Father Knows Best
By Corey Lyons
Contra Costa Newspapers
Feb. 18, 2004
I AM KEEPING a secret from my wife. No, it has nothing to do with the word "parolee" or the shameful fact that I have actually watched "Father of the Bride 2."
It's a secret about our child, who, if the medical oddsmakers call it correctly, will arrive, squinting and screaming, Feb. 29. I know its sex. My wife, Julie, does not. Nor did she want to.
This has led to a lot of internal sweating on my part over the past 18 weeks, during which I had a single order: Don't blow it.
Ours is an admittedly odd arrangement, one that generally elicits widened eyes of disbelief, followed by, "Come on, man. Just tell me."
I have told no one. Not even my mother.
Let me explain.
It all started months ago, when Julie told me that she was, indeed, pregnant, and I, indeed, nearly chewed the handle off my coffee mug. It was jarring and exciting news.
We had a clear understanding from the start. Julie preferred to unmask this ultimate mystery at birth, at the summit of pain, during which she could do a terrific vocal rendition of "The Exorcist."
And I respected this wish, especially since I have no concept of this whole "labor" thing, unless it involves trying to get the string off a bakery box.
But I just had to know. I needed something to analyze, a tangible thought to chew on while Julie bulked up.
I have since filed this secret in a spare room somewhere in my head, referring to our rotating fetus as "The Babe," "It" or "The Thing That Moves."It's been a long wait.
I found out its sex during an ultrasound appointment Sept. 30. The technician scribbled something down on a card and handed it to me. I took the note and, desperate for a moment of privacy, headed into, well, the bathroom.
There, I peeled it open. It read, "Congratulations! It's a -- ."
What followed was a jolt of adrenaline-tinged reality, a rush of excitement (a real live baby!) -- then, absolutely no one with whom to share the news.
As the weeks churned by, I have been imprisoned by my own thoughts. I cannot say a word, even when Julie holds up a little boy's bomber jacket, or a sheer curtain with little flowers on it and asks what I think.
In those moments, sweat beads start doing laps on my forehead. I can sense her snooping for clues, reading my face like an FBI profiler, searching for any weird tick or roll of the eyeball.
But I stand my ground, which basically amounts to looking disinterested. This, of course, is not the desired reaction from an impatient pregnant person who hasn't eaten in 46 minutes.
Anyhow, in preserving this secret, I have had a lot of time to contemplate the differences and perceptions of the sexes, unless, of course, it conflicted with football season.
I am often left with my thoughts, which, on occasion, have tried to address perhaps the most vexing question that has foiled the great minds of science since mastodons roamed our lands:Why do men have nipples? (Alas, no easy answers.)
I also ponder the excitement that lies ahead, no matter the sex. If "The Babe" is a boy, I will be around 50 when he starts college, meaning that I may feel compelled to become the "hip dad," by wearing ghastly Hawaiian shirts and calling his best friend "chief."This is a bad thing.
If it is a girl, in her teen years, I may be asked to drop her off approximately 6 blocks in front of any public place, with orders to return around, oh, midnight. (And, for what it's worth, I would be outnumbered, 2-1, in the critical battle of the sexes.)
Of course, none of this will matter once we catch a first glimpse of its tiny anguished face and freshly unfolded hands.
While we wait, life has become a kaleidoscope of diaper bags, changing tables, high chairs, orthodontic pacifiers and books with titles like "Ten Little Ladybugs," which clashes badly with my New Yorker subscription.
We have also inherited a fresh bundle of yellow clothing, which, in human society, is considered "gender-neutral." Our child will be swathed in yellow until it turns 8.
In the meantime, I pass the time by being encouraged by my wife to visit Babies 'R' Us, an entire industry built around burp cloths and strollers, and choosing my words very carefully.
And here's a terrible thought: Maybe I have blown it already. At times, I deliberately refer to it as a girl. Other times, a boy. It has kept Julie pretty scrambled.
If you are wondering why I referred to "girl" before "boy" in the previous paragraph, perhaps it was an intentional and sordid little exercise to throw you off my tracks.
Or maybe I slipped because it really is a girl. Or not.Soon, "The Thing That Moves," or as Julie calls it, Kiddo, will have a sex and a name.
Then, I can exhale.
Note: Caleb Thomas Lyons was born at 1:21 p.m. Monday, Feb. 16, 2004. He weighs 7 pounds, 10 ounces and is reported to have "serious pipes."
Contra Costa Newspapers
Feb. 18, 2004
I AM KEEPING a secret from my wife. No, it has nothing to do with the word "parolee" or the shameful fact that I have actually watched "Father of the Bride 2."
It's a secret about our child, who, if the medical oddsmakers call it correctly, will arrive, squinting and screaming, Feb. 29. I know its sex. My wife, Julie, does not. Nor did she want to.
This has led to a lot of internal sweating on my part over the past 18 weeks, during which I had a single order: Don't blow it.
Ours is an admittedly odd arrangement, one that generally elicits widened eyes of disbelief, followed by, "Come on, man. Just tell me."
I have told no one. Not even my mother.
Let me explain.
It all started months ago, when Julie told me that she was, indeed, pregnant, and I, indeed, nearly chewed the handle off my coffee mug. It was jarring and exciting news.
We had a clear understanding from the start. Julie preferred to unmask this ultimate mystery at birth, at the summit of pain, during which she could do a terrific vocal rendition of "The Exorcist."
And I respected this wish, especially since I have no concept of this whole "labor" thing, unless it involves trying to get the string off a bakery box.
But I just had to know. I needed something to analyze, a tangible thought to chew on while Julie bulked up.
I have since filed this secret in a spare room somewhere in my head, referring to our rotating fetus as "The Babe," "It" or "The Thing That Moves."It's been a long wait.
I found out its sex during an ultrasound appointment Sept. 30. The technician scribbled something down on a card and handed it to me. I took the note and, desperate for a moment of privacy, headed into, well, the bathroom.
There, I peeled it open. It read, "Congratulations! It's a -- ."
What followed was a jolt of adrenaline-tinged reality, a rush of excitement (a real live baby!) -- then, absolutely no one with whom to share the news.
As the weeks churned by, I have been imprisoned by my own thoughts. I cannot say a word, even when Julie holds up a little boy's bomber jacket, or a sheer curtain with little flowers on it and asks what I think.
In those moments, sweat beads start doing laps on my forehead. I can sense her snooping for clues, reading my face like an FBI profiler, searching for any weird tick or roll of the eyeball.
But I stand my ground, which basically amounts to looking disinterested. This, of course, is not the desired reaction from an impatient pregnant person who hasn't eaten in 46 minutes.
Anyhow, in preserving this secret, I have had a lot of time to contemplate the differences and perceptions of the sexes, unless, of course, it conflicted with football season.
I am often left with my thoughts, which, on occasion, have tried to address perhaps the most vexing question that has foiled the great minds of science since mastodons roamed our lands:Why do men have nipples? (Alas, no easy answers.)
I also ponder the excitement that lies ahead, no matter the sex. If "The Babe" is a boy, I will be around 50 when he starts college, meaning that I may feel compelled to become the "hip dad," by wearing ghastly Hawaiian shirts and calling his best friend "chief."This is a bad thing.
If it is a girl, in her teen years, I may be asked to drop her off approximately 6 blocks in front of any public place, with orders to return around, oh, midnight. (And, for what it's worth, I would be outnumbered, 2-1, in the critical battle of the sexes.)
Of course, none of this will matter once we catch a first glimpse of its tiny anguished face and freshly unfolded hands.
While we wait, life has become a kaleidoscope of diaper bags, changing tables, high chairs, orthodontic pacifiers and books with titles like "Ten Little Ladybugs," which clashes badly with my New Yorker subscription.
We have also inherited a fresh bundle of yellow clothing, which, in human society, is considered "gender-neutral." Our child will be swathed in yellow until it turns 8.
In the meantime, I pass the time by being encouraged by my wife to visit Babies 'R' Us, an entire industry built around burp cloths and strollers, and choosing my words very carefully.
And here's a terrible thought: Maybe I have blown it already. At times, I deliberately refer to it as a girl. Other times, a boy. It has kept Julie pretty scrambled.
If you are wondering why I referred to "girl" before "boy" in the previous paragraph, perhaps it was an intentional and sordid little exercise to throw you off my tracks.
Or maybe I slipped because it really is a girl. Or not.Soon, "The Thing That Moves," or as Julie calls it, Kiddo, will have a sex and a name.
Then, I can exhale.
Note: Caleb Thomas Lyons was born at 1:21 p.m. Monday, Feb. 16, 2004. He weighs 7 pounds, 10 ounces and is reported to have "serious pipes."
posted by Corey at 2:05 PM
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