Meesh And The Belly

Song For Evvy

2009-09-25T12:00:00.001-07:00

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

2009-08-07T08:57:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-07T07:50:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-29T17:43:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-29T17:29:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-26T18:49:00.000-07:00

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!!!

2009-07-09T21:00:00.000-07:00

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...

2009-04-28T16:15:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-23T09:04:00.000-07:00

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?

2009-04-23T08:47:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-10T20:28:00.000-07:00

*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

2009-04-04T11:17:00.002-07:00

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!"

2009-04-04T11:17:00.001-07:00

The Things Wigged Women Say

2009-04-03T07:50:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-31T07:13:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-19T15:51:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-19T08:00:00.000-07:00

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)

2009-03-08T19:37:00.000-07:00

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

2009-02-04T17:40:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-03T17:54:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-22T13:00:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-22T08:29:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-22T08:05:00.000-08:00

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.

Pregnant Date

2008-12-12T18:13:00.000-08:00

It is Friday night and I have a date with Meesh. What are we doing you ask? Well, don't get wicked jealous but we are taking the dogs for a long walk around the neighborhood. Good for the circulation. Then we will probably have a bite at home. Get into bed. Meesh will wrap herself in her lifesize, U shaped preg pillow and I will make advances and while I am extending my hand to her proper parts the baby will kick, knocking my hand away. I will go it again only to be stopped at the pass by the two pups. I will then say fuck it, grab her boobs and say eee-rrr eee-rrr eee-rrr (I would never actually say eee-rrr but I had to jot it down because this Asian girl I met last night said eee-rrr in response to everything I said. She would clench her fists and cartoonishly put them over her eyes and flex the fists back and forth whilst saying eee-rrr eee-rrr. I said "my wife is pregnant." She said "Eee-rrr eee-rrr." I said "I am going east for the holidays." She said...well you know what she said. Worst part is she thought she was funny. I...did not.)

Pregzeltov

2008-12-09T17:01:00.000-08:00

I was about to get something zapped off of my face at the dermatologist when my phone rang. It was someone who helped me and Meesh a while back (by help I mean guided...by guided I mean talked to...by talked to I mean mentored...get it?)

He said "Mazelpreg!" Yes...he's Catholic. As Catholic as the Catskills and my Rabbi.

He heard that we are having...err again...that Meesh is having a baby. Fuck it, that we are HAVING a baby. And he was very excited for us. We talked. I hung up. Got my "spot" burned off of my face. Ever had that done? Well this guy just threw the goggles over my eyes and started burning my cheek. No warning. Fucking killed! I hate him.

When I got in my car (prius...mind your levels) I was two things: burning and smiling...fun combo. I was reflective. The Mazelpreg man who had walked us through a rough patch had heard through a grapevine that we were bringing a baby into this world. Into a world, especially now, so wrapped in pain. A world that can tear so many things apart and has. And I've never been more...okay. Don't get me wrong, things are crumbling around me. Some of my own things. However, the euphoria and bliss of my real life are truly overwhelming anything awful. I see Meesh. We cook dinner. Us Jews listen to Christmas music round the clock (I begged for a tree years back and Meesh thought it would confuse things (double parenthesis here, what things? It has been the dogs and us. I know I'm Jewish. She certainly knows she is Jewish, just ask her Menorah collection) so we did not get a Christmas tree but she did buy me 15 boxes of twinkle lights and she asked me to download a ton of X-Mas music so I have a good sense that a tree this way will come in time) and our dogs run around and then they tire and lay on Meesh's belly. Knowing that there is something living in that belly. They lay there as soldiers waiting to attack any wrong hand that dare touch the expanding stomach.

So yes, the economy is collapsing and we are in a universal rut and heartache is finding its way to us all...but I am choosing to drink the cool-aid of...here it comes...HOPE!

So, to any of you out there pregnant, not pregnant, pregnant with ideas, inspiration, possibility...PREGZELTOV!!

UNITED WE'RE PREGNANT

2008-11-30T09:53:00.000-08:00

Our post Thanksgiving flight from Boston to Los Angeles was rife, rife I say, with problems.

United Airlines decided to pull a holiday switcharoo with our airplane. Because the flight was not at capacity, the airline just said fuck it...and they put us on a smaller plane and because of that everybody's seats were changed. Meesh and I still had our ECONOMY PLUS SEATS (don't get excited by the word PLUS. You're still in coach but you have some bragging rights over the lesser folk in regular coach. You know when you walk onto the plane and you go through First class? You can totally see how cocky everyone is. I say it from experience. Everytime I sit in First Class I get super arrogant and all of my flying fears are out the window. Like you can't crash in First Class or if you do it's a more refined crash? Well, anyway, you can kind of pretend you are in the poor man's first class in Economy plus. You can flex your legs whilst the Coach Folk pass by en route to their terribly uncomfortable seats.)

That said, our seats were changed and we were not happy about it. Meesh was very Santa Clausian pre-flight. She helped a bunch of people who were also scattered all over the plane do seat swaps and the reunions were a lovely thing to see. We thought, of course, all of that good Karma would come back to us. We got on the plane. Five rows away from each other. I asked everyone around me (well, only the economy plus people because like...who would talk to a Coach person. Eww.) and no one offered a solution. Then, I rang to call button. The flight attendant told me to figure it our amongst ourselves. The fuck is this? Lord Of The Flies? Lost? So, I stand up and I say it...I used it..."My wife is six months pregnant!! Is there anyway someone would be Thanksgiving enough to let a guy sit with his pregnant wife!!"

The two men in the exit row (even more leg room) behind me stood up and said "take our seats." I was so thankful. The only thing I had on me was a small bag of Sour Patch Kids but I offered them up as a sign of gratitude. Suddenly I hear Meesh in a loud whisper say "Do their seats go back?" I respond "What?" Meesh continues "Sometimes exit row seats don't go back." I said "Do you really want me to ask them that?" Meesh nodded yes. I did. They said the seats do. I could see it in their eyes "give an inch...take a mile." Do the seats go back? The pregnant greed.

So, we sat in our seats. Two plush seats. Not a row of three...just two. In a spacious exit row. I could not understand why these guys would give up such comfortable seats. So I spent the next 30 minutes looking over one of the guys' shoulders to see what he was reading, see if he was fidgeting or sweating and praying that he was not going to blow up the plane.

Happy Thanksnipples

2008-11-27T19:59:00.000-08:00

Meesh's cousin Kim said "do you fuckin' love when he tweaks your nipples?"

That came within the first five minutes of Thanksgiving. Meesh went on to say "well...umm...sometimes I guess but..."

Kim swooped in with "Oh my God I love gettin' my nipples twisted, fuckin' bit on..."

Homemade cranberry sauce arrives on buffet table followed by stuffing and coogle (is any holiday involving Jews Jew-food-centric?) followed by sweet potatos...

Kim goes on "Ohhhh, are your tits senstive 'cuz you're lactatin'?"

Forgot to mention we are in a suburb of Boston.

Meesh says "Not yet I don't think. I think that will start when the baby arrives."

Kim's monologue continues with "totally, so wait...you do or you don't like when he plays with your nipples?"

Meesh "welllll...."

Kim "but you're tits are fuckin' huge..."

Kim grabs Meesh's tits.

Meesh "thanks."

Kim "they're like bigger than mine."

Meesh grabs a carrot from the vegetable tray and puts it in her mouth.

Kim says "You fuckin' love a big carrot, huh?"

The Belly Can Hear

2008-11-22T18:06:00.000-08:00

Meesh informed me today that we have hit a pregnancy milestone. The baby can hear.

Things I will be doing from here on in:

1. Blasting Simon & Garfunkel instead of N.W.A. (come on, I'm a theater Jew - I've been blasting Simon & Garfunkel, Joni Mitchell, Dan Fogleberg and West Side Story since I can remember blasting anything)

2. Watching PBS at night instead of flipping from Real World/Road Rules Inferno to Half-ton Mom on TLC (would prefer my baby not even know that a human being can eat 10 big macs in one sitting)

3. Not allowing anyone who says "Like" and "Umm" and "Do you know what I mean?" near Meesh's belly.

4. Keeping annoying people very far away so as not to give the baby the option of thinking we are lame as that will obviously come in due time.

5. Bringing the belly around as many funny Jewish people, Black people and British people as possible as I find those people to have the best comic timing.

6. Religious people...sorry, can't come round. Don't want the baby to hear preaching.

7. Marianne Williamson can preach because I like her voice. She has a great timber. As does Suze Orman. Rachel Maddow. Chris Matthews is in. No more The View. Letterman, Stewart and Maher are in. Sorry, Colbert is out because the baby might take his fake-republican persona literally.

8. There was a man I knew years ago with a bubble in his throat. A permanent throat bubble. He can't come round as I don't want the baby to think we hang out with frogs. However, on second thought, I do want the baby to have an endless imagination and that includes the belief animals talk so I guess I have to do a Facebook search for Bubble Throat.

9. If the baby could smell I would not allow Meesh anywhere near the Hasidic household down the street. It's just that one household. I am not in any way making a sweeping statement. Those are my "people." Well, not really. I'm only a conservative Jew so as I've said before, I'm Irish-Catholic to them.

10. I will continue to tell Meesh that she is the MOST, the bees to my knees, the light in my otherwise dark, dark night. I will, however, stop telling her that I would love to hump her and play with her pregnant boobs.

Blame It On The Belly

2008-11-17T21:20:00.000-08:00

No wonder that Man from all the talk shows likes being pregnant. Who wouldn't want to be able to NOT BE ACCOUNTABLE for anything? Being preg is like a get out of jail free card. Yeah yeah...all the cliches - eat what you want, sleep when you want, get massages, be the center of attention, complain all the time or not complain all the time. When preg you can be annoying or not be annoying. Bitchy or not bitchy. My point is, it is the best VIP pass in the world. It is the EZ pass of physical living. Baby in belly means you can be or do anything and it's all good...you're pregnant. Men with vaginas really have a leg up on those of us with lame cock and balls.

I would love to get knocked up by Meesh. I know what you're about to snarkily say..."ohhhh reallyy???!! You want the swelling? the indigestion? the mood swings? the aches, pains and pelvic expansion?!" For jokes sake I would respond "Already got those things...I'm Jewish. Not just Jewish. I'm Ashkenaze (I don't know how to spell it and I don't know what the fuck it means)." But my real response would be "hells yeah...I'll take your aches, pains and tit growth and raise you some sensitive nipples." I would like to have an excuse for being a dick head to those that annoy me. Really. Truly. I want an excuse for it because as of now I don't have one.

Meesh can basically tell someone to shut the fuck up and eat shit and simply say "sorry, I'm pregnant." If I was preg I would ring up everyone I loathe and say things like "you suck ass bunghole fuck hole" and then i would get all cute and coy and pull my sleeves over my hands ala Jennifer Love Hewitt and other falsely-humble girls and say "I'm just wicked pregnant!"

Driving To Alanis

2008-11-14T09:21:00.000-08:00

Meesh's long week plus my long week equals...drumroll, please...ARGUMENT!

Right before we left the house last night to go to Alanis Morissette's concert, Meesh said "I have an early morning and I can't be out until 1 a.m."

Well, I thought, what praytell is she really saying? The concert begins at 8 (opening act Alexi Murdoch...a super mellow folk singer) and then Alanis goes on. 1 a.m.? We are going to the Orpheum theater and sitting in proper seats. To see Alanis. 1 a.m.? Not Metallica. There is no raging after party. Just a handful of introspective Alanis-y songs.

I kept hearing 1 a.m. as I drove toward the Orpheum theater. So I did it...did what I should not have done. I asked "What are you REALLY saying when you say 1 a.m.?" Tension begins. "I'm saying that I have to get up extra early for work and that I can't be up until 1 a.m." I respond "I get that, but do you really think we are going to be out that late?" She says "If you want to stay I can take a cab." WOAH!! I say "Can't we just go to the concert and see what we are feeling? Can't we go before we leave?" 1 a.m.? That is like saying "I know we are going to hear Marianne Williamson speak but I just don't want to rage."

I then took it too far. "I've had a long week. I was so looking forward to going to a concert with you and just having fun. And it feels like you are already giving our evening guidelines." UH-OH. "I have a job (stab-i currently do not) and I'm pregnant (double stab- i am not currently pregnant.)" Well, I thought, thank God she told me she was pregnant. I was wondering why the growing belly, all the UPS packages from maternity stores, the donut cravings. We continued to bitch at each other for a few more minutes. I think we both wanted to be mad at someone for the overwhelming week we both had. So going to an early concert at a proper venue is as good a hook for arguing as any.

Got to the concert. I got a beer. Meesh got a coke. A COKE!! A coca-cola. Concert ended at 10:30. Home by 11. Because of the Coke, Meesh didn't fall asleep until 1:45 a.m. Are you laughing?

I'm Maternity, I'm Maternity, I'm Maternity Girl (Livin' In A Maternity World)

2008-11-09T19:37:00.000-08:00

I almost bitch slapped a jealous pregnant woman at Gap Maternity today. I walked up through the baby clothes, past the teddy bears and straight on in to the pregnancy section. There was Meesh all glowing and shit. Holding a little black dress...err...holding a BIG black dress up to her body (and by Big I mean Maternity BIG, not *Ruby BIG) when out the corner of my eye - yeah, I said "OUT the corner" - I am intentionally leaving words out so as to sound more rougher and junk. So, I 0ut my eye's corner I see this couple. She's pregnant. He looks suicidal. The story I built for them was this: He hates her but married her because it was easier than breaking up with her and now she is having his child and he is counting down the days until he AXES her for divorce. That said, the bitch was looking Meesh up and down giving her the evil eye and shit. If only Meesh had on her Kabballah string...none of that would have happened. Or like Wonder Woman's wrist cuffs, Meesh could have deflected the evil eye and then Rammmmmmed (sound effect of Wonder Woman jump) out of Gap and into the Grove fountain.

Why was this preg bitch hating on Meesh? Not sure. But I will throw this question out there? What happens to a bitchy girl when she gets pregnant? She becomes a bitchy pregnant girl. The more preg people I meet the more I am understanding that growing a baby inside of you does not necessarily make you kinder or more loving...more compassionate or funnier...it kind of just makes you a bigger version of who you already is! Yup, I said IS.

*Ruby is that show airing on Style Network about the 700 pound woman who goes on a quest to become 150 pounds. Yeah, I programmed my Tivo.

Her Bump, Her Bump, Her Lovely Lady Bump

2008-11-03T08:19:00.000-08:00

Let me say this first...there is nothing more beautiful than a pregnant woman. My wife especially. Phew, that's out the way!

This morning whilst trying on her fifth outfit, Meesh said "Oh my God, my belly got so big overnight. Must've been the Mexican food."

You see, we went to a birthday party last night. A mexican-fiesta birthday party. And Meesh ate a cute, little plate of food: one corn tortilla (the mini kind) some shredded lettuce (iceberg) and some fix-ins (black beans, sour cream, guac). And then for dessert a small scoop of vanilla yogurt and a piece of chocolate chip cookie.

Um, babe, your belly didn't grow overnight because of the Mexican food. It grew, shot in the dark here, because you are getting very pregnant.

Well, lesson learned. Let her believe it was the Mexican food. Not the baby growing in the belly. Why? Because this was her response to my intimating it could be, may just be the baby.

"Matt, you don't know what it's like to keep growing out of your clothes."
False: I have fat days.
"Matt, you don't know what it's like to not be able to pull your boots off with ease."
False: Why just the other day, when it rained (only time this year in Los Angeles) I spent the better part of 20 minutes pulling my Fisherman Rain Boots off my legs.
"Matt, I feel like I'm getting so big!!"
This one was tricky. A: she is not getting SO big. But B: did you get the memo...this is kind of what happens when you get pregnant. Like, um, you like get like bigger and crap.

Well, here's a memo for you guys. Just say "it was totally the Mexican food...it did seem extra bloaty what with all that MSG (even if MSG is only in Chinese food)." And say "That must be annoying to keep getting bigger. I can't relate but I can sure empathize...scratch that...baby, this may sound wicked odd, but you get more beautiful everyday your belly grows." And also "I think women who take their boots off with ease are total pussies."

Bristol Palin and The Parade She Rode In On

2008-11-01T10:04:00.000-07:00

Meesh was Bristol Palin for Halloween. Bristol is the pregnant teenage daughter (not Anna Rodrigo) of Vice Presidential nominee Sarah Jessica Parker Palin.

People thought it was a gas!! And it was. Funniest part for me was that Meesh did not attempt to look Wasilan at all. She was just pregnant. Which made it funnier for me (well that and the Halloween pot I smoked).

When we walked to the parade on Santa Monica boulevard ( a fantastic venue to have a panic attack in) Meesh walked ahead of me. In my attempt to catch up to her, I weaved my way through Geisha Girls (men) Sexy Maids (men) Wonder Woman (man) and Joe The Plumber (proper lesbian) and finally got to her. Reached out for her the way I do these days - arm extends to baby belly - and she turned around and I quickly pulled my arm away...as it was Dora The Explorer...not Meesh. And Dora wasn't pregnant...just, ummm, well Dora likes lots of beer and cake I presume.

Finally found the real Meesh. She was walking alongside a Sarah Palin. It was such a lovely image. Mother and preg daughter strolling through a very liberal parade.

Doula (Oblongata)

2008-10-31T11:18:00.000-07:00

We had our first Doula (oblongata...you wanted to say it too, right?) interview today. At Starbucks. My head nearly exploded. She was awesome but her "menu" rivaled Jerry's Deli (an L.A. haunt that has a menu as dense as the bible...or torah...or insert your own wicked long-confusing-too-many-option text).

I found myself pretending to understand the way I did in Math class senior year of high school. I got the whole SOHCAHTOA thing but everything else evaded me. I told the principal that I would like to abandon math for creative writing. The principal said "you need this math class to graduate." I said "I will be hiring accountants and business managers because I am going into the arts." I got out of the math class. And I have a great business manager. And I can totally multiply, divide, add and subtract. So don't try to trip me up with numbers...I got mad 9th grade level skills. Holler!!

That said, before I left the math class, I did a great job pretending to understand everything. Well, great until the exams came. Then...umm...not so great. Hence, creative writing. So, I am going to make it my job to comprehend everything the doula (oblongata) was talking about. This guy is going back to school...baby school.

I'm not afraid of flashcards!

Baby Disc

2008-10-30T17:48:00.000-07:00

My wife is on her way home with a new DVD. It is starring our baby. There are not a lot of locations. Just a womb really. So, production was wicked cheap.

I could not make the doctor's appointment today so Meesh went solo. She called after to tell me that everything looked perfect and told me "Maybe it is better this way...I go and get a DVD for you." She said that because I break out into cold sweats before the doctor gels her belly. Meesh is fine. Like when we fly. I can't breathe and she reads The Barefoot Contessa. If this is any indication of how Jewishly worried I am going to be as a Dad...shit, I need therapy...or valium (yay).

Those BOOBS are made for walking...and other things

2008-10-29T20:19:00.001-07:00

The last time I had an intimate experience with such wonderfully, large breasts was, I think, in the fifth grade. Mrs. Maderos was my teacher and she would hover above my desk and shade me from the flourescent lights. Yep, her boobs were that big. Big enough to eclipse things. And she wore them in a bra that made them desk-like. I used to laugh to myself thinking I could actually do my homework on her chest. Where's my number 2 pencil? Likely, on her chest. Her desk chest. Chest desk. I thought that if it poured during recess and I was umbrella-less, I could find shelter under the bosom of Mrs. Maderos. Her nickname was torpedo tits.

Okay, you can't do your algebra on Meesh's pregnant boobs - they're not THATTT big. But let's just say I am proud of them. Better than that, Meesh is proud of them. Wears 'em like a badge, errr, badges of honor. The boobs are just one of the things Meesh loves about being pregnant. She is cooking a quiche right now while talking on the phone with our friend. I am writing this and overhearing her say through a smile "I love being pregnant! I am so happy." Fuck...I found the Golden Tickkettttt! That was all I had to do. Get her pregnant? I warned her that if she keeps this up...this overwhelming bliss...I am going to have to keep her pregnant for years...nee...forever and ever.

Anna Rodrigo

2008-10-29T11:50:00.000-07:00

I woke up this morning thinking I was married to Anna Rodrigo. And never have I been more frightened. My biggest fears...flying, jail (although I love saying things like "this ice cream is jail good") and dinners with boring people ain't got nothing on my fear of Anna Rodrigo.

Anna was pregnant with her second child when she was 15. She was still in 7th grade. She may, in fact, still be in 7th grade. She wore huge hoop earrings. She had a flat top and a tail that she chewed on. She beat up my friend Jojo (a Jewish, musical theater girl) because she didn't like that Jojo "thought she was all that cuz she could sing and shit." A week later, Jojo came back to school with her own hoop earrings and a Puerto Rican accent and she shoved Anna into a locker. Jojo got suspended because Anna was pregnant. Apparently you can't push a pregnant bully into a locker...in the 7th grade.

Anna's pregnant belly was as much a bully prop as her tail and those fucking hoop earrings. She would shove people out of lunchroom lines because "My fuckin' baby need a twinkie." Her baby bump made her bigger and more intimidating. She could part a crowd in a corridor like no other. Bitch was the Moses of our Junior High School.

She would push an empty stroller around school "cuz I'm preppin' for Anna Junior." These 7th grade Jewish eyes had a hard time comprehending the visual. And the day my knees buckled was the day I tried to make sense of the visual. I found myself in a dead-lock stare. Staring at Anna Rodrigo. I was at my locker and she was talking shit with some of her friends (and by friends I mean girls who were so scared of her but did not want to get beaten up so instead they split a necklace with her) and she was wearing a bikini top. Flat-top. Tail. 8 months pregnant and a bikini top. Mid-winter in New England. Are you scared?

I couldn't help but STARE. It was one of the greatest things I had ever seen. Fuck THE DAVID, I got Anna Rodrigo. Well, she caught my eyes. And this is how it went.

"The fuck you lookin' at? You Jewin' my belly? My belly could beat yo ass up. Talkin' bout you 'lil Jew. My belly could knock you right good."

Then I blacked out. She never touched me. But I blacked out. Literally. My first experience with sniffing salts.

And this morning, I woke up from a nightmare that the pregnant woman in my bed was Anna Rodrigo.

It wasn't. It was Meesh. And she was pretty and sweet. But she was chewing on her tail and her belly did kick my ass.

It happened just like this, the house literally began to twitch

2008-10-28T07:41:00.000-07:00

It could have happened in Los Angeles. The morning before we left for Italy. At 8 a.m. we did that thing called "trying." Still confused about that expression "we're trying to get pregnant." Correction, "we're banging...a lot...on a cycle in fact...one according to ovulation and moons and tides and the Princes of them..." We're trying to get pregnant is like "I'm trying to win lots of money at the blackjack table by the pool at the Atlantis." You're playing blackjack and if luck strikes you will find colorful chips in front of you. If my sperm does a great breast stroke, Phelps style, I will find chips in front of me, too. Blackjack, babies. There's no trying in Babesball.

But, it may have been that morning. The morning that the 'moons' were so powerful...bed shaking, head hitting wall and back nearly breaking. At the 'climax' of this story, I yelped for two reasons. One was...well...and the other was that my back done thrown out. Never have I felt more Jewish. More not 25. Great preparation for Daddy-hood. I spent the next five hours on stretching machines and big, bouncing balls. Being cracked and massaged. My neck could not move. If I had to move my neck that meant I had to move my body. I was basically Vicki from Small Wonder. I had to fly from Los Angeles to Rome with this. I had to go to Rite Aid and buy heating pads and Icy Hot and on a happy note, fill my prescription of Vicodin (yay) and Ibuprofen (boo). But if all of this pain meant we were....errr...meant SHE was pregnant well then who the fuck needs mobility.

Warning: If SHE is following an ovulation cycle, a calendar of BEST MOMENTS TO GET PREG, beware. You will have to drop your pants whenever she calls...albeit en route home from work, on a lunch break from work, in the wee hours of morning before sun rises, before sun sets, before you can think...brush your teeth...while you're dreaming, blacked out from drinking. It doesn't matter. She want it...she gon' git it.

p.s. getting an erection on command is up there with farting on command, being funny on command or remembering the Bush Doctarine on command.

A baby this way comes

2008-10-27T15:31:00.000-07:00

I am having a baby. My first. Well, let me clarify. I am NOT having the baby. My wife is. However this baby is my first...baby that I am not carrying but fathering. Is that right? Fathering? Sounds like it was a deal. It was not. We decided to get pregnant...oops a daisy...we decided that we wanted to have our first child and that Meesh would (fingers crossed) get pregnant. And she did. She got pregnant right around our first year wedding anniversary. She woke me up at 6 a.m. waving what I thought was a popsicle stick in my face. My first thought was "lady, get out my face." My second thought was "we have popsicles in the freezer?" When my eyes focused and my mind connected to what I was seeing I jumped out of bed. Freaking out. Excitedly freaking out. Overwhelmed with freak out. I asked first "should we frame it?" "It...?" my wife asked. "Yeah, the stick. The plus sign. Do we keep it?" I collect memories. Movie tickets. Notes from people. I have a box of wrist bands from concerts and waterparks and lame V.I.P rooms. So, why not a pregnancy stick? Meesh was quick to remind me that the stick was urinated on. This reminder after I grabbed it from her hand. I suppose, though, if I am adult enough to help make the stick a plus sign I can certainly get some sissy on my hands. (My mother taught us to pee in the toilet by saying "want to make a sissy?" I now use it for my dogs. Try it...something about the sound of the word just makes you want to, well, make a sissy.)

Alas alack (always wanted to use that expression) that stick was accurate. We were, are, indeed having a baby. Our first. Some months from now I will be someone's father. I will have fathered someone. I will, for the rest of time, be father to someone. Holy shit!!!!!!

I will be writing here to tell you all the tales of what it is like to be the one NOT carrying the child. The one dealing with the one who IS carrying the child. I feel much like I felt on semester abroad in Europe. I had never been to Europe so everything was so NEW. New enough to write every detail. You know when you are 20 and you do anything NEW...everything is so big in your mind. You see a fat drunk guy in an English pub and he is singing songs you've never heard and you are blown away and calling your parents to tell them and talking about fat drunk guy for weeks and referencing him to other backpackers on trains. I am not saying my wife is a fat drunk guy, on the contrary she is a beautiful brunette with a gorgeous baby bump...but yeah, I am feeling 20 and fat-drunk-guy-referency these days. You know you're in that space when you are around people who already have kids and you tell them things like "dude, she was so nauseous and tired the first three months." And those people just Laughhhh at you. Yes, AT YOU! They've been there and done that. They are thinking "ohhh you...look at you...so cute you are having your first..." Yep, I've realized that people with children look down on those having children. It reminds me of going to my Hasidic cousin's wedding (yes, I hugged the bride...NOT ALLOWED TO DO THAT) but moreso I felt Catholic. My Judaism was nothing but a thang compared to their Hasidiasm. So it is, people having their first child must beware of sharing too much with those who already had the children.

Gotta go. Have to decide on everything for the next 25 years. Bye.