Expecting Parent Joke of the Day

Question: How do you make God laugh?

Make a plan.

Bedroom Set?

Lil called me yesterday to ask if I had ordered a bedroom set. At first I thought she meant a set of sheets for our bedroom.

This is, generally, tricky for me to answer, since I have a terrible memory. But I do tend to remember things like ordering a full set sheets from somewhere. Of course, all this is trumped by the fact that sheets were never mentioned, and so we're talking an entire bedroom set, meaning at least four peices (mattress, boxsprings, nightstand and drawers).

This is easier for me to answer, since I have champagne taste on a beer budget, and would remember spening at least four-digits (yes, that's what I would spend on a new bedroom set). I also would have remembered the beating I would have received after spending said four-figures.

The beating Lil would have given me.

Anyhow, it then occured to me that, since we have a baby on the way, perhaps some kind soul had purchased a bedroom set for Porter.

So, did anyone?

Me, As Father

The concept hasn't really struck home yet.

I've had moments, certainly shots in the red of the Bull's Eye, but nothing that has impaled me with the utter realization that, within a year, I may hear:

"Daddy, I wanna learn the care and handling of a Japanese katana."

Ok, well, maybe not all those words exactly. But the gist of those words, yes. Forefront of them, the first word which not only conveys a position of responsibility, but an emotional attachment that is never broken; not by space, time, distance or death.

If you don't believe me, check out my buddy's blog entry Pre-Phather's Day Phunnies, or ask any child, male or female, what they think of their father. Hell, think of your own father and move from there. Answers will be as varied as the stars in the sky, running the range from gratuitous affection to a sort of fear and loathing I generally reserve only for Keanu Reeves.

Fathers may be distant or close or next-to-non-existant, but they have an impact.

I've seen pictures of my son, I've heard his heart beat, I've even selected a number of impressive fashion-conscious onesies for him when he arrives.

This Father's Day, though, that concept was foremost in my mind, and I'm pleased to say that while I am not 100% certain that I will be able to handle this position, I feel more confident now than I ever have in the past. While I may still have the emotional maturity of a 13-year old watching Revenge of the Nerds, that's an entire order of magnitude better than I was just five years ago.

So, Porter me-boy, bring it. Your "old man" is ready, and your mom is waiting for when I fail utterly.

Metro Fly

I've tried for years to work the term "fly" into my vernacular, but it never seems to stick.

It's probably because I'm not.

However, I am metro, and working that word into daily usage didn't take much effort at all. So this weekend, while we sipped some kind of alcohol (I use "we" in the royal sense here, not the couple with one member who is pregnant) with out friends Team Cuts, and discussing things that need to be done for Porter.

One of the things is that Porter's bedroom needs to become a functioning baby bedroom. Currently, it's a functioning guest room / Rob's office. It would function better if I could do more than just play video games on Saturday while the wife sleeps, but it does that well, and we will not debate that functionality at these proceedings.

Enter my friend Tara.

Tara and I have known each other since 6th grade (her first tour, my second). That's a damn long time to know someone, let alone maintain anything passing as a friendly relationship. Tara and I get along like peas and carrots . . . post harvest. Pre-harvest you won't find any peas hanging out with the carrots. It's a bitter fued. Two houses, both alike in dignity and all that.

Anyhow, Tara has offered to assist in getting the house, specifically Porter's room and the kitchen (the kitchen needs to be painted) into a good order. I'm very excited about this, but Lil was even more excited since it meant that she didn't have to try to figure out if distressed white goes with Louis XIV.

It can, and that's all I'll say.

Basic Information

So here's the low-down:

My wife and I are pregnant. She's more pregnant than I am, in that she will show, but this is definately a team effort. I don't envy the weight gain, change in eating habits, constipation and the oodles of maternity clothes that must (not need, must) be procured. On the other hand, I'm quite willing to rub feet, draw baths, clean, cook and otherwise assist in any way, shape or form as required.

We are due in late September. That means that my wife will be carrying our bundle of joy, a personal fireplace, through the heat of the summer. That's led us to install central air in our 1920 clapboard home to fend off the pounding heat. It was something we had wanted to do anyhow, but this made it slightly more than a want.

We're having a boy. I had always wanted a daughter first. For some reason, the concept of a big sister appealed to me as I was growing up. Later, the concept of a first daughter seemed a wiser choice as boys are generally dirty, messy and destructive and that's in their 40s. Further, we had a girl's name all picked out (no, I won't tell you, so please don't ask) quite early and easily, which pretty much guarenteed that we would be having a boy. God has a sense of humor.

Porter Chase Lee [last name]. That's his name. If you want to know the particulars of those name choices, send me an email and I'll relate the long, lengthy and laborious trail that my wife and I travelled to finally arrive at our son's name.

Porter likes to move. Previous to last night, only his mother had felt him moving around. Being with him 24/7 has that advantage. She would grab my hand, thrust it to her swelling tummy and we would wait for an hour or three before giving it up as a lost cause. That changed last night. I felt my son kick. He isn't a soccer player, but he is definately there, which is a great relief since there was concern Lil was just getting fat.

Not by me, mind you, just people. I was hearing things. I heard things.

But there ya go, that's the basics.

Changing of the Guard

I gave some long consideration as to what to do with this blog.

This was originally a site dedicated to the trials and terrors of foster care and adoption, becoming an instant parent to a child who had more issues than National Geographic. But as you may know, this has all faded away, and we can't help but be grateful that things have worked out the way they have.

So, as of today, and in honor of mi compadre y amigo arrival on the scene(two semesters of Spanish, and I ROCK!), I have decided to turn this into a blog about my forth-coming arrival.

That's right, when you can't adopt, you just go off and make one of your own.

So, this is the official changing of the guard. The next article you read will be on my impending doom as a father, my failures as a husband and my pathetic attempts to maintain friendship in the light of my poorly timed comments and what I consider to be wit.

Enjoy!