It's a Blunderful Life

Idle Thoughts

2009-11-09T15:37:00.000-08:00

The other day, I had a pleasant webcam conversation with M, who is now 3 years old. She has graciously decided that Baby Chicken could have one of her toys. However, she emphasized that this donation be restricted to a single item. M also explained that she had feet. Two of them, in fact.

In other news, we finished laundering Baby Chicken's initial supply of clothes, and I am left wondering how one is supposed to maintain control over baby socks. Normal socks are hard enough to keep paired up, but baby socks refuse to be corralled or kept in order. They slip through the cracks in the laundry basket, they pop out of your hand like Mexican jumping beans, and they easily scurry away and hide themselves with just a hint of static.

When pictures of Baby Chicken start appearing on this site, and you notice horribly mismatched socks on her tiny feet, you will know why.

We Found Post-It Notes Around the House for Weeks

2009-11-08T09:26:00.000-08:00

The Wife and I lived a quiet life back in NC, rock banding notwithstanding. And when my sister visited with her two girls, that quiet life had been gloriously disrupted for a week. But that didn't hold a candle to having my parents come visit with my sister and the nieces about a year and a half ago. Having them all together is a special form of chaos, one which is suitably contained at their respective homes, which have specialized far off rooms where one can retreat for some relative silence. One that is not suitably contained in our modest former home. And so it was that we found ourselves swimming in coolers, frozen Filipino food, juicy juice boxes, dolls, markers, camera bags, shoes, post-it-note art, pacifiers, Hannah Montana DVDs, and an exponential increase in garbage output.

My parents had been idly talking about visiting for 3 years, actually. Except, I think they feared that there would be so little to do in NC that they would end up doing manual labor around the house for entertainment. Not to say there's really anything at all to do where they live in rural Alabama.

So, I think they were surprised that we managed to keep them busy the whole time, taking them out to Brazilian food, a local garden, the children's science discovery museum, and have an Easter egg hunt at the house with plenty of time to torment the Booger and fall asleep while L watched/danced to/sang to her Hannah Montana shows.

M continued to display her ability to become completely absorbed in mechanically-oriented tasks, like watering flowers, playing with blocks (or just transporting blocks from one child's play area to another's), sweeping the floor (a favorite activity of hers), raking sand, or just scribbling on post-it notes. At the children's museum, we watched for almost an hour while she played at a station of small cubbyhole-like doors, each with different types of locks. Nothing but putting a block in one cubbyhole, closing the door, and then moving it to another. For an hour. There was much wailing and gnashing of teeth when we finally had to pry her away for fear of growing roots into the bench nearby. She also had a curious habit of hugging random children at the butterfly house, who apparently were not appreciate of said hugging. Strange children.

L, meanwhile, continued to display her abilities of mugging for the camera and being best friends with the Booger.

Overall, it was a fun, exhausting weekend of adults watching children play. And eating. Lots of eating. Because eating is synonymous with family get-togethers.

Not As Cool As My Aquariums

2009-11-07T18:21:00.000-08:00

Back in June, the Wife and I went drove down to Monterrey to see the aquarium. It was a bit of a birthday trip, to celebrate the last day that I would ever get to be the center of attention. Weep a monsoon for me.

So, yeah, we divided our attentions between the impressive displays and all the various shenanigans of the young children we saw. Like the boy on his push car ramming the bottom of the steps repeatedly, looking up at each descending person for approval. Or the little girl who would furtively slap her even littler brother, who would only stare back with a confused look, as if to say, "Was that supposed to mean something?" Reminds me of back when my parents laid down the law against sibling-on-sibling violence. And so my sister resorted to taking the heads off my LEGO people, putting them in her mouth, and then spitting them back out across the room. Which, in my 5-year-old mind, was akin to torturing kittens and puppies.

We cannot wait to have kids.

Anyways, it was a fun trip. Here are pictures with very little in terms of accompanying anecdotes or captions. Sometimes, pictures of fish are just pictures of fish.

I only post this blurry picture because I've never seen an octopus so active and out in the open. Although, judging by the way it would repeatedly back up against the rocks (there was a raw spot on the back of its "head"), I'd be tempted to say that it was high or something.

I think this one's really just a Muppet.

I Almost Forgot

2009-11-06T15:59:00.000-08:00

So, we got four votes on the poll about Baby Chicken's blog. Honestly, that was about 2 more than I was expecting; so, chalk it up in the win column!

I'm still finishing up all these "flashback" posts, but pretty soon, it'll likely be all Baby Chicken, all the time. Are you ready for an overload of baby-ness?

In any case, thanks for the comments, and keep 'em coming! Otherwise I mostly just sound like I'm talking to myself, and that's kind of sad.

Yes, that's two exclamation points in the same blog post! (Now 3!...cue: infinite loop)

In Memory of Fish I Have Bought and Sold

2009-11-06T13:41:00.000-08:00

Towards the end of my first year in grad school, many decades ago (0.8), I spent a lot of time thinking about how I would spend all my free time over the summer. Although I'd still be working in the lab, the absence of classes and homework would leave me with a lot of idle time that I was determined not to spend bettering myself in an academic/intellectual fashion. So, I decided to build my own aquarium. As one typically does in such a situation. If you're a loser.

Luckily, the Wife (The Girlfriend, at the time) did not find this decision to be repellent in any way.

So, yes, I built an aquarium. I would give more details about its construction and its particular specifications, referring to things like total volume, flow rate, filtration mechanism, and number of inhabitant species, but let's be honest. Just mentioning the term "flow rate" puts me in an elite class of nerd, and you'd probably just nod off anyway. For simplicity's sake, I will just say that it had fish and water in it. And coral. And crabs and shrimp and snails.

When all was said and done, the result was a living-room-dominating, eery-blue-glow-out-the-front-windows-creating monstrosity with a slight, barely perceptible slantedness to it. But I was a proud of it, and I enjoyed its presence (and usually, its maintenance) for 5 years. And our friends enjoyed cleaning the algae off the front glass with the magnetic scrubber. In truth, I was lucky that the whole system managed to establish a freakish biological equilibrium that permitted me to be increasingly neglectful of its upkeep without any significant consequences. Oftentimes, while the Wife and I were busy not deciding what to make for dinner, we would just sit and watch all the various goings-on in each tank. Like our flamboyant goby Armand grabbing food and spitting it into his burrow for his shrimp-partner Albert to eat in between shifts of clearing out new tunnels. Or the flame angel Fiona going about her usual business of biting chunks of tail off her tankmates.

However, as time passed and my favorite fish all died off from old-ish age (not really knowing the fish years conversion rate), I slowly lost interest in decided that it was time to break it all down.

Over a couple weeks in the fall of '07, I sold everything off piece-meal. And, let me tell you, it is very strange to take a fish that you had named and maintained for 4 or 5 years, and then haggle with a stranger over its price. And then to throw in the proverbial runt-of-the-litter fish into a deal because you knew nobody would buy it on its own. But I managed to sell of everything, recouping a significant amount of my investment in the process.

It was sad, but it was time to move on. So, the Wife and I used the money to buy kayaks. As one typically does in such a situation. The Wife loved the kayaks as much as I loved the aquariums. Sometimes she would make paddling motions in her sleep. We would often meet up with a couple of friends who had their own kayaks and venture to far off regions of eastern North Carolina to enjoy a couple hours of exploring and waterside picnicking and being bullied by fishing boats. Our kayaks even went with us on a vacation up to the Finger Lakes, where they mostly just attracted slugs and rain. Still, we felt like those outdoorsy people in the commercials as we drove around with those kayaks strapped to the top of the car.

Unfortunately, they, too, had a limited life with us. Bringing them with us to California proved to be impractical; so, the kayaks had to be sold. We managed a separate deal with our home-buyers over them and pocketed a significant amount of our investment.

And then we got to California and used the money to pay for half a month's rent.

A Tale of Two Sams or (Fake) Music Brings Us Together

2009-11-05T15:29:00.000-08:00

All I wanted was to get friends together in the same space and pretend to be a rockstar for a few minutes. Why did that have to be so difficult?

Well, first off, it boggles the mind that the Wife would not only give in to my desire to own the Rock Band videogame, complete with fake drum set that is fully capable of making drum-like-but-not-in-anyway-musical noises, but that she would actually buy it for me herself. She not only bought it for me, she left it as a surprise in the garage for me to almost run over. So, awesome with a twist of near-tragedy.

But, then, we realized that something was missing. An audience and fellow rockstars. And as we pondered this, we realized that something else was missing: a TV that wasn't 20 years old and that was capable of facilitating said fake-rocking without inducing blindness from eye strain. So, we bought a new TV. No big deal. And then we realized that yet another thing was missing: a new TV stand capable of housing our fancy, shiny new technological behemoth.

And that is where the trouble began.

The Wife and I were sort of particular in our search for a new entertainment center. The primary criterion, of course, was that it was big enough to house the TV. But it couldn't be too big. It also had to have doors to be able to hide the TV. But it couldn't be too dark, too antique-ish, too bright, too wide, too tall, too short, too narrow, too country, too contemporary, or too expensive. So, our couple weeks of scouring eastern North Carolina's furniture stores was essentially fruitless. Out of the blue, though, my parents suggested we look at Sams, because, after stocking up for nuclear war, the first thing I think of when I think of Sams is quality furniture. Lo and Behold, they had the perfect entertainment center, complete with sliding doors, nice (real!) wood construction, and a not-too-dark stain finish. The hutch for the TV for the videogame for the fake rocking for the friends who would want to come hang out because we're so cool had been found.

Unfortunately, we found it at the Sams in Raleigh, because the website declared it was unavailable at the one close to our home. We called the store, confirmed its availability, and inquired as to its relative largeness. "Oh, you should be able to get it in an SUV, no problem," he said, then hung up. So, we trekked out to the store in Raleigh, grabbed the item number and asked an attendant to let us see the boxes so that we could confirm its suitability for transport. "Oh, I'm not sure those are available just to take home by yourself. But I don't deal with furniture normally," he told us before disappearing. And then we waited. Three laps of food sampling later, we found another attendant, who looked confused then called to the back to send for help. Another half hour passed, and yet another guy took us to the back and pointed up into a distant, dusty corner. We squinted.

"You bring a U-haul?" he asked.

"It doesn't look that big," we responded, still squinting.

"That's the smallest of 3 boxes. And it's our last one. And they're discontinuing it," he said, annoyed. He then explained that we can have it delivered for just an additional 30% of the item's cost, and they have convenient shipping dates starting in 3 weeks. He advised that we go down the street and get a U-haul, which would only tack on an additional 15-20%. We actually briefly considered this, except that the U-haul center had no trucks left.

We left distraught, having wasted over an hour in travel and over an hour sampling not-so-good frozen delicacies from the Sams food section.

On a whim, though, we returned to Durham and stopped at the Sams there. Immediately, at the front of the store, we saw the entertainment on display. In five minutes, a swarm of attendants had gleefully confirmed that each box would fit individually in an SUV, and had retrieved said boxes from a precarious height, and had stacked them neatly on the curb outside for our pick up. How it is that two different branches of the same company operate so differently, I do not know, but we were ecstatic.

Nevermind that we had to rope in our friend Empty Cup to come with his SUV to join our two in caravaning the furniture home. And nevermind that the boxes (each containing one massive, complete chunk of the TV stand) were not so cooperative about fitting in our cars. And nevermind that Empty Cup, the Wife, and I lacked the strength to actually remove the boxes from the cars and into the house (apparently, furniture is heavy). And nevermind that we nearly crushed Empty Cup and/or gave him a hernia from the heavy lifting. We got the perfect TV stand for our TV for our videogame for (fake) rocking out with our friends who'd think we're cool. It was worth it.

Where is the TV stand now, you ask? Well, there was no way we'd part with it after all of those troubles, including nearly killing Empty Cup. So, the movers packed it up and shipped it across the country to us. And boy are we glad that we have it sitting in the garage collecting dust.

Our Bags Are Packed, We're Ready to Go

2009-11-04T15:27:00.000-08:00

The hospital kindly gave us a list of things we ought to bring with us when Baby Chicken is born. In TV shows and movies, you often see people heading off to the hospital in a panic, with one small bag or suitcase in hand. But this list insists that we will need all of our worldly possessions. The prospect of lugging all of the proposed items from parking up to the L&D suite is daunting. So, sorry, hospital, I don't think we'll be packing our rolling pin or a snowsuit for Baby C.

In any case, we pretty much are ready to go on a moment's notice. So, I guess I've got over a week's worth of finger-tapping, grass-grow-watching, paint-drying waiting to do.

Fun.

Baby Chicken Made an Enemy

2009-11-02T16:57:00.000-08:00

Because of the recent blood pressure scare, the doctors advised the Wife to undergo antenatal testing, which isn't so much testing as it is monitoring. In truth, she has shown no other warning signs, it's mostly just a precaution, but it provides us with half an hour of bonding time with the Baby Chicken once a week. Basically, we get a quick ultrasound, and then we listen to her heartbeat for 20 minutes. So, yeah, pretty painless.

Normally, this is about the most relaxing thing you can do as medical tests go. We just sit there and listen to the heart rate go up as Baby Chicken repositions herself or gives her mom a good swift kick in the ribs. And the nurse periodically checks in to make sure that the baby exhibits an appropriate amount of activity during our allotted time.

Unfortunately, our particular nurse is a bit crazy. On our last visit, she checked in and was unsatisfied with how much Baby Chicken had moved in the previous 10 minutes. I tried to point out to her a nice little peak on her heart rate chart, but she wouldn't hear of it, disappearing behind the curtains and saying that she'd be back to try out some of her "wake up baby" tricks.

That did not really prepare us for when she stormed back into the testing cubicle and began to shout at the Wife's belly, her face a good inch or two away from her stomach, clapping and hooting and hollering like a chicken on drugs (or a person wanting to be a chicken on drugs), seemingly oblivious to 1) how insane she looked, 2) how her screeches obviously caused us physical discomfort, and 3) how she was practically making out with the Wife's stomach. Pregnant or not, personal space had been violated, and it was extremely startling and uncomfortable to watch/experience.

Thankfully, Baby Chicken responded, heart rate skyrocketing angrily; so, the craziness ceased.

The nurse actually used to work on the L&D ward at the hospital. Man, am I glad that is no longer the case.

The Wisdom of Fathers

2009-10-25T13:27:00.000-07:00

Most of the women that the Wife and I talk to about babies and parenthood tend to say very specific, very instructive types of things. Sage advice about indispensable items we should have in the nursery, or little ways to establish a routine for ourselves that might save us a few minutes of sleep here or there.

The men I regularly converse with...that's another matter.

Here are some of the words of wisdom I have received over the last several months. Feel free to add your own in the comments, dads.

- Your life is over.
- Your life will never be the same.
- Say goodbye to doing the things you want to do.
- We'll see you again in 6 months. Maybe.
- You have no idea what you're in for. [Presumably, a child.]
- Don't sweat it. Life doesn't change that much. [His wife handles everything.]
- Do you get along with your in-laws? I hope for your sake that you do.
- Once they hit 12 pounds, life is gravy.
- Your child's feces will, for all intents and purposes, become an almost neutral compound to you.
- Pray for a girl. I'm tired of debating circumcision.
- When will your girl turn 18?
- Don't worry about her hating you when she's a teenager. She'll probably be embarrassed by you, but she won't hate you. She'll reserve that for her mother.
- Family trumps fun. [Just heard this one today! 10/26/09]

Yes, I'm Talking to You

2009-10-24T10:11:00.000-07:00

So, I've been thinking about this baby blogging thing. I've mentioned before that I plan on keeping a separate, family-friendly site devoid of as much of my running commentary as I am capable of suppressing (which will naturally overflow to here, I'm sure). You know, a site that my parents can easily pull up, show to their friends to show off their latest granddaughter, and use as a nice conversation segue into how the Wife and I have moved so far away, depriving them of their ability to spring surprise visitations on us.

Inevitably, though, this site will not be able to exist on pictures alone; so, I've been wondering how I should approach whatever writing may be necessary as exposition for all the various photographs of Baby Chicken [random aside: it is only a matter of time before I take pictures of Baby C in our stock pot]. This is where you come in...There is a poll to the right asking for your input on this matter. Should Baby Chicken's blog be written (A) in 1st person, from Baby Chicken's perspective, (B) in a self-referencing 3rd person from a parental perspective (complete with self-referencing as "Mommy" and "Daddy"), (C) in a generally objective 1st person, or (D) as Yoda.

For example:
(A) Today, I was very unhappy because I kept making stinkies. But Mommy and Daddy always come and make me feel all better.
(B) Baby Chicken has been pretty fussy lately; so, Mommy and Daddy have had a lot trouble getting enough sleep. Mommy can't wait to return to the quiet of work, leaving Daddy to deal with the crying all day.
(C) I took a picture of Baby Chicken crying.
(D) Cry all night, Baby Chicken does. Strangle themselves, her parents might.

There are your choices; so, make your voice heard. Seriously, you have an opportunity here to shape a whole website! And shape it you will, because your vote will likely be the only one. Also, feel free to follow up your vote with a comment or two below.

Naturally, I reserve the right to override the poll results. And, naturally, the Wife has the right to override whatever I do.

A Chucking Good Time

2009-10-22T18:32:00.000-07:00

While I'm on the topic of disc golf, I suppose it's a good time to get back to my photo-fueled trip down memory lane.

In grad school, most of my labmates played traditional ball golf; they would oftentimes slip out of lab early on a nice afternoon and play a round. I never joined them, having built up a number of prejudices against the sport, which are all perfectly justifiable despite my experience with the sport limited to an hour at a driving range in high school and intermittent games of the miniature variety. But I love disc golf, and luckily, many of my non-lab-affiliated friends did, too. It's a shame that there aren't more courses close to our place here, as was the case back in North Carolina.

For the uninitiated, disc golf is 20% walking, 5% throwing, 15% cursing when your throw goes awry, 10% debating with yourself whether a different disc will actually do what it's intended for or if you just suck, and 50% looking for your lost discs. So, you see, there's a lot to like.

In all seriousness, at the very least, you get to enjoy a nice hike with your dog and/or friends. And those 6 times when the disc does exactly what you want it to usually make up for the 48+ times it doesn't.

Back in North Carolina, we were a bit spoiled by having 3 courses close by and another half dozen within an hour. On one occasion, me, Other Chris, Colonel George, and Empty Cup ventured out to one of the more remote courses, sitting alongside a lake and in the shadow of a nuclear power plant, to see just how many discs we could lose (2). Now, you may think that pictures of people throwing objects sounds boring. And honestly, it really is now that I'm thinking about it, and I'm not really sure why I'm continuing with this post. But we can all deal with it, right? Also, I didn't actually take these pictures. Other Chris, sidelined by a self-inflicted gimpy arm, took them; so, you'll notice that they're actually in focus and well-composed for once.

This is a common pose while playing disc golf. More often than not, it follows a horrendous throw, but it also occasionally signifies a perfect throw. Knowing the abilities of Colonel George here, it probably was the latter.

This picture may look impressive, but I can guarantee you that Empty Cup's throw is going to fly way off to the right.

A more common sight than that of people throwing discs down open fairways is that of people throwing discs from behind a lot of trees. For example:

This course had a particular gruesome hole that involved throwing a disc an impossible distance over water to tail off towards the left where the basket was hiding behind a lot of overgrown reeds. From our reaction shots, you can tell we succeeded.

Our pathetic attempts on that hole led to some fun salvage follow-up throws from the muddy banks. In the second picture, I am both expressing concern that I am sinking and also trying to figure out where the hell the basket is.

Lastly, we have me doing my best Shoot McGavin impression, Colonel George making an interesting throw, and just a cool picture, courtesy of Other Chris.

Throwing Myself Back Out There

2009-10-22T15:44:00.000-07:00

It has been hard meeting people since moving to California. Baby Chicken will likely be all the company I need (and/or have) in the near future, but until her arrival, I have been struggling to find ways to fill the social void in my life. After all, I am an extrovert. Or not. But, I have started to notice how solitary a homebound existence can be when I noticed that my jaw would become sore after a full day of keeping it clenched in silence.

I do still play a lot of ultimate, but extending a friendship beyond the sport has proven to be difficult, since our on-field conversations are limited to the words "stall", "up!", "heads!", the numbers 1 through 10, and an assortment of inventive curse words ("This game brought to you by the letter 'Eff!'").

So, in addition to begging our neighbors to be our friends, I have also begun the awkward process of man-dating. Earlier this week, I actually met up with a guy I knew from ultimate to play a round of disc golf. And while we did have to go through an early period of awkward conversation, much like you would on a first normal date (not that I've had many first dates...not that I should be disclosing that), it went over reasonably well. Granted, we mostly just talked about disc golf and ultimate (and mushrooms, oddly enough), but it wasn't like I was expecting him to ask me to be his best man or invite me to a Giants game (if they were still playing, of course). Still, it is a start. And one day, maybe I'll even have a handful of folks I can call on for dog-sitting or car-borrowing type favors. But perhaps we've just been spoiled by the folks we left back in North Carolina.

Well, even if he turns out to be "just not that into me", at least it was a good game of disc golf.

Blame Her Mother

2009-10-21T13:24:00.000-07:00

When one of my co-workers at my old job had a baby, the Wife and I visited him and brought his fledgling family some food, because we heard that this is what you're supposed to do on such an occasion (hint: dropped. Like an anvil). While his wife's back was turned, my friend gave my wife and I a mischievous, conspiratorial look and motioned for us to come over and take a good look at his infant daughter. He applied a light pressure on the top of her forehead to wrinkle her brow a bit more, then pointed out a striking resemblance to The Brain. I have to admit, it was pretty funny, but in the back of my mind, I was thinking, "Would I do that to my own child?"

Yes. Yes, I would.

But, apparently, the Wife would do it first.

We went in for a precautionary anatomy ultrasound to check on the Baby Chicken this week. Here is what we observed:
1) She is head-down. Which is good.
2) She is not ready to come out. Which is also good. For now. This at least gives me time to install the car seat.
3) She has long legs, apparently part of the inheritance from the Wife. Seriously, her legs are 2 weeks ahead of the rest of her body. Baby Chicken will outgrow me before she learns to talk, I fear.
4) 36 weeks is too late for a 3-D rendered ultrasound, unless you're pre-casting for The Hobbit.

I could go into detailed explanations for (4), but the short and sweet of it is that 3-D renderings require a little bit of space around the baby's face to make a good picture. And at this stage, Baby Chicken is far too cramped to give us a 3-D picture. We never really were interested in getting one in the first place, but our sonographer was curious and insisted that she try. The result? Well, my first reaction was, "There's Baby Chicken! She looks kind of disgruntled."

The Wife's first reaction was, "She looks like Gollum."

But let me clarify. She said this with all the maternal love she had; so, monsters, we are not. It's not as if we really expect her to look like Smeagol outside of the womb. We hope.

And that evening, after hunching over, clutching her belly, and crying, "My Precious!", the Wife and I shared many a good laugh about how we can use this to embarrass Baby Chicken at various stages throughout her life.

A Novel Gift

2009-10-19T16:04:00.000-07:00

This past weekend, the Wife and I met some of her fellow residents for a dim sum lunch. In the middle of totally lunch-appropriate banter about tissue samples and mashing fat, we were presented with a gift for the Baby Chicken. She now has four new sets of mittens and a double AA battery to tuck into each one, fully equipping her to put a beatdown on any other babies who encroach on her territory without leaving behind a single baby fingerprint. Genius.

They also got us a bouncy seat.

It's Getting Kind of Real

2009-10-18T14:21:00.000-07:00

A couple weeks ago, the Wife and I toured the labor and delivery suite where we will ostensibly go to pick up our baby order. The first item of business was to inform us that our insurance would not cover parking. In San Francisco, this pretty much means that keeping our car at the hospital will be more expensive than the delivery of our child. We have good insurance; so, I don't think I'm actually exaggerating on that one.

The second order of business was to herd all of the expecting couples up to the L&D suite and show us an immaculate birthing room, complete with full view of the city and the bay. Then to tell us that none of us will ever set foot in that room again.

After that, a nurse entered and proceeded to explain that they would respect our birth plans and try their hardest to accommodate our every need. Except, she continued, we should expect nothing, because births are long and loud and messy and chaotic and birth plans are oftentimes only good for being thrown out the window or crumpled up and thrown at nurses or doctors or expecting husbands. I liked this nurse. She had a good sense of humor.

Her news was reassuring, because the current birth plan I have written down says, "Deliver the baby with no loss of life or limb by any party involved." I keep forgetting to add the Wife's addendum: "Drugs are okay." I'll get to it soon, I think.

Afterwards, the Wife and I left with the same thought in our heads, "Holy crap. We're coming back here and leaving with a baby."

Imagine How Many Pictures I'll Take of My Own Daughter

2009-10-16T12:19:00.000-07:00

This is what typically happens when I travel back to Alabama for a family event: I am welcomed, I am hugged, I am fed, and then I am handed a camera to take pictures of everything with minimal actual participation. Or, I am handed a set of keys to go pick up relatives from the airport.

Typically, it is my mother handing me the camera, since she is the usual photographer. She always entrusts me with the picture taking because she does not trust my father with gadgetry (despite his role as the purchaser of said equipment) and because my presence is perceived as a bonus set of hands. I suppose it would be easy to fire back, "Take your own damn pictures, woman," but my mother is quick and whip-smart, capable of returning fire with any number of prepared statements:
1) I carried you for 9 months
2) How often are you around to help your mother?
3) I never vocally questioned your vocation.
4) Who helped you get all those extra points in Scrabble yesterday?
So, you see, I am defenseless. And so I take the pictures.

Such was the case when the Wife and I attended M's 1st birthday, just over 2 years ago. We arrived late the previous night; so, after the welcoming and the hugging, the feeding had to wait till morning.

The celebration was doubling as a house blessing; so, I got to be the only one moving around during all of the quiet, standing still time. You can also see the Wife towering over the Filipino contingent, having more in common with them than the Alabama contingent.

As is typical at these things, you can count on one of my unrelated cousins to roam the party and terrorize the little children (and the photographer..who is also little). I have a fair amount of dirt on this one from us growing up together, but I let him enjoy his temporary position of power.

As for the birthday girl, she was the only actual 1-yr-old at the party; so, she pretty much just waddled around and charmed the pacifiers off of every adult that noticed her underfoot. I could show you a few dozen pictures of strangers holding her, but that gets old.

I don't know why she looked so disgruntled when presented with her cake, but she warmed up to the whole idea when presented with her own personal one to attack like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Baby.

After the wardrobe change, it was time to open presents. I don't know what happened, but apparently there was an uncontrolled drool outbreak that necessitated an additional wardrobe change. I'm not sure the Wife and I will have enough clothes to change the Baby Chicken this often. Then again, knowing my parents, it's safe to say that we will.

After all the strange people had left, we had the opportunity for a quieter, more family-oriented celebration, complete with ice cream and a parade led by L (and another ill-fated wardrobe change). As you can tell, M really likes her ice cream. Some may call the Wife's teasing here cruel or reprehensible, but, come on, that's hilarious. We're totally doing the same thing with Baby Chicken.

If you made it to the end, kudos to you. Here are your party favors.

Man vs Dog vs Not-So-Wild

2009-10-15T09:07:00.000-07:00

Today, it is raining here on the Peninsula. But not just rain, it's windy, beat-you-into-submission rain. Since I am indoors, you would think I'd have nothing to complain about except that the power has gone out 5 times today. And you'd think I wouldn't be so foolish as to reset all the clocks three times, but well, there's not a whole lot else to do.

I mostly mention this because this will be the third time I've attempted to finish this post. Previously, my faith in Blogger's auto-save features was pretty strong, but it has let me down two times already today. And while many may say that the third time's the charm, I will say that if you are not satisfied with this third iteration about camping, it is not my fault. The post I wrote previous to this (and subsequently lost to the ether) was glorious. A magnum opus on my first experience camping, sure to make you laugh and cry and cheer out loud. An epic guaranteed to reaffirm your faith in mankind and the survival of the human spirit.

Instead, here are the dregs of my memory.

Eons ago, I mentioned that the Wife, the Booger, and I would be going camping with some friends and their respective dogs. I may have also suggested that the Booger and I are both ill-suited for such adventures. Well, over 2 years later, I have survived to tell the tale.

Luckily, we participated in a phenomenon known as "Car Camping." This is an extremely taxing, rugged, Man vs Wild type of activity that can really push one to his or her limits. Common, potentially lethal hazards one must contend with include backaches from bending over to get water from a faucet at your campsite, leg cramps from hiking 50 yards uphill to a fully plumbed restroom, and eye strain from the lack of 60 watt light fixtures.

And how was the camping? Well, here is what I remember:
1. S'mores taste good even without chocolate. Not that I would know what they taste like with chocolate in the first place.
2. The ground is hard.
3. The addition of 3 dogs makes any trip more interesting. We had Super G drooling rain out the window on the ride over to the state park, and then almost suffering from hypothermia in the frigid forest nights (lows in the high 50s!). We also had the three dogs tied up in a triangle formation around our campsite, ostensibly to avoid leash tangles, but also as a strange, highly ineffectual defensive perimeter. And then we had the Booger not understanding the strange disconnect between her hearing and her sight while inside the tent. There were multiple times when she would hear another dog or a squirrel and go lunging headlong into the side of the tent. So yeah, sleep came real easy out there. It was also fun to watch Super G bound up sheer, vertical rock faces like a mountain goat while the rest of us watched panting with our tongues lolling out. Or, at least, that's what the Booger did.

4. Arbitrary restrictions are lame. We did a fair amount of hiking over the weekend, letting the dogs reconnect with their animal instincts (on leash, of course...usually), but at one point, we just wanted to be lazy by some water and soak in the sun. Except that the state park had closed off their main pond for no apparent reason. Perhaps that portion of the park observed the Sabbath?
5. Nature is pretty. And then we showed up with 3 dogs, copious Duke paraphernalia, and cowboy hats.

5. Camping is tiring. Probably a lot of that has to do with item (2). And item (3). On the way home, we decided to relax and rest our bones by going to one of the longest disc golf courses in North Carolina. I'm struggling with the logic on that one, but I won the round; so, at least I went home happy.

A Matter of Perspective

2009-10-13T15:38:00.000-07:00

The Wife and I have begun unboxing and unwrapping all the various supplies I retrieved from Babies R Us the other day. Upon pulling out a single newborn diaper, we held it up in front of us and marveled at the minuscule nature of the thing and the minuscule nature of the soon-to-be-born Baby Chicken but not so much the nature (however minuscule or not) of what was to go into the diaper.

Then the Wife held the diaper up against her stomach, and it suddenly looked gigantic.

Will Baby Chicken Care About Thread Counts?

2009-10-12T15:12:00.000-07:00

For me, preparing for Baby Chicken has been like preparing for that great overseas vacation that you've been anxiously awaiting for months. You've already assembled an array of mental pictures of what it will be like, and you can already sense what it will feel like to be there, even through any anxieties about the travel or the sheer foreign-ness of what you will experience. And every time you revisit those mental pictures, you just get more anxious and excited about it all. But, of course, have you packed yet? Have you made sure all of your travel documents are in order? Are you really prepared? Well...

So, yeah, checking off things from the to-do list has been slow. And everyone who knows about the baby asks us about our general level of preparedness, and while I might respond with something like, "We've got just about everything," I am usually thinking to myself, "...except for things that aren't a crib or stroller."

Luckily, we have good friends. Not just so good as to lend us their stuff, but to physically haul us to the Babies R Us and point out all the things we don't have yet. Our college friends came up from LA with Greta and dogs in tow, and while the Wife was at work, I was treated to a game of You Have No Idea, Do You? And while there were many things that I was very much aware of our need for, there were just as many items getting thrown into the cart that left my face saying "?" or "!".

Also, I am finding it strange that, as you begin your transition (or descent) into parenthood, you suddenly are granted a license to publicly speak about all manner of body parts and functions that are normally not polite conversation. Who knew I'd get to say "nipple" so much?

In the end, I found myself at the checkout counter with an overloaded cart full of all manner of pint-sized implements (but no pink!). And as I watched the total on the register climb, a woman in line behind me took one calculating look at my purchases and deduced that I was shopping for a baby. I think the nipple cream tipped her off (or the fact that we were in a Babies R Us). After confirming with me that 1) I was shopping for my own baby, and 2) the baby was reasonably close to her day of arrival, she said, "You're a good man. Not many dads like you out there."

I am fully aware that I was to take this as a compliment, but I was prepared to fire back with one of two responses:
A) "Oh lord, please don't share."
or
B) "You mean most dads-to-be aren't terrified and scared shitless, as well as astounded/perplexed/apalled/inundated by all of this stuff they have to get, not to mention all of the other baby things they have to do but have no idea about?"

Instead, I smiled, stared bug-eyed at the receipt, then thanked her for her kind words as I carted off my new stash of baby goods, soon to be christened with all manner of adorable baby emissions.

In any case, thanks to our good friends, I am now feeling considerably more materially prepared for Baby Chicken. As for the emotional aspect, well, that's another story.

I Show No Favoritism, Preference, or Partiality of Any Kind

2009-10-09T14:48:00.000-07:00

The notion to start a family did not materialize out of thin air. We've always known we would want to have kids. But a couple years ago when I spent some time helping my sister, I got a true taste of chaos, and, strangely enough for someone who prefers routine, I discovered that I liked it. Actually, I loved it.

Now, the Wife always chastises me for showing favoritism towards M, saying that there will be dire consequences should I ever exhibit similar preferential behavior towards our own future progeny. But, you see, I did not get to spend much time with her older sister L when she was a baby. And, as Michael Lewis says in his not-so-encouraging memoir of fatherhood, "It's only in caring for a thing that you become attached to it." And yes, the "thing" in question here is his son. So it was that I spent a couple weeks staying up all night ~~writing my dissertation and~~ watching over M during her nothing-but-sleep-and-grunts phase, and so it is that I do have an attachment to her that I can't say I have for L. But my official statement on that would be: "I love both my nieces equally."

I say this because, as I begin to mosey down memory lane, you may find yourself a bit inundated with pictures of the nieces, and, in particular, M. Ignore them, or just suck it up and deal with it, I don't care. An added perk (and scare) of doing this is getting to see how quickly both of the nieces are growing up, knowing that Baby Chicken will be doing the same. She'll be slamming doors in our faces and wishing we weren't her parents in no time, I'm afraid.

In any case, the summer after I finished up that whole PhD thing, we managed to get my sister to visit with the then not-quite 4 and 1-yr-old nieces. How she managed flying with both of them on her own, I do not know, although I do vaguely recall her saying something about a "nervous breakdown" and "tranquilizers." They stayed with us for a week, during which all of our best-intentioned plans and schedules were routinely thrown out the window as naps and tantrums and the significant lag time associated with preparing two young girls for adventure had to be accounted for. Oftentimes, we were content to just relax with them at home, doing things like slaughtering strawberries.

Still, we succeeded in getting them to a few of our favorite NC places, if not always at the planned-on day or time. Most of our activities were associated with cooling off, as the heat and humidity of Carolina summers had come to full bloom by that point. Not something we'll miss about North Carolina, I have to say.

As you can see, M was not always in the mood for sunshine.

We also took them to our favorite popsicle store, where M really took to the more sour paleta flavors. L did as well, but they did not appear to help her cool off.

Lastly, we took them out to the NC Zoo, where by far the best attractions for the girls were the fake monkeys (pardon, chimpanzees) and the playground. Nevermind that we probably could have found both in Durham rather than driving the 1.5 hours out to Asheboro.

Split Personality or How I Will Manage to Occupy Myself Till Baby Chicken Is Here

2009-10-08T13:53:00.000-07:00

Permit me a moment to talk somewhat out loud to myself. Actually, the truth is that these blog posts are really mostly just me talking out loud to myself, because, really, it's pretty quiet around here and the Booger is not the best conversationalist. The fact that someone other than myself might actually read these things is just a bonus. Or not, depending on what embarrassing aspect of myself I choose to share on any particular day.

Um, yeah, so where was I?

So, the Wife and I have been discussing what my plans are with regard to documenting the expansion of our family and our transition into the world of parenthood and all of its joys and frustrations and rubber nipples. You see, she is generally very approving and encouraging of this whole blogging thing. She sees it as a great way to document the little and big moments of our life together, lies and embellishments notwithstanding. And we both agree that we'd like to keep it going once Baby Chicken arrives. The problem is that we would also like to provide a means for our families to keep track of Baby Chicken as she transforms from kinda-alien-looking, immobile, not-particularly-exciting baby-thing into a wide-eyed, cooing, baby-fat-encapsulated ball of cuteness and on into a teetering, mischievous toddler and so forth. Except, most of our family would not "get" this site. Not the nicknames or the pseudo-anonymity or the faux-ego counterpointed with amplified self-deprecation. Not any of that. And let's be honest. This blog isn't about Baby Chicken or the Wife or the Booger at all. It's all about me, dadgummit.

And if my parents were to read that last bit, they would probably have to have some words with me. Words associated with how I was raised better than that.

And if my parents were to read that last bit about words, they would probably have to have some more words with me. Words associated with privacy and propriety or whatnot.

So, you see, (and the Wife agrees), I can't just go public with this thing. That may sound odd considering that just about anyone can see this, but I think you get what I mean. Therefore, thusly, ergo, and henceforth, we will be starting a second site with the sole purpose of being a baby blog for Baby Chicken. It will likely be a bit on the plain, vanilla, white-bread side of things, consisting of mostly pictures and video and short, matter-of-fact details on her development with no hint of personality from me or the Wife whatsoever. And for those of you who could care less about me and the Wife and the Booger and how we all manage to adjust to Baby Chicken's presence, only wanting to see baby pictures, then, there'll be a link to this new site from here. Meanwhile, I will continue to "write" about our blunderful life here and share my lies with all 3 of you. And those baby-diseased fanatics who only care about Baby Chicken will have no link from her site to here. So there. Problem solved.

Meanwhile, we have hit that calm before the storm that is pretty boring and uneventful, leaving me with nothing to really talk about except the weather, which can be summed up for all eternity here mid-Peninsula with "sunny, breezy, and generally pleasant". So, my goal is to go back and fill in some memory gaps from the past couple years, up to our recent cross-country relocation. It seems fitting to count down the days to Baby Chicken's arrival by looking back on how we got here.

And for the record, for those of you wondering where the blog title came from in the first place, "blunderful" was a word that the Wife and I came up with in college to describe things that we are not particularly suited or prepared for, but we enjoyed nonetheless. Blunder + wonderful. It's not particularly original, and others use the word to alternate effect, but it's stuck with us over the years.

Scotty Beamed Her Up

2009-10-07T13:21:00.000-07:00

This past weekend, I let the Booger out in the backyard. A few minutes later, I went out on the front porch to get the mail, only to find the Booger snooping around in the front yard. Upon thorough inspection of the backyard, I could not find any evidence of her escape.

Here are my theories:
1. It was a windy day. Perhaps she unfurled her ears and flew over the 6ft fence.
2. Unbeknownst to us, she has been high jump training. Given her affinity towards sleeping on the couch, I think this one can be safely ruled out. Much less likely than (1).
3. She moved aside the vent grates to the basement and carefully replaced them to cover her tracks.
4. A large bird carried her over the fence.
5. She duped a neighbor into letting her out.

As you can see, I have very sharp detective's instincts.

Hyperventilation is Easy When You Have Asthma

2009-10-05T15:04:00.000-07:00

A little over a year ago, the Wife underwent a procedure for a relatively minor heart condition. The doctor was top-notch, the procedure was relatively routine, and really, there should've been nothing to bite any nails or pull any hair out over. But, it was also one of those procedures that had a 1% chance of causing a stroke. However, I was a pretty informed spouse, having actually researched this type of procedure during grad school; so, I had no problems until I sat in the waiting room and began reading an article about the need to pick out a rehab facility before such procedures. Because You Never Know What Could Happen, and You Don't Want to Have to Make These Important Decisions After the Fact. Cue longest day of my life.

Lesson? Waiting room literature is evil.

Actually, the lesson is, that, no matter how informed and calm and prepared we are, it's still easy to descend into panic. I mention this because I have now entered the Irrational Fears phase of pregnancy/pre-fatherhood. With our rapid progression toward Baby Chicken's arrival, I've begun to think about anything and everything that could go wrong. And anything and everything that I may or may not be prepared for. And then there are the fears that really have no logical or natural (or, of course, rational) purpose.

Last week, we had a bit of a scare. Let me correct that. I had a bit of a scare. The Wife's blood pressure had started to spike, bringing about concerns of preeclampsia. And while I began wondering if she would have to go on bed rest or if there might be other complications, the Wife maintained a relatively zen attitude about it. Mostly because her current workload denies her the energy to worry, I think. But we began monitoring her blood pressure more closely (minor perk: I got to say "sphygmomanometer" more often). At first, when high readings would pop up, I would have to resist to urge to cheat and lie and pronounce a lower number, just to see if I could trick myself into not worrying about it. Eventually, though, they returned to relatively normal, and we began to breathe easier.

Tasked with worrying for the both of us, though,I am sure that I will be more than capable of fulfilling my duties of fretting over everything.

This Does Not Bode Well

2009-09-23T13:35:00.000-07:00

Let me walk you through our routine last night (all times approximate, since I do not typically log our activities by the minute):

10:45pm: We get back home from picking up the Wife from work. Yes, it was a long day for her and Baby Chicken.

10:47pm: I let the Booger out in the backyard.

11:00pm: After her shower, the Wife and I watch a little TV to wind down.

11:40pm: The Wife and I brush our teeth and get ready for bed.

11:50pm: The Wife and I morse code with Baby Chicken.

11:55pm: We turn out the lights.

12:30am: I get out of bed wondering where the Booger is.

12:35am: After checking under the bed and in the living room, I realize that I never let her back in from the backyard. Oddly enough, the Booger is oblivious, still sniffing around. What new smells she can find in a 15'x15' yard, I have no idea.

So, yes, I am all set for parenthood. I suppose I should go back and add to my list: 6) Do not misplace or forget the whereabouts of the baby.

Complete with Light Saber

2009-09-19T15:20:00.000-07:00

Baby Chicken's got wheels now.

I picked up her stroller from the store a few days ago and assembled it (put the wheels on); so, now all we need is the Baby Chicken. That's not to say that this was in any way a simple process.

The Wife and I decided that a stroller would be one of the things we would get ourselves, rather than accept a hand-me-down from friends or family. We're not really sure if this stemmed from reading about expensive strollers in Stuff White People Like or whether we just didn't want Baby Chicken to be totally slumming it in all second-hand gear. Nevertheless, we decided on these requirements for the baby's ride:

1. Must be easy to maneuver, likely with one hand, since the other one will be occupied keeping the Booger from eating poo.
2. Must not be pink.
3. Must make us look more active than we really are

So, the Wife went out with her mother for some "test driving" one weekend, and a couple hours later, she called me at home and asked me to look up a particular brand. I thought she wanted me to have a look at one of her top candidates, but she was actually hoping I could find instructions on how to return it from its transformed state (big, immobile hunk of wheels, bars, and fabric) to its active stroller state (big, mobile hunk of wheels, bars, and fabric).

When she returned home and encouraged me to go out and do some test driving of my own, I did not pick up any overly positive vibes from her experience. Sure enough, a few days later, I found myself staring down an aisle of dozens of strollers, mouth agape, trying to digest the sheer A) variety, B) complexity, and C) expense of them all. I actually went baby store hopping after an ultimate game; so, imagine a confused, sweat-soaked, dirt-smeared guy who looks 18-years-old at a distance (and sometimes up close) inspecting strollers, fumbling with straps and levers and buckles. It is no wonder that store attendants kept checking on me.

In the end, I helped narrow things down to two viable options, and then the Wife helped me see that the second option was just there out of formality. So, now the Baby Chicken's got a ride. And the Booger fears it.