Category: Love

Dear Charlie,

Is this how our life is going to be — one constant competition to see who can one-up each other?

Jeez, sounds like our fathers.

Sure, you may have arrived in this world first, but man, there were some things you missed out on by not staying inside your mom’s womb for a few more weeks.

Instead you had to flaunt to the entire world your full mane of hair. At least I wasn’t far behind on that front and we’ve both got more than my dad.

Well, there were a few drawbacks of arriving later. Maneuverability became similar to driving in Seattle at rush hour. I guess that’s what happens when you come out at 8 pounds, 3 ounces. Whatever mom was eating sure gave me a constant case of the hiccups. And for goodness sake, could dad get the remote out of mom’s hands once or twice to watch something other than the 26 versions of Law and Order? I can’t walk, but I can prosecute a murder case.

But, it was kind of cool sticking out my knees and elbows and making my mom’s stomach look like some odd form of abstract art. And you can’t argue against a diet of ice cream, ice cream and more ice cream.

I will be calling upon you for advice in the coming months. I mean, you have exactly a two week headstart on all those joyous things we’re about to experience: diaper rash, teething, pooping ourselves, pooping on our dads. I’m going to need to know all the idiosyncrasies of accomplishing those tasks in the most efficient manor (especially the pooping on dad part).

Cheers my friend. Now begins our partnership as Zillionaire-brethren driving our fathers on a daily basis ever closer to insanity.

Sincerely,
Logan Dale Booth (sure to be known to all Zillionaires as Booth, Jr.)

My son Charlie clearly had enough of the womb. Even though it meant being born seven weeks early, he busted out last Thursday. After reflecting on his situation, I really can’t argue with his decision.

Consider the following:

The Food: For the entire gestation period, my wife has been force-feeding my son a steady diet of veggie bowls and yogurt smoothies. No prime rib. No pizza. No cheeseburgers. In other words, he’s been severely malnourished. You pretty much know the food is bad when the baby is actually looking forward to an exclusive diet of breast milk.

The Conversation: Trapped inside his mother’s uterus, my son was essentially a captive audience. And needless to say, my wife is not exactly Cedric The Entertainer. Essentially Charlie was forced to spend the last seven months listening to all of my wife’s interminable work stories. At least I had mobility, and could simply walk away mid-sentence during the third consecutive story about paper jams or the office printer being short of toner. Poor Charlie didn’t even have the dexterity to cover his ears. Frankly, I think he bolted just to hear something more stimulating, like the low buzz of hospital machinery.

The Television: There are few things more frustrating in life than to not be in control of the remote. I saw this coming once Gonzaga’s basketball season ended. Charlie was back to watching my wife’s sweet TV lineup of Desperate Housewives and The Gilmour Girls. In fact, I’m pretty sure all of this started during an episode of Oprah… Only it wasn’t labor. Charlie simply tunneled his way out like in the movie “The Shawshank Redemption.”

So Charlie, I don’t blame you one bit. If anything, I’m surprised you were able to hold out as long as you did. In light of the circumstances, I’m convinced that you decided to bolt early just so you could hang with your Dad. Fellow Zillionaires, please welcome the newest member to our ranks: Charlie Ryan Ring, The Centaur Jr.

Having completed three minutes of squat thrusts, I blow the whistle around my neck signaling to my wife that it’s time for her to change stations.

She dutifully proceeds to the next station, where she is to perform 100 reps of Kegel exercises. I monitor her activities, but truthfully, this is one exercise where I can’t tell if she’s actually doing anything. Nevertheless, I offer encouragement through the usual workout clichés…

Me: “Feel the burn!!”

Me: “That’s it. Push yourself!”

Me: “Ok, ten more reps… on my count: 1… 2… 3…”

And so on. This is how we spend our evenings, in intense physical training. You see, I am the birthing coach, and I’m transforming my wife into a birthing prizefighter.

At first I was unsure of my role. Once I agreed to become a coach, I immediately scheduled open tryouts so that I could handpick the members of my birthing roster. We had a weeklong tryout and evaluation period. Regrettably, I had to cut a few players, but I encouraged them to work hard, and to tryout for the team again next year.

Sadly, the team wasn’t together for long. As I was preparing my playbook prior to our first practice, I did a little research, and I found out that “birthing” isn’t a team sport. Go figure. This was good news for my wife, as she was going to have a tough time cracking the starting lineup. Now, she’s the star player of my team.

It worked out well. True, with a one-man roster it makes it impossible to hold a decent scrimmage. Instead, we focus on running crisp drills, putting in solid workouts, and perfecting our offense. That’s right… I tend to focus on offense more than defense. I do try to run intense practice sessions, but I simply don’t have the requisite fire to stress defense. I’d probably have to transform myself into the Bobby Knight of birthing coaches to pull it off, and the last thing my wife needs is for me to hurl a chair across the delivery room.

Anyway, I need to get back to my wife’s workout. I noticed that she slacked a little bit on that last station with the medicine ball. We both know what that means: She just bought herself a second round of wind sprints at the end of practice.

Allow me share the contents of my deluxe Ronco Knife set:

Butcher knife
Carving knife
Boning knife
Bread knife
Cheese knife
Paring knife
Fillet knife

Are you seeing the same glaring omission that I am? That’s right, there’s no Umbilical Cord Knife.

My wife is going to deliver a baby in a few months, and it is my responsibility to cut the umbilical cord. I’m okay with this. As the man of the house, it’s my job to kill the spiders, take out the garbage and sever feeding tubes as needed.

However, what will I use to actually make the cut? I assume they provide a cutting device of some kind at the hospital, but I’m not positive. I’d hate to show up unprepared, and have to dig through my pockets and use my car keys or something.

To prevent potential embarrassment, I’m going to bring my own blade to the delivery. What type of blade, you ask? First off, I’m extremely reluctant to raid the kitchen knife set. Sure, a butcher knife would work, but it seems like it might be overkill. And I don’t want my child’s first sight of his father to include me wielding a butcher knife. For this same reason, I won’t bring a chainsaw in either. I really want to make a good first impression here.

Here’s another concern… Will I have a cutting board to work with? Or am I going to have to swipe and cut the cord in midair? If that’s the case, I think I would rather have something longer, like a sword. A sword would certainly look cool too. Plus, it would bring a little showmanship to this event.

Of course, for a midair cut, hedge clippers could also be effective. Hedge clippers are certainly practical, and would probably have a smaller margin for error compared to the sword. Although, it obviously wouldn’t look as cool as wielding a sword. It seems like there might be enough theatrics in the delivery room at that time, so maybe I don’t need to steal the spotlight.

On the other hand, I want my son to think I handled this moment with a certain degree of awesomeness. For instance, my dad used throwing stars to sever the umbilical cord when I was born. Everyone, including the doctor, thought that was pretty spectacular. Using hedge clippers seems more like I’m cutting the ribbon to dedicate a shopping center, rather than symbolically severing the bond between mother and child.

Perhaps I should consider the consistency of the umbilical cord as well. Is it soft and flexible? Or is there firmness to it? Maybe if it is firm enough, I could get someone to hold it steady and I could karate-chop through it. Talk about showmanship! That would definitely bring down the house.

Finally, I have one other alternative I’m actively considering. What if I were to craft my own handmade umbilical cord knife? In my garage, I could make a beautiful ceremonial knife, with a gilded blade and ornate handle, possibly with a carved dragon on it. And I would unsheathe this blade solely for the purpose of severing the umbilical cords of my many children. Ultimately it would become a family heirloom, serving as the blade that welcomes several generations of my descendants into the world. Needless to say, I’m leaning heavily towards this option.

My wife is pregnant, and in a few months, her water will break. I’ve been made aware of this. As I tend to fear what I don’t understand, let me say that I am terrified right now.

Let’s start with the choice of terminology. Her “water” is going to “break”. First off, how do you “break” water? Is breaking water like breaking wind, only infinitely messier?

And why are we tiptoeing here? Her “water” is going to “break,” huh? Ok. Will her “spatula” do the “limbo”? Is her “curling iron” going to “operate a bulldozer”? Why are we combining nonsensical nouns and verbs together to totally mystify the birthing process?

Sadly, I think I know the answer. I’m afraid that the term “water” is a euphemism. Let’s be real here. I’m sure whatever comes out will be maybe 70% water, but what about the other 30%? My wife isn’t a camel. It’s not like she’s been storing a supply of water in her hump these last six months.

And how much “water” are we talking about here? A glass? A gallon? How involved will the cleanup process be? Will this simply involve a roll of Brawny or will I have to bust out the wet/dry vac from the garage? Should I look into renting a Hazmat suit?

It just seems like it could be a tremendous mess. And normally, tremendous messes are my wife’s department. But once the water breaks, that’s it. It’s time to go to the hospital. What about the huge mess on the floor? Who’s responsible for that? Since she’s the one who actually made the mess, it seems logical for it to be her responsibility to clean it up.

Unfortunately, she’ll be going into labor. How convenient. So what do I do? Rush her to the hospital, or start cleaning a massive stain before it sets? We’ve got some nice furnishings around our house that I would hate to see ruined by “water” damage. Our carpet still looks new. We’ve got some leather upholstery in the basement. I guess I should plan ahead and start covering all our furniture with tarps just in case.

Needless to say, I’m really hoping she saves me the hassle and just breaks water at the office.