TO BE OR NOT TO BE, THAT IS THE THEORY

So there’s this renowned OB/GYN who’s touting his theory that men shouldn’t be allowed in the delivery room when their wives are giving birth. Apparently we slow things down and just make the whole process more difficult. If you’ve read my blog for a while you’ve heard about my most recent experience in the delivery room, which turned into a visit to the E.R. And when Jen was giving birth to Arden, I nearly passed out watching them stick the epidural into her spine. And yes, I recoiled in horror both times when the doctor insisted I take a gander at my child’s head popping out of my wife’s cooter. But even though I’m sure I was a pain-in-the-ass, I think men should be there. If only to truly know what your wife means when she says things like, “You try giving birth” or “You don’t know what pain is,” when you stub your toe on the coffee table and look to them for sympathy. But seriously, for me, being in the delivery room was a religious experience. There’s nothing quite like watching (for me, from my wife’s side) your baby emerging into the world and being placed in your wife’s arm. Seeing my wife’s expression when she first held both of our children made me weep. And I think having my wife know that, made all my inadequacies in the delivery room, worthwhile.

Anyway, I was turned onto this ridiculous theory by my friend and fellow blogger, Jenny, who writes a great, harried mom blog called Perfectly Disheveled (link is down today for maintenance, but do try it tomorrow!) She actually loaned her talents to talk about this theory to help launch a new website called TruuConfessions (link will take you to her blog entry there.) Check it out if you get the chance.

Photo: Me with Arden, a couple minutes after she emerged.

BABY TALK

According to dictionary.com “Baby Talk” is defined as either “the speech of children learning to talk” or “a style of speech used by adults in addressing children, pets, or sweethearts.” Don’t get me started on sweetheart baby talk, but from my experience there’s a third kind of baby talk. It’s when you talk to someone through your baby.

It’s the ultimate passive-aggressive form of communication. Jen and I do it to each other all the time. For example, yesterday was a non-nanny day, so I met Jen for lunch at the Cheesecake Factory for some salad and French fries and while Alex was gnawing on a breadstick Jen said, “Hey Alex, where’s your cup?” Of course Alex being 11 months old and not knowing a lick of English or even where the cup was, couldn’t really answer that one. But what Jen really meant was, “Hey Daddy, get Alex’s cup out of the diaper bag already.” Though usually Jen is more aggressive than passive with her baby talk when she says things to me like, “Hey Alex, tell Daddy to get off his goddamned iPod and take out the trash.” But it’s a two-way street. I do it to Jen all the time as well. Jen will be on the floor playing with Alex and I’ll notice her chewing on something of the questionable “not suitable for children under 3” size and I’ll say, “Alex, don’t eat Arden’s barrette,” which translates to, “Hey Jen, take that thing out of her mouth, would ya?”

Now I’m not one to shy away from a good confrontation, but sometimes you don’t want to offend certain people, like for example the person who’s caring for your child, so I’ve found that purposefully using this type of baby talk when addressing a babysitter or nanny can be quite useful. If I see the baby crawling under the sharp-cornered dining room table, I don’t want to be that jerk who states the obvious and says, “You know what, probably not a good idea if you let her crawl under there.” But if I phrase it like, “Alex, you know you’re not supposed to crawl under the table with all those sharp edges. Yes, you do, yes you do,” then I’m not such a douche bag. Or at least I’ve convinced myself that I’m less of a douche bag. But I started using this “technique” because one of Arden’s early nannies was great, but needed to be told the obvious and I didn’t want it to sound quite so…obvious. Basically if I didn’t say to her, “Arden, you know you’re not supposed to play with the TV. It cost over $2000 and the warranty is up,” then it would’ve become the world’s most expensive finger-painting canvas.

QUOTABLE ARDEN

Every morning I find pee in Arden's toilet and every morning I ask her why she doesn't flush. Time and time again she says that she went in the middle of the night and didn't want to wake anyone up. I've explained to her ad nauseum that her room is across the house and that nobody will hear it. But she continues to insist that she's doing it as a courtesy to us. But today I noticed that there was no toilet paper in the toilet and I asked her why she didn't wipe either. She turned to me with a straight face and said, "I'm a loud wiper."

GONE WRITING YET AGAIN

Got some juicy posts in the works, but they'll have to wait until I finish up this script. I should be back in action later this week.

-Rick

GROCERY SHOPPING

I have fond memories of my mother taking me grocery shopping with her when I was a kid. Riding in the cart. Eating fresh grapes from the vine as we toured the mart. Of course the grapes were dirty and probably covered in pesticides, but that was a simpler time and we were simpler people then. After that I don’t really remember grocery shopping again until I was about 21. Though I do have vague recollections of a few midnight runs to Stop & Shop during my high school and college years, but I wouldn’t call stocking up on Pringles and French onion dip, grocery shopping, per se.

My return to grocery shopping came when I started dating my wife. She had graduated a year before me and her college meal card didn’t seem to work in the real world and since we pretty much started living together the day we met, part of me graduated with her, which meant we couldn’t afford to have Dunkin’ Donuts Egg & Cheese Croissants for breakfast every morning. So we had to buy groceries.

I still remember that first trip down the aisles of Pathmark in Rockville Center, New York. For the first time I didn’t have to eat what my mother or the cafeteria was serving. I could pick out whatever the hell I wanted. And I did. I loaded up on Tyson chicken patties, Nilla wafers and beer. If this is what the cold real world was all about I was happy to be there and I couldn’t wait to go shopping again. This love affair with grocery shopping lasted for almost a decade, until we had kids.

It was probably a combination of trying to wrangle a toddler in the supermarket and getting older and having to shop for foods high in Omega-3 fatty acids. But as soon as Arden declared her independence and decided she wanted to walk instead of ride in the cart, shopping became babysitting for me. A babysitting obstacle course. I swear I started to think my name was “Clean up in aisle 6.”

So why not swap roles with Jen from time-to-time? Two reasons: First, one of Jen’s hobbies is cutting coupons (mine is complaining) so she knows exactly what we’re getting before we walk in the door and second, without fail, every time I try and shop without her I screw up at least one item. It doesn’t matter that she’s used the same brand of mozzarella cheese for the past fifteen years; I will undoubtedly get a different brand. So I’m relegated to the role of shopping sitter.

I’ve offered to stay home with both kids while Jen shops on the weekends, but because she doesn’t get to see the kids during the week it’s another opportunity for her to spend some time with them on the weekend. Plus shopping’s still fun for her (“I just saved $96 between my Ralphs Rewards card and my coupons!”) I’ve offered to let her take both kids with her shopping while I stay home and pretend to do something important. No dice. It's a family affair.

But seriously I don’t know how mothers through the ages have shopped alone with two kids, but I’ve vowed time-and-time again never to allow it to happen to me. The prospect just frightens the crap out of me. Of course it was inevitable that one day it would eventually happen. That day was Tuesday.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve picked up a half dozen things with both girls many times, keeping Arden in check with a cookie from the baked goods section, but on Tuesday my sister left town after a quick visit and the refrigerator was empty and if I didn’t do some real shopping Jen and I would have to subsist on cereal and ramen noodles, which we’ve done before, but Arden wouldn’t have breakfasts or lunches for the week so I bit the bullet and I hit the mart with both girls.

Since this is my life, our little adventure became an instant misadventure. It started with Alex crapping her drawers on the ride over so I had to change her in the back seat of the car in the parking lot. I was equally relieved and irritated that there was only one diaper left in the diaper bag, though not quite enough wipes. But we made it work thanks to some spare Starbucks napkins stuffed in my cup holder. On the escalator ride up to the store Arden fell and “skinned” her knee. I used the quotes because I’ll be damned if there was a single scratch on her, but she howled like she had just been knifed by O.J. Once I got her calmed down she wanted to ride inside the cart…where Alex was sitting. I was able to avert a full-blown tantrum when I found a mini cart for her to push around the store. That’s when Alex crapped her pants again. I mean really crapped her pants so I had to quickly buy some overpriced diapers and wipes and go back to the car and clean her up.

Take Two: I promised Arden her usual cookie, but of course they were out and there was no reasoning with Arden so to avert a crisis I ripped open a box of Chips Ahoy, stuffed a couple in Arden hands and then stuffed the box back on the shelf. I sped through the shopping as fast as I could until Arden insisted we take our carts down separate aisles. If I didn’t, she wouldn’t follow me. I told her we’ll race down side-by-side aisles and meet at the other end. So I rush down the aisle and there’s no Arden. She’s still at the top of the aisle. Crying. I rush down and ask what happened and she blurts out, “You left me alone!” Seriously? Is this the same kid that said she wanted to go on Space Mountain a second time just a week before? And then Alex gets that crap face again. But we’re almost done shopping so I finish up and go to the checkout lane. Of course we pick a lane where a woman is buying ten items…separately. Alex wants out of the cart so I have to one-handedly put the groceries on the conveyer belt. We eventually get home and Arden wants to help bring the groceries in. Of course all the bags are way too heavy for her so I have to take stuff out to create lighter bags for her while trying to unload the rest of the groceries with Alex still in my other arm. With sweat stains under my arms I managed to get everything on our list and put it all away. It was difficult and painful, but I deemed it a success…until Jen came home and showed me that I bought the wrong kind of salami.