site look great. Plus, I’m working with a great boss at a publication with a rich and respected history. It’s a great gig and I’m excited to be there. And hey, I even get to be on TV sometimes.

I spent two months unemployed. While it’s not an ideal situation, you won’t hear me complain about it. I had the support of countless friends and family members, was actively interviewing and chasing down job leads, networked my ass off and had plenty of time for beers on my back porch with my dog. There were times where it was rough, of course. If you’re not someone who does well with unstructured time and your identity is largely tied to your work then being unemployed will make you feel rudderless. I think I was able to adjust my outlook on both of these matters, but it’s an ongoing process. Still, those two months made me realize how lucky I am. When you have a friend who makes an entire website about you, it’s impossible to feel like you lost something in the deal.

The other important piece of news in my life as of late is…my wife and I are pregnant, three months and some change as of this writing. We’ve been trying for about a year now so this was somewhat unexpected as we had begun to make peace with the possibility that our efforts would require some medical assistance or might come to naught. But no, we are with child. A girl, specifically. We could not be more excited. Or – in my wife’s case – nauseous. (Gents who are interested in having a baby: Morning sickness is a lie. Just start calling it First Trimester Sickness now so you get geared up.)

If you’re looking to free your identity from your work, getting your wife pregnant is a surefire way to make that happen (though perhaps it’s not for everyone). Even more so than during my unemployment, I have been a Husband. I didn’t grow up in a house where there was “womens’ work” or “a man’s job” and that’s not how my life with Erin is either. We both work and take care of the house. With the notable exceptions of mowing the lawn (which I insist on doing) and taking out the garbage (which Erin insists I do but to be honest no man’s wife should touch garbage) we share work equally in our home. But Erin’s been busier than usual with having the baby and it’s exhausting work so I’ve had to fly solo on a few Operation: House and Home missions like grocery shopping, making dinner, etc. It’s difficult sometimes but due to a lack of a uterus, it’s the primary means by which I can support our family’s efforts to bring a baby into this world. Also, it’s not like doing a few extra loads of laundry makes me want to throw up, so I’ve definitely got the better end of this deal.

It’s in my nature of be a planner and a researcher so I’ve looked over a few books about pregnancy. Most of them assume the guy is either 1) a jerk or 2) incompetent. As someone who is neither (mostly), I’ve sought guidance from some guy friends who’ve mostly said that sometimes you need to ignore the books and go with your gut. But I highly recommend the books by Arnim A. Brott: they’re written in an easygoing style with a distinct lack of condescension. He’s informative and honest and acknowledges that pregnancy is tough for men, too. (If you’re wondering where to start, Father for Life is a good primer.)

While I love my job, the one thing it doesn’t provide for me is a writing outlet. It’s been an adjustment for me to work on “big picture” tasks and not get wrapped up in the day-to-day. This week, it occurred to me that the best way to allow myself that outlet, separate my work life from my identity, explore where my life was headed and give this blog a reason for being would be to write about all of it. I’ve been hesitant in the past to write about my personal life here, but in all honesty my digital identity is already a mix of the personal and professional so it’s not as if I haven’t crossed that bridge. So it’s time to push through whatever technical issues we’re holding me back and give this thing some life again.

With this next step, there’s a lot to talk about even in a review of the last several months:

* Babysitting my sister’s months-old child alone, a mix of problem-solving and playtime
* The weekend Erin and I watched our toddler niece and discovered what it was like to be solely, if only temporarily, responsible for the feeding, care and diaper-changing of a little human
* Discovering how good a show Phineas and Ferb is during the above weekend
* A purely instinctual moment during church when I went all Dad-mode on our misbehaving nephews
* Holy shit, that’s my kid’s heartbeat!
* What it’s like to be a guy who always thinks about the worst-case scenario which means you can’t truly allow yourself to be excited about a pregnancy until you hit that three-month mark
* How my friends and family knowing about our pregnancy made the whole experience real in a way that even seeing an ultrasound hadn’t
* My inability to do anything to make my wife more comfortable when she’s dealing with first-trimester sickness and how that makes me feel useless especially when I’m “a fixer”
* No, seriously, that’s my kid’s heartbeat!

My hope is that I’ll avoid writing about this stuff as if I’m the first man to have a pregnant wife but still bring something unique to the topic. If nothing else, it’ll give me an excuse to write a think piece on Phineas and Ferb.