Song For Evvy

A DAY WITH YOU

6 am has never felt so good
the light comes in and floods your room
we walk in slow and you lift your head
and then we get to spend the day with you

your smile is like the greatest thing
we have ever seen
better than most anything
we could ever dream

your hands on ours or on our faces
that one leg raised
and how you bang it on the floor
kind of makes us lose our breath
our little tootsie toots
we love to spend the day with you

we love to spend the day with you
looking, finding just being with you
and everything we wished and more came true
there is no better day
than any day with you

your eyes can light up new york city
your cheeks are roses and oh so pretty
you are the center of our universe
when you're asleep we just converse
about our little tootsie toots
and the day we spent with you

we love to spend the day with you
looking, finding just being with you
and everything we wished and more came true
there is no better day
than any day with you

there is no better day
and no better way,
than every tiny second
and every little moment
we get to be with you
and look at you
and lay on floors and carry you
and love on you
and kiss on you
and dream the day away with you
there is for sure, hands down not any better way
to spend any kind of day
than spending it with you.

xoxo evvy...your dad(dy)

Fine Lines

Okay, there is indeed nothing more cute than a baby with rolls and rolls and chins and chins. Our baby has many of both. And I am so down with you (that means any of you) saying "ohhh, look at her legs, so cute" or "ohhh she is so mushy..." However, there is line in the proverbial sand (talking to you parental figures). When you keep going on and on calling her "the michelan man" or "the state-puff marshmallow guy" and you tell us how everyone who sees her pictures says this and that (regarding rolls and chins) just be prepared for me to potentially say to you "okay, enough! sounds like you are putting your issues onto my child. she is a 5 month old. yes, she has rolls, we can all see them. she has chins, see those too. maybe say something interesting. i am not telling you the sky is blue, you can see that. not telling you the things about you that you likely know."

fine lines, my friends. very fine.

My Morning Hours

I have never loved the 6-8 a.m. timeslot more than I do these days. Daddy and daughter time. We start off by sitting down at the piano. Evvy loves hearing me play and she is now mesmerized that she can make sounds of that big upright. And she's mad good, too. Yeah, she's almost five months now, but I swear the girl can play. I want her to be whatever she wants, she can love or hate sports, ballet, theater, cooking, hiking, dressing up, being girly...but between you and me...I PRAY SHE IS A SINGER/SONGWRITER. I have always been obsessed with girls who can sing and write music. Evvy Delilah: Singer/Songwriter. Kind of perfect. No pressure (as I hire three piano teachers today to turn her into a prodigy right quick).

Then we play on the floor blanket ala RIE. I lay down there with her. Kind of never happier than when I am playing with my daughter (and my nephews and Godkids) and making up worlds with them. Finally, people who don't think I am super weird for being, well, super weird. Our new favorite made up song: SISSY ON THE HIGHWAY, SISSY ON THE HIGHWAY...DON'T CROSS THE STREET CUZ THERE'S SISSY AT YOUR FEET. Huge hit around these parts.

Then we play my recently downloaded Disney playlist. Evvy is mad for Belle's songs in Beauty And The Beast. We sing, dance around. I put Evvy up in the air and say "How did you get up there?" I repeat that a few dozen times. She laughs and laughs. I get chills. Seeing my daughter laugh gives me chills. Well, making my daughter laugh really does me in right good.

Then, a lot of activity behind us, the baby girl rubs her eyes. And by 7:45 she is plum tuckered. Who isn't, you know what I mean? And then to the crib. Sleep sheep goes on. And then I have to start prepping to talk to people who are not nearly as interesting as a five month old.

Red Rover, Red Rover, Roll Over, Roll Over

Meesh and I have been saying for weeks now that Evvy is so close, so very close to rolling over. We have watched, with baited breath, we have waited. We were in New York and my parents were certain it would happen there. It did not. We were in Boston and Meesh's parents were positive it would happen there. No chance. Meesh, well you guys know Meesh, is an eagle eye. She has been flip cam ready every minute of every day. She sometimes fall asleep gripping that flip cam. Brushed her teeth with it once. Not really, but kind of.

We just put Evvy down in the living room where she was playing with her objects (by objects I mean we are now in RIE classes so...no more toys, just "objects.") and I turned to type on the computer and Meesh turned to get water from the kitchen and Evvy turned from her back to her side to her belly. Pardon my French, but that bitch flipped when no one was looking. She flipped when all the flip cams were resting on tables. She flipped when she wanted to, when she was not being eyeballed. How did I know she flipped if I wasn't looking? Well, I heard a scream. The scream that stiffens your neck and makes you wonder who broke in to the house. It was Meesh, God bless her she's a screamer. She walked in to see the aftermath. Then we applauded. The dogs raced to share in Evvy's spotlight. Big day for us. Big, big day.

Alec Baldwin

I was with my brood (yeah, I have a brood now. 2 dogs, Meesh and the baby) at JFK airport. Meesh was carrying Evvy and I, on the other wicked full hand, was carrying two dogs in their dog bags, three suitcases, a computer bag and my diaper bag (which is so dope! messenger bag circa my NYU days. Makes me feel mad young...mad youngerrr) and the only thing not in my hands or strapped to my shoulders was the airplane we were about to fly out on. The airplane that, we would learn in just moments, was also be passengered by Alec Baldwin. First of all, he called his daughter a Rude Little Pig which, in his family, obviously means "gorgeous, lithe-bodied girl" because that daughter (or as my black friends oft say, dorrrterrr) is beautiful. We only have a few actor obsessions in our brood and Alec Baldwin is one of them.

He stood right behind us in the security check-in line (insert queer tabloid headline here: Alec Baldwin Goes Thru Security Too!!) and his blue eyes twinkled, his mouth turned into a sneaky smile and he said to me "how is it being a mule? She gets to carry something lovely and you...well...everything else that exists. Feels good, huh?" Well, as my Mom would say "That was it...my window...he gave me a window and I wasn't not going to jump through it." And so it was, indeed, my window. I wanted to ask him for his facebook friendship but I played it cool. I said "I should have a masseuse following me." He said "on Twitter?" We laughedddd!!

He sat a few rows ahead of us on the airplane. We had a few winks. We said goodbye when the plane landed in L.A. You know, the way super close friends do. He said Twitter...ohhh that Alec Baldwin.

Sleep Training

I write this as Evvy is in her first round of sleep training. Meesh and I sit by the monitor kind of like families did around the radio before TV existed. Or when Bette Midler bid Carson adieu. Or when Luke and Laura got married.

Meesh is cringing. She is prepping herself to go in Evvy's room. We wait five minutes (that is the first round) and then go in to the baby's room, stand far enough away from her crib that the baby can't reach for you but close enough so she can see you. Sound scientific? Supposedly it is. This shit better work.

Meesh just got up. She is going in. I hear through the monitor "Honey, mommy's here. You can do this. You can go to sleep. You can do it." In the background, the sleep sheep sings sounds of the wild, birds, rain, all peaceful sounds. I search my pockets for valium. There had best be one. Is there one? There isn't one. Oh, p.s. we haven't slept for weeks. Unfair, Meesh (mommy of the year award) really hasn't. She and her boobs get up for the feedings. The endless feedings. Really Evvy? You're hungry again? But it's 4 in the morning lady. Oh right, she is 4 months old.

She is screeching now. Sleep training is awesome. I'd rather be in Navy Seal training. Getting louder. A little bit louder now...a little bit louder now...shout, put your hands up!!!

What are you doing tonight? Oh, going to a movie? Hanging with your friends? We're sleep training bitches. Jealous?

We're Backkkkk!!!

Almost four months old now. Baby Evvy. Or as my nephews like to say, Baby Ebby (which is far better than Baby EWY(double parenthesis here: remember some people thought my daughter's name was EWY because the double VV's can look like a W...moron alert!!))

I have not written in a while, because well, there seemed not much to write about. Baby Evvy was growing (90'th percentile in height, scoff if you will as I'm not in the 90th percentile however my Dad and all of his siblings could be on a black basketball team, well, blewish(black/jewish) and she was sleeping and she was feeding (on a breast so beautiful and big you might want to watch your step so as not to get pummeled by it) and she was just a, as my Mom might say, "delight" or "so lovely" or "not just cute, Matthew...(dot dot dot) beautiful."

Well, I don't know how to write about mediocrity and to be fair and honest, the last few months have been beautifully mediocre. NOT ANYMORE. My beautiful little daughter has, in the last few days, thrown some gray in my pelo (hair for the English readers.)

Meesh is on a friend date tonight. A girls night. Her new post-preg skinny jeans, a great top, with "well, do you like the wife-beater peaking out?" "yes, babe, it looks great." "So, Matty, there are bottles in the fridge and maybe tonight should be the first night we put her in her crib?" "Okay, great, Meesh." (thinking in my head "REALLY! TONIGHT, when you are out on the town sipping "totally great wine" and eating "great tapas"...tonight should be her crib inauguration?) I bite my lip...I'm tough...forgot though, that I was Jewish. (FOOTNOTE: IF YOU ARE JEWISH TRY NOT TO FORGET IT IN MOMENTS LIKE THIS. I CAN BARELY FIX A DOORKNOB LET ALONE PUT A BABY IN A NEW BED)

Needless to say, my beautiful daughter (so far her eyes are blue, dimple in her chin) became my worst (love her to pieces) nightmare (in a dreamy, having a tequila on the beach sort of way).

The teething screams, well, they are new. Like knives in chests or necks or eyes. In my life...(see, I'm saying parent expressions now) I never knew a sound like this. You want to all at once calm your baby and do anything for her and take a valium, shut the door and watch Housewives of New Jersey (even that noise can sound like Mozart in comparison)

I swaddled. I binkied. I bottled. I burped. I flipped her and reversed her (Missy Elliot Reference for those over 55 reading this).

And now I sit, writing this. Because now there is silence (and of course I am freaking out that the quiet means something bad...running to check, hang on...just checked, chest rising, nose expelling air!!! I'M FREEEEEEE!!! Go ahead Meesh, have your friend date, get dolled up, look beautiful. I PUT OUR CHILD TO SLEEP (after 2 hours) beat that, playa!!!!!

Yeah, It's The Weather...

I called my parents 10 minutes ago. Because 10 minutes ago things were lovely. Skies were blue. Sun shining. Baby making cute, little noises as she rocked comfortably and happily in my arms. What a difference some minutes can make.

I've had a recurring headache-on-the-verge-of-migraine for the last four days. Because when Evvy wails she usually does so when I have her on or around my shoulder which is oh so close to my ear and its drum. I bought Advil Liqui-gels because they say it gets in your system faster. Bullshit. I need an Imitrix shot up in this bitch (and by the fucking way, all new parents, not just the moms who delivered the baby, should have a 6 month prescription of percocet.)

So, I phoned my folks 10 minutes ago because all was quiet and I thought it would be a perfect Ichat time (by the way, please Ichat with your parents and pray that your dad does what mine does: sits behind mom and makes faces at her when she talks...it is rife with humor) however my Mom was at D'agastino where "she was really annoyed because they were out of her decaf" (yep, my mom can not converse in the wee hours of the morning unless she's had her decaf.) So when my Mom got home she immediately called hoping for that Ichat. Too late, lady. 9 minutes too late. I said "Ma, the screaming...I just want to make Evvy okay...but that screaming..." my mom giggled. I said "it's funny, Ma?" While laughing she said "No..." I said "My head is pounding. I keep having headaches." She said "Because of the weather?" Hmmmm. The weather? Well, sure, could be. Or might it, I don't know, be what I just said...a yelping baby in my ear? Maybe?

The First Date Is The Hardest

The in-laws baby sat yesterday. We went on our first date. An 11:30 a.m. movie. State Of Play with Russell Crowe because Meesh said "I just love Russell Crowe. He's always so different in every film." To which I said "Which Russell Crowe films have you seen." Long pause. "Umm. Ummm. Wasn't he in American Gladiator?"

So we go to the movie. Meesh nods out (which happened before the baby, before the pregnancy, before all the befores) and then we go for lunch and discuss the movie. Meesh says "I only missed like five minutes, right?" Totally, honey. Just five minutes. I just agreed with all of her theories about the storyline.

And then we did what all of those before us have done and all of those after us will do. We talked about our daughter. Don't you love how she...and when she...and when that...and her cooing and cheeks and...and...and...

And so it is, our conversation has been forever changed. And I couldn't be happier.

P.S. don't go to a movie when you have parents or in-laws babysitting. lock yourselves in a shower and get a hummer for christ sake! then you can fall asleep and tell her about the "storyline."

Baby Clothes Or Waterboarding?

You would think that I am torturing Evvy when putting these baby clothes on her. Who is making these onesies? An evil? Getting her arms in is like, well, pushing a baby out of a vagina...it's meant to be but with strings attached: pain, crying, stitches. If it were up to me, Evvy would be in a pamper. Just a pamper.

And at night, Meesh just loves putting Evvy in these beautiful organic pajamas that have 6 thousand buttons. So when I get up to do the 5:30 breast milk bottle feeding (by the way, ever seen a woman pump in a hands free boob shirt? UTTERly hysterical...Meesh walks around while the bottles fill up, takes phone calls, writes thank you notes, why just yesterday I saw her doing her nails whilst a machine sucked milk from her bosom) I have to go through a screaming mine field. I've tried doing the pull-off-every-button-in-one-fell-swoop but Evvy was all "Dad, are you fucking kidding?" So instead, with flailing arms and kicking legs (p.s. this lady is mad strong) I attempt to un-button...and any given button could take more than a proper minute as I try to re-direct her limbs. Who invented this shit? "I have an idea, lets make the clothes super impossible to get off quickly so when the baby has a dump in their pants and a suckling mouth the Dad can get really stressed out and start sweating before sunrise."

Shmoolie Strikes Again

*If you have not read my post "The Things Wigged Women Say" please read that first and then come back to this.

It is Friday night.  Good Friday for those hunting for eggs.  Passover for those substituting bread for brick, err, matzoh (I must admit us Jews have really stepped up our game, any average grocery store now sells Matzoh in a variety of flavors...I've become friends with the flax seed whole wheat matz...didn't know you could hit the toilet during this holiday?  me neither.  but now, you might want to eat whilst in the lieu...this matzoh beats the elestra infused WOW! chips of five years ago by an un-scrolled Torah mile) and who knocks on our door but 7 year old Shmoolie and one of his many siblings (remember, they multiply Gremlin style).

I was changing Evvy in her room but I could hear the voices.  You never mistake a young Jewish voice.  You can hear the afikomen hiding in the throat.  Meesh answered the door and Shmoolie and his accomplice said "Where is Moishe (yep, they call me by my Hebrew name.)  We need him for a minyan...now!  right now!" (a minyan, for those of you not of our persuasion, is a grouping of 10 or more men who need to gather for certain Jewish prayers) I was the needed 10th.  Meesh said "Oh...um...well, we have had a long day with the baby.  And I need Matt tonight."  Shmoolie, as per Shmoosual, said "We don't care...we need him!"  Meesh got mad "Well, Shmoolie, I need my husband to help take care of our baby.  And he is changing a diaper right now."

Shmoolie, defeated yet still delusional, said "we are disappointed, but tell him to come as soon as he can."  Meesh has been sticking her nipples in a mouth for three weeks...they are sore...she is sore, tired and over it and she said "Ain't gonna happen, Shmool!  Baruch Atah!"  (yep, Meesh said Baruch Atah and she does not even know what it means however she did not want to say FUCK OFF so instead, she settled for anything Hebrew her brain could call up.)

If you are in a situation where you need to tell someone to FUCK OFF, just say BARUCH ATAH!

It's Like Sex...I've Tried Every Position

It is saturday and I just made my first I'm-going-to-lose-my-shit call to Meesh.  I have been up since, well, last night.  I couldn't sleep.  I heard noises outside.  The same noises I had heard before Evvy entered the world but now my hearing is supersonic (are you singing the JJ Fad song?  I am).  I'm like a fucking x-man:  I can hear conversations miles away and lift trucks and aircraft.  Having a baby has really given me some odd spider bite if you know what I mean.

So, the noises pulled me out of bed every half hour.  I would put my pants on, my sneakers, grab a phone for 911 purposes, run to the door and peak outside to see...nothing.  Point is, I am exhausted.  And today was Meesh's big morning outing:  TARGET.  She got dressed up for it, too.  Showered.  Blew her hair out.  Perfume.  Lipstick.  Very, as my mom would say, Uffcapatch (not nearly the right spelling but it is a Yiddish word I think and it means something like "look at me everyone, I'm all did up and shit.")

So Meesh is off on her big morning and Evvy decides to play games with me.  She would close her eyes for a moment after I rocked her in my makeshift swing (my arms...watch out The Rock) and I would put her in her bassinet.  I'd walk away and she would squeal.  Sounds fun, right?  Cute game.  Not as good as Monopoly and Scattergories, but wicked fun nonetheless.  Then I would do every technique from "Happiest Baby On The Block" (have you seen that DVD?  Working for you?) and failed brilliantly.  I swaddled.  And re-swaddled.  Binky.  No Binky.  Lay down.  Stand up.  Bounce around.  Sit still.  I almost tried to fake her out and pretend my nipple was the right nipple.  Didn't work.  It's official, I'm just like all of the dads who have come before me...I'm an amusement park.  

I called Meesh and said "Bring your tits home now!"

 

The Things Wigged Women Say

We live on a street filled with wigged, skirted women and peyas having men (the Jewish locks of hair that bookend a pre and post Bar Mitzvahed face.)

One family, in particular, has really managed to bring out the ghetto in me (and I'm not talking about a communal, walled dwelling.)

First off, their house is like a clown car.  At least 40 Jews live in it at any given time.  And apparently they prefer parking their broke-ass vans on the lawn instead of the driveway.  And for some reason there are always chicken bones on their property (throwing up yet?...wait) and when I walk the dogs I have, on ocassion, had to rip bones out of their mouths (puking?)

Yesterday, the Jewish Octumom (I don't how many kids they have but I swear it is like Gremlins up in that bitch...everyday a new one) stopped me on the sidewalk to say "So your wife...she ehhh...gave birth?"  I nod YES.  She goes on to say "So when is your dog giving birth?"

She points down to Thursday (an 11 pound chihuahua/jack russell rescue.)  I say "She's not pregnant."  The Hebrew Octumom giggles...a devlish giggle.  "But she look pregnant...she's fat."  I say "She's actually in great shape."  I start to walk away and she calls out "I get one of her puppies for my kids?"  In my mind I turned around and said "Listen bitch, she ain't pregnant and I hope one of your vans rolls off your LAWN and flattens you!"  But instead I turned around and said "Sorry, did you not understand me, sweety?  She IS NOT PREGNANT.  MEANING, SHE IS THE OPPOSITE OF PREGNANT."  I continue walking and I hear her maniacle laugh.

Later that day, one of her kids (a 7 year old boy named Shmoolie...I kid you not) saw me walking Thursday and as per usual he ran across the street to play with her.  I said "You shouldn't run across streets and you can't play with my dog."  He said "Why?"  I respond "Because of your mother."  I walk away.  Shmoolie says "I get one of your puppies?"  In my head I turned back and beat Shmoolie up but then I remembered I can't because he's 7 and I am a Dad.  

Meesh And The Baby

I thought the dogs, August and Thursday, were protective of the belly, well, you best mind your reach when going in for Evvy (I know those two Vs sandwiched between the E and the Y look like a W but to answer your question "person who shall remain nameless" NO, we did not name our daughter Ewy...it is E V V Y -  by the way, my mom suggested I now spell her name out with spaces E V V Y so as not to cause confusion...I, on the other baby daddy hand, think I needn't space my daughter's name out for the sake of people who could think I would name my kid EWY)

Meesh was laboring at home until midnight.  She had been laboring since the midnight before.  In between contractions (which apparently feel like a cross between a broken washing machine inside of your stomach and a little people wrestling match) Meesh would gaze into my eyes lovingly and soft as a baby's butt say "you okay, Matty.  How you doin?  How's it goin?"  As I was about to answer the little people would start to wrestle and Meesh would grab a table, a couch, a dog, my head and yelp "Where the fuck is the hospital, Matt.  What the fuck?  I mean, seriously, THE FUCK!"  So it is my friends, the contraction cliches are cliches because they are, well, totally cliche.

Our doula (oblongata) told us to get in the shower around 10 p.m. (two hours before the clock struck midnight, before princesses turn into pumpkins and queens into witches) and on that Meesh started bawling..."Why the fuck does she want me to get in the shower.  She should get in the shower.  A shower??  The hell is this game she's playing?"  I turned on the shower, came back to Meesh who was squatting between a nook and a cranny and I said "I'm just going to leave the shower running and if you want to get in, it might feel warm and good and..."  She said "Ohhh, you're on her side?"  I didn't know who's side I was on at this point to be quite honest.  My pained, warrior wife or the doula Meesh loved (until this point) who wanted only to help Meesh have the birth she dreamed of...all the while I am thinking about the water I am wasting,  Earth Guilt as if being Jewish wasn't enough.

We got in the shower.  The tears stopped.  Meesh rested her body against mine.  She was at peace.  Got out of the shower.  Got dressed.  Then those rascally little people were like, fuck it, we want to have Wrestlemania in her belllllyyyy.  Clock struck midnight.  Princess Meesh was pumpkin-izing.  We got in the car.  That drive to the hospital is as it is in the films...surreal and slow.  We get up to the room.  Set up shop.  Clary Sage and Peppermint oils in hand.  Ipod playing Joni Mitchell (oddly, theatrical Meesh and Ghetto Meesh did not want to give birth hence no Beyonce or Babs...baby E    V    V    Y (there mom)  wanted to be birthed like a proper, poetic girl.  

2 a.m. rolled around and Meesh was simply plum tuckered.  Very hard to watch your wife in that much pain...heartbreaking...also hard to not laugh (that uncomfortable "i want to cry but instead I'm laughing" laugh).  Needless to say, I had to bury my head a few times.  And after nearly 24 hours of labor, Meesh essentially looked at the doula and looked at me and said "fuck you both...give me the epidural."  

The epidural doctor arrived quickly.  If you ever have to witness this act, just kill yourself.  The doctor opens a suitcase that rivals a 007 assassin kit, throws a wall of sticky plastic on Meesh's back and starts building a house on it...pipes and hoses and needles, oh my!  That was my first black out.

The epidural knocked us both out.  We slept until 6 a.m.  They took her off the epideral.  And shortly thereafter she was 100 percent dilated.  Ready to push.  And then the door opened.  Finally, our doctor had arrived.  Oops, scratch that...our doctor is a young black woman.  This doctor was a not that young white woman.  I pull her aside before Meesh can freak out "where is our Doctor."  And very matter-of-factly she says "she got suspended this morning for brawling over a C-section."  Oh no she di'int.  But, in fact, yes she did.  So it was, the doctor we had spent nine months with was in hospital jail but this doctor loved my Ipod mix so I liked her.

She sat on the bed with Meesh and the pushing began.  25 minutes later a head was crowning (black out number 2).  And then within moments, a face and a chest, arms, legs and the announcement "it's a girl!"  B L A C K O U T #3.  A girl?  My brother has three sons.  A girl?  Everyone thought Meesh was carrying the way one does when they carry a BOY.  A girl?  And then some weird, you-have-a-baby-girl chemical kicks in and you start crying and your heart opens so wide and all you can hear in your head is your own voice saying "I have a daughter" and then you hear your voice but now British saying "Not Without My Daughter" and you think of Sally Field and then you remember the joke you had with someone about being parched and saying "Not Without My Water."  And then...you are asked to cut the umbilical chord.  You do, and then you properly black out.

An Open Letter To My Baby

Today reminds me of all the stories we hear from our parents about those hours before heading to the hospital. When I was in my Mom's belly it was snowing in Connecticut. The house was warm. My older brother, David, was preparing to ninja me whenever I was brought home. My parents were so excited (not about David slicing me with throwing stars but that I was coming into the world.) Just like me and Meesh today. Los Angeles and it is hot outside. We are listening to Leona Naess on Itunes. The dogs, Thursday and August, are flanking your Mom while she breathes through contractions. All the while she is as beautiful as ever. She writes down the time between the contractions and the length of each one. This reminds me of counting thunder claps and lightning cracks. Nature. So incredibly beautiful. What do you look like? Your eyes? Lips? Hands? You are on your way. On your way into our arms. You've been in our hearts already. But soon, you will sleep, your heart pressed to your Mom's, to mine. Chest to chest. Skin to skin. How are we feeling right now? Well, it is indescribable. The way you do when first you see oceans, Yosemite, a constellation. Awed! And you're only just making your way. I have a feeling your arrival will multiply all of the above by millions. Until soon my child...I love you.

Castor Oil, Rub Ankles, Intercourse...REPEAT

The belly is dropped (kind of like a Kanye West album) and all of the things that should be dilated are including my eyes which are in a perpetual state of "oh my God." Our doula reccommended castor oil followed by me rubbing the nape of Meesh's ankles followed by sex. Castor oil, it seems, can only be found in a store in the 1950's so unless anyone has a time machine to lend us or a lovely Grandmother who has some hidden behind her ovaltine and Jackie Gleason DVDs, we're not castor oiling. Rubbing ankle napes, check. I got hands that can accupressure something right good. And as for the sex...umm...well lets just say we're having wonderful phone sex sans the phones. Meesh wants sex right now as much as you'd want to run a marathon with a migraine, swollen knees and a carry on suitcase attached to your front side.

But the baby is on its way. Bags are packed. Mixes are made: Broadway (for when Meesh feels inclined to get theatrical on our asses) Lilith Fair (for when Meesh feels inclined to be woman and roar) Beyonce et. al (for when Meesh feels inclined to get ghetto). I've got my flipcam (can't wait to see if I can record my baby entering the world and exiting the vag considering I faint watching people use needles on Intervention). And I've got my newfound education: infant CPR, spiritual mantras, breathing exercises...is this like the SATs? Study for months then get in the room and have no fucking clue which circle to use your Ticonderoga number 2 pencil on?

You Get What You Get (when you're with Jewish People)

I warned Meesh.  Don't complain about having "sausage toes" (in quotes because she said it, not me.  I think her toes are lovely, dancer-like even or as my mom likes to say "actorly") especially when we are in the company of people of the dreidl persuasion.  I told her.  "Meesh, you might want to NOT say how big you feel and how much you hope your belly goes down once the baby is born" at a table filled with Jews (for some reason, all I can hear in my head right now is the theme to the film JAWS because it just works when discussing the JEWS...not that they're SHARKS ala Bernard Madoff but that they kind of, how do you say it in America...attack!)  You see, you can not toss out bait with our people.  You think fish like worms on hooks?  Amy Winehouse likes needles with heroin?  Octumom likes attention?  Well guess what everyone, Jewish people like weakness.  Tell them you feel fat and here is what happens:

JEWISH DAD

"Listen, what can I tell ya?  You're pregnant.  For thousands of years....

JEWISH MOM

"Millions...listen to him, thousands....

JEWISH DAD

"Fine...millions.  (he whispers out of the crook of his mouth) "Isn't she annoying..."

JEWISH MOM

"Heard it..."

JEWISH DAD

"Wanted you to."  (he continues)  "Anyway, you're pregnant.  The baby will come when the baby will come.  You're body will be what you're body will be.  You'll go to the gym and you'll breast feed.  That baby sucking on those nipples will help you thin out..."

JEWISH MOM

"I wish you sucking on my nipples could help you thin out..."

Meesh knew I was right about this one.  She swore never to complain about feeling sausagey at a table filled with Matzah eaters again.  

**Note, the events of this story are oddly true.  I must keep the identities of the JEWISH MOM and JEWISH DAD a secret.  

**Double NOTE...I love being Jewish and laughed my ass off while the story you just read occurred.

Meesh and The Sliding Doors

This one is a quickie.  We were leaving the hospital for our bi-weekly baby check-up (all is well on the western front...blue skies, baby is head down and the belly button has popped something fierce I tell ya') and as we approached the sliding glass doors (see thru glass doors mind you) Meesh catches her reflection and says "Oh my God I'm huge!"  I try to stop her from saying anything else...I nudge her but as we walk through the sliding doors she continues "I am seriously enormous!"  Well, it was obvious to me then that Meesh did not see what I saw through said see-thru sliding doors.  A woman, bless her heart, easily 460 pounds on the hoof just minding her business on a bench right behind the SEE THRU doors we walked in.  How you couldn't see her, bless her heart, is beyond me.  Like standing in the Grand Canyon and not seeing the canyon itself.  

*footnote:  if you are white don't say you feel black when approaching Malcolm Jamal Warner and when you're pregnant don't say you're the size of a house when you're approaching someone who is, bless their heart, actually the size of a house.  But I guess if see-thru sliders are involved then have at it.

Baby Class Begins

We took our first birthing class last night at Golden Bridge Yoga Center in L.A.  If you walk into that place judging, expect to leave a mad kabbalistic-buddha-loving-barefoot-wheatgrass-gulping-delivering-your-baby-in-the-Dead-or-Red-Sea kind of guy.  I swear, after last night, I want to take Meesh and the belly she rode in on over to some nook or cranny in the ocean (preferably a shallow, shark free zone) and deliver our child whilst a band of berkenstock wearing viola players and floutists play Laura Nyro while our baby swims out a vagina, through salt water and up through a wave.  Did you know babies can stay under water for a long time when they are born?  longer than a mermaid or a dolphin.  Well, not that long...but they have this magical breathing stopper in them that knows how to survive under water for extended periods of time.  Oh, and they can fly and stuff.  God, babies are amazing.  And I'm having one.  WHAT?  I AM HAVING ONE.  And wicked soon, too.  Shit.

So, we are in birthing class along with eight other couples.  Our teacher (yogi name is Amoona..real name is Lisa) asked all of the moms-to-be "what do you do when you are in pain?"  The first girl giggles and says "reach for a pill."  The class laughs and laughs.  The second girl wanted some of that laughter too so she responded "like her, a pill or PILLS...and I do breathing exercises."  Third girl responds "I take walks, listen to peaceful music...and take pills."  The class explodes in laughter.  I, on the other yogic hand, am judging and I certainly ain't laughing.  Come on pregnant ladies, the joke is up.  Pill.  Pill.  Pill.  Got it...we all like vicodin and valium but please, please no one else use that answer.  One more woman and then Meesh.  I am praying that neither of them answer PILL.  But I am praying harder that even if the woman before Meesh says PILL that my betrothed will not dare utter the word.  She can't right?  She knows what a comic snob I am.  Even in a temple of enlightenment I can't bare to hear lovely pregnant women giggling through the word Pill.  Well, woman before Meesh says Pill and the audience gets kind of crickety.  They too are tiring of that answer.  No more yuck yucks.  PLEASE MEESH...PLEASE DO NOT SAY PILL.  WE WILL BE THE LAUGHING STOCKS.  THE PEOPLE AFTER THE PEOPLE WHO FAILED WITH THE JOKE.  IF YOU SAY PILL THEY WILL THINK WE ARE THE MOST UN-FUNNY of all the UN-FUNNIES in all THE LAND.  Meesh says PILL.  I start sweating.  But she says it in such a way...such a learnED comedic way that she was both hoping for a laugh but commenting on the beat-a-dead-horse-ness of the word itself.  Whatever combo she used in her delivery, whatever that magical melody...they laughed...they were charmed...they thought "ooh, she's clever" and "i like the way she had an ironic twist on Pill."  

I stopped sweating.  And thank God...we can go back to class next week.  (no joke, I might have had to give us both detention had Meesh's Pill answer flopped.)

Conversations With Belly

I watched my nephew, Jonah, take a skiing lesson.  He is three years old.  He held my hand as we walked to the mini-mountain and his ski boots made him robot-like.  So I called him Robot Boy.  He loved it.  He started talking like Wall-E.

When we returned to the house later that day Meesh was sitting by the fireplace.  Jonah ran over to her belly and said "I put hand on belly" the way a robot would.  He touched the belly and said "hi mr. baby I am robot boy...want to go skiing?"

Then Benjamin, my five year old nephew ran over...pushed Jonah out of the way and screeched "i want to touch the belly."  A fight ensued.  Whether over legos or toy trucks, markers or the remote control or yes, a pregnant belly, you can trust brothers to argue.

Meesh And The Doctor

Watching Meesh at the baby doctor is pure comedy.  I assume she handles these visits the way she does her hair appointments or lunches with her girlfriends.  "It's my time and I ain't leaving until I've asked everything I want to ask."

It reminds me of our dogs when we take them for walks.  They pee and pee again and again and again.  By the sixth pee, there is quite literally nothing left.  They pee air.  Can't squeeze any more juice out of a lemon if there ain't no juice left.  But the dogs will be damned if they don't squat over and over.  It's their walk and they'll pee if they want to.  

Meesh asks all the right questions.  Questions that actually pertain to the baby and the birth.  And just when the doctor thinks she can leave to attend to her next patient, Meesh comes up with something.  "Soooo, I'm good on weight gain?"  Dr. says "Perfect."  "Soooo, do I need to keep taking the iron pills?"  Dr. says "Yes."  "Soooo, do you watch Lost?"  "No."  "Are you going to be in the room when I'm in labor?"  "I am your doctor, so Yes."  I could see Meesh asking the doctor on a friend date which would not shock me as my Mom has friend-dated everyone from the UPS man to the 17 year old cashier at J.Crew.

This Is Your Brain, This Is Your Brain On Preg

I worry Meesh might forget my name.  Why not?  She is forgetting everything else. Where her purse is (right next to her) Where her shoes are (on her feet) Where her sunglasses are (atop her head).  The baby in the belly is making the brain in the head a little remedial.  But she's beautiful and it's kind of fun to see her navigate the land of forget.  

Why just the other night after I almost killed my mother-n-law.  Not intentionally.  I swear.  In-laws were in town.  I was driving us to dinner.  Meesh in the front seat.  In-laws in the backseat.  I started to drive however mum-n-law was not in the car yet.  Well, not true.  One of her legs was in the car.  And an arm I believe.  Had I pulled out faster I may not be writing this very post.

All safe and sound, no blood on my hands...we drove to dinner.  A Greek restaraunt.  Father-n-law orders Musaka.  Meesh says "That's the Dad in The Lion King."  Nope, that would be Mufasa.

We are sitting outside.  We order an appetizer of Flaming Cheese (cheese they light on fire to make it, well, flame).  A moment later we can see, through the window, that a waiter is lighting up some cheese for a couple at a table.  Mom-n-law says "Oh, so that's the cheese that we ordered?"  Meesh says "Yes, but that's not our order."  Really Meesh?  What gave it away?  Perhaps the waiter serving the cheese to other customers inside at a table very far away from ours.  I said those exact things and Meesh laughed.  A hearty, full-bodied, pregnant laugh.  I love that laugh.  I totally want to marry that laugh.

This was our seventh meal with in-laws in three days.  Meesh must have asked "Did you guys see Frost/Nixon" 15 times.  She would then follow up with "I fell asleep but what I saw was great."  Sidenote, Meesh is falling asleep during most things and when she wakes up she does so kind of like my father...with an opinion.  Example:  She must have missed half of "Changling" but had a very strong point of view on it.  But you didn't see it, hon.  It's like eating a meal but skipping dessert and telling me the key lime pie was so-so.