Letters to Holly

Monday, November 30

I'm Gonna Babble About How We Got Here

Now I can finally post about what's really going on in the house: Baby preparations.

Your Sister snacks constantly to ward off nausea. She got sick for the first time Saturday night, and I blame the restaurant's olive-oil dip. Also, she devoured the complementary bread after a few hours of an empty stomach. That couldn't help. She slept all day yesterday. I mean, all day. I'm worried she's going to be insurmountably behind in her weekend grading.

I, it turns out, am nesting. Without knowing it, I've become focused on home improvement. I was told last week that this is an instinct. Your Sister was warned by a parental magazine and disregarded it. The next morning, she says, I announced the gutters needed my attention. It's continued since. I'm a slave to nature.

We ate the Thanksgiving leftovers and the rest of the BBQ last night. Thanks again for that; it was bueno. Your Sis has declared chicken verboten in the house for now; the thought of it makes her ill. The pork you brought hit the spot.

We told Your Aunt about Roo on Friday, and she called back to suggest two names: Balthazar and another that sounds like "Brasilius." We thanked her, hung up the phone, and threw it into a fire. Your Sis talked to My Mom Sunday, and we all compared notes. Mom explained that she was stunned when we told her and gradually grew to happiness. It had to set in. She said she had written us off as breeders because we had been married so long (only four years, I reminded her), and we hadn't told anyone we were trying.

The second item probably requires some clarification. No, we told only a few people, and those were folks I knew from high school who have become moms. I wanted anecdotal advice from people at a distance. Then we had actual news to relay, we'd announce it to the world. I was worried about how long it might take to be pregnant, and I didn't want Your Sister subjected to fertility advice and requests for updates. I didn't want outside impatience to badger her. Luckily, we had no problems. As in, it was virtually immediate. That was a jolt. Turns out the abstinence-only advocates weren't spouting total gibberish after all. But let's hear it for Planned Parenthood and sex ed for allowing us to start a pregnancy when we wanted and when we were ready.

And we do think we're ready. We talked about this off and on for a year and decided in spring to make arrangements. That's when we started our name list (Good, Maybe, and Oh God No). When we found out we hit paydirt (Oct. 25), we began to skulk around store baby sections to check the equipment. We even printed out random registries at Target so we'd have an alibi if we were caught by friends. Mom offered to buy all the baby furniture, and we told her we appreciated it, and there was tons of time to window shop and make our must-have lists.

Your Sister suggested we tell you in advance, and I poo-pooed it. It's my fault. She mentioned it again recently, and I asked her if it was really a good idea to drop that bomb via a phone call while you were preparing for exams. I reminded you that a certain dim bulb did something similar, and she agreed we'd wait. It quickly becomes a burden to have such info that can't be shared. We each almost leaked to several people, and the wait was painful. Then, wouldn't you know, she was in wrenching tears Thursday at the thought of telling her family. She was terrified at the possible reactions. So I jumped on the grenade. That's why I was the one to say it. She admitted later she was silly to panic. Wild emotions are apparently par of the pregnant course.

Me, I have no nerves. I realize our convenient schedules will be compromised, and we will not know a decent night's sleep for years. Then I recall why we decided to do this: Not only will Your Sis make a great mom, but we feel the need to intelligently raise a kid. To combat through benevolent nurturing the madness we see around us. Our kid is an investment, a literal vessel of hope for better. This wasn't done because we're bored or envious of parents. We debated this for a year and checked our motives each time. We can do this right, and we can't wait much longer. In we jumped. Off we go.

We made a gingerbread house with Brooke Saturday as her parents enjoyed a night out with friends. She clung pretty tight to me starting Thursday afternoon and all through the weekend. We all went to the Grove Park Inn to see the gingerbread houses, and that scene was a zoo. Carrying her for two days was a fantastic workout. It also somewhat proved that we can watch a child without anyone exploding.

This blog won't change to cuddly-coo baby stories. I assure you. But I'll let you know how we're doing. We're officially at eleven weeks today. Roo is the height of a small lime and has fingernails, so the guidebook says.

Picture of the Day
The impending golden child in no way infringes upon our geekdom.

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