Rest in Peace, Faithful Servants

We now salute these fallen soldiers, who endured insufferable working conditions; who were never lauded publicly; who got dragged through the mud on a daily basis; who will never be the hero, yet never failed to steadfastly maintain their post and unflinchingly uphold the other members of their team. 

In this ruthless war of attrition you have done your region proud.

Mambo and Improv

Brian and I rotate who takes the lead in planning Valentine's Day each year. This year it was Brian's turn and since our baby is due on Valentine's Day we decided to celebrate early just in case we are a little busy next week.

So, last night Brian took me to a cute Italian place in Fairhaven (an area of Bellingham) called Mambo Italiano Cafe. He had won a gift certificate from a local radio contest awhile back--Brian wins a lot of these--and we had heard great things about it. My dinner was delicious and I would recommend it if you are looking for Italian in Bellingham.

Next, we went to Village Books to look for a fun (non-baby related) book for me to read while I'm passing the time, followed by a relaxing dessert at Mallard Ice Cream playing Outburst on their couch.

Finally, we ended the evening at the UpFront Theatre, a comedy improv place owned by Ryan Stiles of The Drew Carey Show and Who's Line is it Anyway? The show was called Hellingham, a murder mystery where the players randomly pick characters created by the audience and a role (killer, victim or townsperson) and then improv the story without revealing their role. At intermission the audience gets a chance to vote for their guess of the identity of the murderer. Brian and I didn't guess correctly, but we laughed pretty hard. It was a nice twist on improv. If you are in Bellingham with nothing to do, they have one more show at 9:30 tonight. But buy your tickets in advance because they sold out last night.

A first taste of babysitting

Due to Brian's continued sickness, my very pregnant state, and Otis's daily need to go to the dog park--we don't have a yard--I decided to seek out a responsible high school student to hire to take Otis for us. I quickly found one that enthusiastically accepted and we arranged to start today.

While waiting for her to pick him up after school, I gathered his leash, a poop-bag, and some treats, reassuring Otis that he was going to meet a new friend today. Then I decided I should make her a list of commands that he knows. When she got here I gave her the run down on our park routine including strategies on getting him back in the car when he is not ready to stop playing. As she left I reminded her to feel free to call my cell phone if she had any questions.

Walking back into the house, I started thinking about what I would do if Otis ran away on her and other far-fetched emergency scenarios. Then it hit me: I am a dork. I just gave this high schooler the equivalant of what I got when I was babysitting numerous small children for the first time. What am I going to be like when I am actually leaving my child with a babysitter! This is just a dog for crying out loud.

Needless to say, it sure was nice to rest at home instead of taking him to the park in our continuous Northwest rain! And Otis and his new friend had a blast at the park!

The Information You Really Want

Still no baby yet. Sorry to disappoint all you eager readers who don't care about my haircut and just want to hear some big news.

I'm sick again (for a record third time this year--grrrr), so we're happy to wait a few days.

Let me rephrase: I'm okay waiting a few days, since I'm not the one with a giant protuberance on my torso, chronic back pain, shortened breath, diminished appetite, uncomfortable ribs, heartburn, swollen appendages, spontaneous nausea, and extreme uncontrollable emotions, among other things. Shannon just wants a healthy husband/coach that will definitely be allowed in the delivery room.

Haircuts by Children

I posted this as my profile picture on facebook recently and a lot of people have been asking if there is a story behind the blue beard.

Here it is:

Two Sundays ago I went up to the Push International Performing Arts Festival in Vancouver and attended a performance/event called Haircuts by Children.

The title really does explain it. A handful of 10 year olds, trained by local professional hair stylists over the span of a week, give free haircuts to anyone brave enough (or foolish enough?) to risk their vanity and trust an unknown child with scissors.

I had to do it! Not only did it sound like a blast, I LOVE the concept. It gently raises so many questions about us as individuals and about our social boundaries and power structures. I love the generosity of it. Can you remember a time in your young life when an adult trusted you with something important? Do you remember how empowering that was?

Before I went, I read everything I could get my hands on about the performance, its creator Darren O'Donnell, and his Toronto-based experimental theater company Mammalian Diving Reflex. So, I thought I knew what to expect when I arrived. O'Donnell had written:

I'd expected the scene to be relatively anarchic, with hair flying all over the place, but, in reality, with kids taking the responsibility so seriously, the mood becomes almost somber.

That's definitely not what I experienced when I walked in to the little Vancouver salon. The mood was anything but somber; it was positively jubilant. The back wall was lined with spectators giggling at their friends' new 'dos and cheering loudly any time a cut was finished. Many of the participants' hair looked jubilant too. Or at least a little more colorful.

I really don't care what my hair looks like. Shy of shaving genitalia into my mop, I don't think there's any haircut that would really embarrass me (at least short term). I also don't usually get stage fright, but I started getting a little nervous as I entered.

When I found Hazel--one of the organizers whom I had previously met only in my inbox--she ushered me down to the third chair where I waited for Daisy and Chance to finish up with their current victim--er, client.

Chance finished rubbing violet coloring into the man's newly acquired bald spots and then invited me to sit.

I gulped and did as I was told.

"So what can we do for you today?"

I told them they could do whatever they wanted with my hair, which I had been growing specially for the occasion, but I wanted to keep the beard.

"We'll turn it blue then!"

The two of them ended up dividing my head exactly in half, with Daisy timidly but conscientiously buzzing the left side. Chance, however, for all his gusto, seemed a little too eager to get to the beard coloration and did a slightly less ideal job shearing the right.

Now, in the mornings, since I haven't rectified the situation yet, I wake up with localized bed head. I look something like a mangy, lopsided macaroni penguin.

Aside from a few missed spots, they did fine. I'm not sure why though, after being given 100% artistic license with my hair, they opted to merely buzz it. There were a lot of crazier cuts going on, including "soccer ball head" and what I will affectionately refer to as "sporadic technicolor rat tails."

Not all of them were bizarre though. I hung around afterward and watched several women get straight up trims or "normal" haircuts (that turned out really well!). I think that's where the somberness O'Donnell mentioned comes in. Any time an adult requested something very specific and un-flamboyant the kids got really focused and took their job seriously.

Not too seriously though. Almost without exception, they couldn't resist adding at least a little color.

Tick, tick, tick...

I feel like a walking time-bomb, but I can't read the timer. It could be any day or it could be weeks away. Any moms out there feel that way at the end of your pregnancy?

Every plan made is tentative. Everyone comments on how it could be anytime and it might be the last time I see them without our baby. I don't mind these comments; I even make them myself. But it does intensify the feeling of impending explosion!

Clayton Beach

Brian and I decided to take advantage of the semi-sunny day and get stir-crazy Otis out of the house as well as some good exercise for the rest of us.
Our destination was Clayton Beach: a not-too-strenuous hike for a nine month pregnant lady, a great view of the sound and a perfect playground for dogs. All of us feel very refreshed!

Mid-air collision - Trudella was in true form!

She even chased Otis up this hill and pinned him there.

"Hey guys! Whatcha doing? Taking a nature shot?"

A rare sight -- Otis actually trying to play tug with Trudy!

Boycott Braxton

If one were to catalogue all the descriptors that apply to me, "Feminist" would not be very high on the list. Don't get me wrong, feminism has accomplished some amazing and commendable feats; I just wouldn't count myself among its most active and ardent supporters.

So, I was surprised a while back at how perturbed I was when I learned about "Braxton Hicks Contractions." And since I just mentioned these physiological phenomena in my last post I thought I'd share a quote that nicely sums up my surprising feminist sentiments:

They are called Braxton Hicks because they were "discovered" by a physician named, yes, Braxton Hicks. (What this actually means is that in the nineteenth century a man finally thought to attach his name to something that approximately 50 percent of the human race had been experiencing since the beginning of time...)

-Martha Beck, Expecting Adam

Does this bug anyone else? Why the heck should this exclusively female experience be named after some old bald dude (who, I will admit, does have AWESOME sideburns!)?

Introducing...

No one, yet.

On Saturday, while I was finishing up my four day residency in California, Shannon started having pretty regular contractions. They started about 15 minutes apart but quickly increased to every 10 minutes.

Shannon called me to let me know what was going on but neither of us were too concerned since we've heard so many false-alarm stories. It seems like almost every mom has a story about getting sent home from the hospital because they were duped by Braxton Hicks contractions. We talked about whether or not I should head to the airport to catch an earlier flight, but since I was scheduled to fly in seven hours anyway and it would likely cost us a portion of Qwanesha's college fund, we decided to hold off unless the signs started pointing more emphatically to imminent delivery. I told Shannon to keep timing the contractions and call me back soon.

I hung up and immediately thought, "What are you thinking?! This could be the birth of your first child! Of course you should get on an earlier flight!" My classmates--especially the female ones, who were glowing and bubbling like it was their own child on the way--echoed that sentiment and we arranged for someone to drive me to the airport.

Shannon called back and reported that the contractions were now eight minutes apart and they weren't stopping even though she was staying active, which was one way we were taught to distinguish between false labor and real.

Everything went surprisingly well at the airport and I was on a flight within the hour at no extra charge.

The flight was unbearable.

I felt completely powerless. Stuck in a giant, air-conditioned Pringles can flying through a darkening California sky, cell phone rendered useless, not only could I not help or comfort my wife in what might be the most painful hours of her life, but I had absolutely no way of knowing what was happening. For all I knew Shannon could already be laid out in a hospital gown in travail, pushing our baby girl irrevocably into a strange and sometimes cruel world.

And I wasn't going to be there.

I did everything I could on the plane in case I got there in time. I reviewed and wrote down everything I had learned in our birth class: about first stage labor, and second, and what a coach can do. I mentally reviewed our birth plan and all our medical preferences. I made a list of items we would need to bring to the hospital in case Shan hadn't a chance to pack our bags. I made a list of people we would call.

And then, in case I didn't make it in time, I made myself very attentive to what it was like to be in Seat 31 F on Alaska Airlines flight 435 on Saturday, January 26, 2008. I described in my mind the transition of the twilight below me from watercolor peach and robin's egg blue to ashen cobalt and inky darkness. I described the relentless thrum of the turbine, which, on this plane, an MD-80, was attached beside me, not on the wing, but directly on the rear of the fuselage, making it's throbbing drone unusually loud--and oddly suitable as a soundtrack to my fatherly disquiet.

Upon landing I immediately called Shannon and she told me, to my great relief, that our little girl was still fully ensconced in her bulging belly. The contractions were at seven minutes now. You're supposed to go to the hospital when they get to intervals of five and I still had a two hour drive home from Seattle but I wasn't anxious any more. I was making progress and I had a working cell phone.

When I got home the contractions were still at seven minutes. We packed our bags and called the doctor to tell him what was going on and see if he had any advice. Given Shannon's description, he too thought she was in actual labor but told us to wait until the contractions got more frequent and stronger. So we went to bed, to prepare for the uterine marathon. And that's when the contractions pretty much stopped. Throughout the day, Shan had noted that whenever she sat down the contractions seemed weaker, but she thought maybe the position was just making it harder for her to feel them. Weird.

Anyway, it's been two days since and the practice contractions have gone back to being less regular (but sometimes stronger). We were disappointed at first that it wasn't the real thing since all that excitement built up our anticipation so much, but it's a good thing she didn't come yet. Now we can pack our bags and install our car seat and do all the other little undone things this false alarm made us so acutely aware of.

Early

I'm back from California early. I'll tell you about it soon.