We sat in the small room as expectant parents for the first time. I tried to make small talk, but we were nervous. This was the day we were going to find out.
“What do you think the baby is?” Julie asked.
“I’m not going to guess. I mean there is a fifty-fifty chance either way and I have no way of knowing.”
“OK, Mr. Logical. I’m telling you, the baby is a girl.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’m the mother and the baby is inside of me. Us moms know these kind of things.”
The technician could not have walked in at a better time. She was upbeat and cheerful.
“Are you guys ready?”
“Yes!”
Both Julie and I hate surprises. We knew we had to know the gender of the baby. I was getting annoyed with referring to my offspring as “it”. I would have much rather referred to the baby as he or she.
There were some basic tests to be done before we could get to the moment we were waiting for. We heard the baby’s heart beat. We looked at it. I pretended that I could tell that the image in front of me was actually my child and not some Rorshack test.
“Do you want to know the baby’s gender?” the tech asked.
“Yes!”
“It’s a boy.”
Silence. Julie broke it with, “Are you sure?”
The tech said, “Oh yes, he is sitting criss cross apple sauce and I can see it quite clearly. Definitely a boy.”
My baby was going to be a boy and he was well endowed. I could not have been prouder!
I’m not proud of what I said next, but when the shock and novelty wore off a little, my first words were, “In your face, Julie!”
Then I danced the Cabbage Patch.
“It” became Carson. Carson was born and we loved him. Almost exactly one year later, Julie was pregnant. Again.
We were not in the same room when the news was delivered. Julie had a CVS test done and she received a call from the doctor. When she called me, I knew what it was about.
“Are you ready?” she asked.
She sounded upbeat, I was pretty sure I already knew the result.
“The new baby is a girl!”
Relief, happiness, and contentment flowed through my body. My emotions ranged from the pure - Julie would have the joy of a mother-daughter relationship, it would be easier to see Carson as an individual with his new sibling being of the opposite gender, and I would be able to have a little girl.
My emotions then swung to the not-so-pure as I already started to plan on how to weasel out of a vasectomy. As the news started to settle in, I was suddenly hit with a new thought - at some point my little girl would start dating. I had no idea why this thought terrified me, but it did.
Now, a few years later, I can rationalize my fear a bit. Part of me doesn’t want my little girl to grow up.
I will always remember her as the pretty little girl with the curly hair who would talk to anyone and everyone about anything. She could seemingly talk for five minutes straight in one continuous, run-on sentence. Apparently, she had mastered the art of simultaneously talking AND breathing in at the same time as she never took a break in her stream of conscience monologues. Her voice will always be squeaky and sing-songy to me even when she is all grown up and sounds nothing like that little girl. I am going to miss that little girl even though I am sure she will become an amazing woman.
I will remember the way she emotionally messed with me. One day, she will loudly declare, “No kisses for daddy! I’m a grumbly little bear. Grrrr!” As she throws a stiff arm that would be the rival of an NFL running back. The next day, I sneak a kiss on her face and she looks at me in disgust and pretends to wipe the kiss off. “Daddy’s kisses are too sticky,” she says. But the next day, I go to pick her up and she sees me out of the corner of her eye. She drops everything and does three twirls followed by five quick hops and yells, “Hi, Mr. Daddy!” Her enthusiasm is obvious and she hugs me and smothers me with kisses.
I remember when she was an infant, she slept with a solitary stuffed rabbit. She called it “bubby”, unable to pronounce “bunny” correctly. We were aware that bubby had become a sleep aid and were terrified that if bubby were misplaced or anything ever happened to her, that our little daughter would never sleep again. We bought a spare bubby. Somehow, Zoe found the spare and insisted on sleeping with both bubbies. The new bubby was aptly named “other bubby”. She then got a giant bubby for Christmas. Along the way, she acquired a small, baby bubby. I think I’m going to miss the little girl with the ever growing family of bubbies.
I will miss all the little things that little girls do that make them so delightful. That and teenage boys are disgusting. I should know. I was one of them.
Zoe had never been to daycare before and we were worried about how she would adjust. Zoe, being Zoe, talked to everyone in her class. She knew everyone’s name and told me all about the things she did all day. Before long, she started talking about twin boys named Carson (ironically) and Fletcher. When discussing Carson and Fletcher, she always pronounced their names with an Australian accent.
“Cah-son and Fletch-uh were at school today,” it started innocently enough.
It moved towards, “I love Cah-son and Fletch-uh.”
Then she announced, “I’m going to marry Cah-son and Fletch-uh and have one hundred babies!”
Uh oh. Well, there was still plenty of time and she could change her mind. Julie had the chance to meet Carson and Fletcher’s parents and said they were very nice. She set up a playdate, but it was two weeks away. Zoe couldn’t wait. The first weekend came and she asked, “Are we going to the park to meet Cah-son and Fletch-uh on Sunday?”
“No, honey. That’s next weekend.”
Zoe frowned. The next weekend came and I let her know we would be meeting her friends the next day. Zoe was giddy with anticipation.
The little girl who could not stand to be woken up in the morning came bouncing into our room at 6:30 in the morning, happy as can be.
“Daddy! Wake up! I want to eat brekky!”
I smiled and got out of bed. It didn’t occur to me why she was up so early, but I went downstairs and made her some pancakes.
Immediately upon finishing, she asked, “Can we go the park now and meet Cah-son and Fletch-uh?”
Well, at least that explained it! I told her we would go in a few hours. Finally, we were ready to go and she rode her tricycle over a mile to the park to see her friends. I didn’t know what to expect, but I guess all I wanted was to know that Carson and Fletcher liked her as much as she liked them.
With this realization, I knew what I wanted for my adolescent and adult daughter, who would be dating sooner than I would like to admit. I want her to be with someone that loves her and cares for her and I guess that’s all that matters.
I don’t really think that three year olds have the capacity for love. However, Carson and Fletcher sure liked Zoe and were nice to her. I enjoyed watching them play. Their parents were great and we laughed as our Carson and their Carson played together. We began to refer to them as “the Carsons”.
All in all, Zoe’s first date went well, at least for me. She picked boys that liked her and treated her like the princess that she is. I won’t always be there chaperoning her interactions with the worser sex, but I know that she is off to a great start. All I can do is raise her to be confident and to choose wisely, if I can accomplish that, I can sleep soundly as she enters into adulthood.
“What do you think the baby is?” Julie asked.
“I’m not going to guess. I mean there is a fifty-fifty chance either way and I have no way of knowing.”
“OK, Mr. Logical. I’m telling you, the baby is a girl.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’m the mother and the baby is inside of me. Us moms know these kind of things.”
The technician could not have walked in at a better time. She was upbeat and cheerful.
“Are you guys ready?”
“Yes!”
Both Julie and I hate surprises. We knew we had to know the gender of the baby. I was getting annoyed with referring to my offspring as “it”. I would have much rather referred to the baby as he or she.
There were some basic tests to be done before we could get to the moment we were waiting for. We heard the baby’s heart beat. We looked at it. I pretended that I could tell that the image in front of me was actually my child and not some Rorshack test.
“Do you want to know the baby’s gender?” the tech asked.
“Yes!”
“It’s a boy.”
Silence. Julie broke it with, “Are you sure?”
The tech said, “Oh yes, he is sitting criss cross apple sauce and I can see it quite clearly. Definitely a boy.”
My baby was going to be a boy and he was well endowed. I could not have been prouder!
I’m not proud of what I said next, but when the shock and novelty wore off a little, my first words were, “In your face, Julie!”
Then I danced the Cabbage Patch.
“It” became Carson. Carson was born and we loved him. Almost exactly one year later, Julie was pregnant. Again.
We were not in the same room when the news was delivered. Julie had a CVS test done and she received a call from the doctor. When she called me, I knew what it was about.
“Are you ready?” she asked.
She sounded upbeat, I was pretty sure I already knew the result.
“The new baby is a girl!”
Relief, happiness, and contentment flowed through my body. My emotions ranged from the pure - Julie would have the joy of a mother-daughter relationship, it would be easier to see Carson as an individual with his new sibling being of the opposite gender, and I would be able to have a little girl.
My emotions then swung to the not-so-pure as I already started to plan on how to weasel out of a vasectomy. As the news started to settle in, I was suddenly hit with a new thought - at some point my little girl would start dating. I had no idea why this thought terrified me, but it did.
Now, a few years later, I can rationalize my fear a bit. Part of me doesn’t want my little girl to grow up.
I will always remember her as the pretty little girl with the curly hair who would talk to anyone and everyone about anything. She could seemingly talk for five minutes straight in one continuous, run-on sentence. Apparently, she had mastered the art of simultaneously talking AND breathing in at the same time as she never took a break in her stream of conscience monologues. Her voice will always be squeaky and sing-songy to me even when she is all grown up and sounds nothing like that little girl. I am going to miss that little girl even though I am sure she will become an amazing woman.
I will remember the way she emotionally messed with me. One day, she will loudly declare, “No kisses for daddy! I’m a grumbly little bear. Grrrr!” As she throws a stiff arm that would be the rival of an NFL running back. The next day, I sneak a kiss on her face and she looks at me in disgust and pretends to wipe the kiss off. “Daddy’s kisses are too sticky,” she says. But the next day, I go to pick her up and she sees me out of the corner of her eye. She drops everything and does three twirls followed by five quick hops and yells, “Hi, Mr. Daddy!” Her enthusiasm is obvious and she hugs me and smothers me with kisses.
I remember when she was an infant, she slept with a solitary stuffed rabbit. She called it “bubby”, unable to pronounce “bunny” correctly. We were aware that bubby had become a sleep aid and were terrified that if bubby were misplaced or anything ever happened to her, that our little daughter would never sleep again. We bought a spare bubby. Somehow, Zoe found the spare and insisted on sleeping with both bubbies. The new bubby was aptly named “other bubby”. She then got a giant bubby for Christmas. Along the way, she acquired a small, baby bubby. I think I’m going to miss the little girl with the ever growing family of bubbies.
I will miss all the little things that little girls do that make them so delightful. That and teenage boys are disgusting. I should know. I was one of them.
Zoe had never been to daycare before and we were worried about how she would adjust. Zoe, being Zoe, talked to everyone in her class. She knew everyone’s name and told me all about the things she did all day. Before long, she started talking about twin boys named Carson (ironically) and Fletcher. When discussing Carson and Fletcher, she always pronounced their names with an Australian accent.
“Cah-son and Fletch-uh were at school today,” it started innocently enough.
It moved towards, “I love Cah-son and Fletch-uh.”
Then she announced, “I’m going to marry Cah-son and Fletch-uh and have one hundred babies!”
Uh oh. Well, there was still plenty of time and she could change her mind. Julie had the chance to meet Carson and Fletcher’s parents and said they were very nice. She set up a playdate, but it was two weeks away. Zoe couldn’t wait. The first weekend came and she asked, “Are we going to the park to meet Cah-son and Fletch-uh on Sunday?”
“No, honey. That’s next weekend.”
Zoe frowned. The next weekend came and I let her know we would be meeting her friends the next day. Zoe was giddy with anticipation.
The little girl who could not stand to be woken up in the morning came bouncing into our room at 6:30 in the morning, happy as can be.
“Daddy! Wake up! I want to eat brekky!”
I smiled and got out of bed. It didn’t occur to me why she was up so early, but I went downstairs and made her some pancakes.
Immediately upon finishing, she asked, “Can we go the park now and meet Cah-son and Fletch-uh?”
Well, at least that explained it! I told her we would go in a few hours. Finally, we were ready to go and she rode her tricycle over a mile to the park to see her friends. I didn’t know what to expect, but I guess all I wanted was to know that Carson and Fletcher liked her as much as she liked them.
With this realization, I knew what I wanted for my adolescent and adult daughter, who would be dating sooner than I would like to admit. I want her to be with someone that loves her and cares for her and I guess that’s all that matters.
I don’t really think that three year olds have the capacity for love. However, Carson and Fletcher sure liked Zoe and were nice to her. I enjoyed watching them play. Their parents were great and we laughed as our Carson and their Carson played together. We began to refer to them as “the Carsons”.
All in all, Zoe’s first date went well, at least for me. She picked boys that liked her and treated her like the princess that she is. I won’t always be there chaperoning her interactions with the worser sex, but I know that she is off to a great start. All I can do is raise her to be confident and to choose wisely, if I can accomplish that, I can sleep soundly as she enters into adulthood.
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