Many Wrongs Make a Right

Okay, this may officially qualify as TMI, but with St. Patty's Day fast approaching, I thought I would tackle the subject anyways.  One year ago, I was returning from an Alaskan adventure that can best be described as the most fun you can have with mittens on.  I had the privilege of working for nearly 2 weeks as a veterinarian on the Iditarod Trail during the sled dog race and it was exhilarating!  The last thing on my mind was the idea of having a kid.  In fact, by embracing the freedom of flying in a 2-seater across the vast expanse of the Alaskan range while living spontaneously in the moment briefly made me the unsung hero for childless women everywhere.  After all, once a squealing package of leaking, gurgling humanity enters a woman's world, reckless abandon is a thing of the past; previous adventure serves only as a warm spark of memory to keep one's mind lucid during an all-night scream-a-thon with the little tyke.

In hindsight, I did everything wrong.  If there had been a plan to make a baby last March, there are many things that I would have done differently.  In the over-40 set, women go to great lengths to become fertility goddesses.  Caffeine, alchohol, aluminum-based deodorants, and kitty litter are all things to be shunned like Nancy Pelosi avoiding the mirror (and truth and tact...).  Forget "sugar, spice, and everything nice":  temperature-taking, perfectly-timed trysts with the hubby, and ovulation calendars are the things little girls are made of in the real world. 

Instead, the two weeks preceding our rendevous with destiny was a whirlwind of sleepless nights, caffeine-induced hysteria, and 60-below wind-chills.  I subsisted on a sickly combination of trail mix, instant coffee, velveeta and adreneline while sleeping on cots, gym floors, and snowbanks. I logged thousands of air miles, countless back-breaking dog-straddling hours with the Iditarod teams, and covered more trail than desired with an oversized pack on my back.  The time before, after, and in-between the race was spent in serious contemplation of local Alaskan brews (Alaskan Smoked Porter forever has a place in my heart). 

Clearly, this would not be seen as an ideal fertility plan.  I flew back from Alaska after 2 hours of sleep, lost 4 more hours on the trip home, gave my wonderful dog and even better husband a big smack on the lips, said, "Happy St. Patty's Day!" and then went to bed.  Speaking now in Seinfeldese, "Yada, yada, yada...10 days later, I had a positive pregnancy test."  Whether you blame it on hearts grown fonder, Aurora Borealis, or the aphrodesiac qualities of airline peanuts (explains the Mile High club, doesn't it?), something mysterious and wonderful transpired for which I will be forever grateful. 

And you know the old wives tale that says that a baby will take on characteristics surrounding the circumstances of their conception?  Can't wait to see how that turns out.  I picture Izzy one day mushing a dog-team, drinking green beer, and wondering how she ended up in Nome.

On Reaping and Sowing

It was like a mantra as I was growing up:  "Just wait until you have kids of your own....".  This was not a flattering prediction of my promising future as a parent.  No, this was a stark warning that the little snippet of DNA responsible for my errant ways would likely find their way into my own living version of "Rosemary's Baby" (and for those of you who don't know who that delightful curmudgeon was, I suggest an addition to your Netflix queue).  My transgressions, as is usual for the truly evil, started at birth.  I took the opportunity to pee on the nurse as my first act on this earth.  I then refused to sleep through the night for the next 8 months; the contrast to my angelic older sister who had slept through the night from 2 weeks of age was obvious to the most casual observer.  Walking was not on my list of priorities until almost 2 years of age and then I insisted on walking on the top of my knuckled toes, painful as this seems in hindsight.  It was pondered whether I would ever speak as I held my tongue until almost 3 years of age; then it was pondered whether I would ever stop (and for some, the pondering continues...).  You get the picture.  T-R-O-U-B-L-E.

As the biblical writers would say, "And so it came to pass, Jen the Troubled begat a baby girl."  She is, of course, the center of my universe and holds the key to my heart, BUT...I see hints of things to come.  She began her life rather tentatively but has been picking up steam like a runaway train (which happens to have my name on its steel grill).  She doesn't just cry; she screams loud enough to violate the local noise ordinance.  When tempted this morning with a toy that she wasn't in the mood for?  Death and decapitation for the unfortunate stuffed duck.   (A bit of exaggeration given her tiny hands and lack of teeth, but she did gum him up pretty good before chucking him across the room; her intentions for destruction were clear).  And she doesn't just fill a diaper:  up and over and through the seams, to mama's lap we go.    My parents prediction about offspring revenge is coming true:  I don't believe for a minute in mere coincidence that "diaper" spelled backward is "repaid". 

So I am already thinking ahead with trepidation to the teen years.  If my antics as a teenager are any indication of things to come, then perhaps I should buy extra life insurance because she will certainly be the death of me.  Not that I did anything criminal (at least not that I was charged with), but my teenaged self could best be described as a jagged bundle of bad juju with frizzy hair and acne.  Eventually I grew out of everything but the frizzy hair, but not in time to spare my parents' sanity.  Hence the "Wait until you have kids...." curse. 

Don't get me wrong.  I am not feeling punished by the presence of my little girl, just the opposite.  But she does have the double whammy of being my kid in combination with being a PK (preacher's kid) which guarantees a wild ride for all involved.  But what was I going to do with these years anyways besides enjoy my AARP discount and search for the perfect denture cream? So, no worries.  My new mantra, again quoting the biblical writers, could become, "Be not afraid."  (Of course, the Bible had a very pregnant woman riding a  donkey, a baby floating down the river in a basket, and a newborn sleeping in a feed trough.  With their history of child-endangerment, perhaps I should find a new source for child-rearing wisdom. I'm just saying.)

Anyways, in response to my parents' dire warnings,  I am glad to say that the day is here, I have a kid of my own.  I've trained for this moment for 43 years.   Bring it on, Izzy!

Revelations (but not the final chapter)

Spoiler alert! The following blog entry is sticky with sappy post-Valentine thoughts. Read at your own risk!

Just 2 months shy of a decade ago, I sauntered through the doors of the local large animal clinic and got my first glimpse of my husband-to-be. I took in the view appreciatively: tall, athletic build, wavy disarrayed hair, a smear of manure on his coveralls, and the biggest darned hands I’ve ever seen on an upright primate. Somewhere deep in the primitive part of my brain, it’s probable that I was completing a mental checklist of traits that would make him a suitable mate, but the accessible parts of my gray matter simply registered, “Cute” and moved on for the time being. What certainly did not register at the time was the thought, “Now there’s a pair of hands that could really handle a diaper!” Nope. Didn’t cross the radar at all.

As I got to know him over the course of the next few months, I discovered many facts about this fascinating specimen: he is a great short-order cook, generally hates board games, is a coffee snob, has an almost unhealthy love for his cat, and is the kindest person I’ve ever met. As I fell for him (and did I ever fall hard!), his suitability as a baby daddy was never considered. We wined, dined, skated, traveled, ran, read, and sailed through a ridiculously long courtship and then settled down into our happily-ever-after phase.

Like wives have done since the beginning of wedded bliss history, I have come to appreciate his many talents and have tried to overlook some of his more unusual quirks (for sake of privacy, I won’t list those here, but both talents and quirks are many and bizarre). What completely blindsided me was my discovery of entirely new facets of this familiar man that has been revealed by fatherhood. The entire experience has been transformational in a way that exceeds the changes brought on by extreme sleep deprivation.

Three weeks before Izzy’s arrival, our church threw an over-the-top baby shower that armed us with all of the essentials and then some. I remember the baffled look that became a permanent fixture on Dave’s face by the end of the 2-hour gift opening. (He had not shared my previous Toys R Us scare-a-thon whereby I realized the vast array of baby-related items that would soon be thrust into our world). The veteran dad’s in the room exchanged knowing glances as Dave put each new item aside with nervous comments like, “I’m sure Jen will know what to do with that.” His obvious unfamiliarity with everything from onesies to burp cloths was endearing but fleeting.

Fast forward to the present…he just took over the Izzy duty so I can go to work. Picture the scene (I’ve just removed my hands from the keyboard to form the imaginary-thumbs-together-hand-camera lens to assist with this). He is wearing painter style jeans. From the back pocket protrudes a bib; a perfectly warmed bottle of milk swings rhythmically from the hammer hook, Dr. Suess is hanging out in the cargo pocket, and a boppy pillow is fitted around his waist. This is the renaissance man ready for action. One size XXL hand expertly navigates the intricacies of baby diapering while the other tips his coffee mug in a salute to the Folger family. And he even picked out a matching onesie and ruffled pants set. He is making this look easy.

It isn’t really fair; while motherhood has lowered my expectations when gazing in the looking glass to a lifetime low (think stretch marks and dark eye circles), he is making this parent thing look…well, somehow sexy. Not only did he not have the appearance of the Stay-Pufft Marshmallow Man for 9 months, the C-section scar, or the wardrobe built-for-two, he could be the cover boy for Parenting Magazine!

But I am not bitter about him entering parenthood unscathed while I can’t find my waistline without GPS. After all, his natural ease with his baby girl combined with his fashionable daddy-on-the-go look is akin to having a pool-boy but without the guilt of voyeurism. Yep, ours is a household of lucky girls. I have a hot and capable baby daddy who loves his little girl. Izzy has an awesome dad who thinks she’s perfect (and right he is). And his original lady love? Well, let’s just say that his cat Sophie has finally found a healthier and more suitable place in the pecking order.