I know there's a messed up paragraph near a picture. I tried 15 ways to fix it but this is the best I could do. I'm sure your eyes can adjust to a different size text for a paragraph. My apologies.
Well life is much different now that we know that our child is a boy. Although, to be honest, I flubbed that one pretty bad today. While at Wal-mart, you know, doing my thang, someone asked me, "Did you post a blog about whether it's a boy or a girl yet?" (yeah, I'm super rich and famous). "It's a girl," I told him. "Wait, I mean boy!" I don't know where that came from. After returning from vacation I was talking to a close friend and said something about my son-to-be, and he said, "Wait, it's a boy? I thought it was a girl."
"No," I told him. "It's a boy."
"You sure?"
"Yeah, I'm sure it's a boy."
"Oh...well I get those two things confused a lot."
Now that Mag knows exactly what her little hatchling is going to be, it's time for mama bird to kick into over drive in the nesting department. We've recently realized that we're like...I don't know...halfway? almost halfway? through this pregnancy and haven't done a ton besides daydream and talk about this child incessantly. It's time to get things DONE. We actually already have some baby equipment (which is all huge and takes up more room than my things) - we have something called an, "exersaucer" which is a dumb name for something a kid sits in and hits buttons on or flips levers or looks in a mirror or whatever; we have a baby swing - which is probably the best piece of baby equipment ever. I famously used to pinch Clayton's pink little toes when he slept as a baby in his swing, and then run away to escape punishment when he awoke screaming (I still do this to him whenever we sleep under the same roof); we have a walker - basically an exersaucer with wheels, so the child can roll around with impunity; and we have one of those amazing three wheeled running strollers so we can look fit and sexy running our boy up and down the sidewalks in front of the giant houses on our street, pretending to be a rich young couple.
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| Mag sent me this while I was writing. Drawer knobs for the baby! |
These four pieces of equipment would barely fit into our guest room so we quickly realized that we're going to have to move out the guest bed in order to make room for all the things one little tiny child will need. Now that we know, as I said before, that this alien is a male, Mag has begun picking out patterns for fabric and a design motif for the room. She mentioned sports to begin with, and I went along half-heartedly but to be honest wasn't really into it. I don't know, it just seems so old-school and semi-sexist. I want my son to be into sports, but I want my daughter to be into sports too. More importantly, I want them to be
into whatever they're into. I played soccer when I was a boy, but that's the only sport I've ever played. A sport theme just seems so... I don't know, lame. Her second idea, however, was old-school airplanes. I like that a lot. Her father is a pilot, and used to be in the Air Force. My brother is in the Air Force Special Forces. Her grandfather was a fighter pilot during WWII. On top of all of that, I love history. If I could make a living being a history student for the rest of my life, that would be my job. Also, aren't bi-planes just the coolest looking? So anyway, she's down in Columbus today, going to a few fabric stores and looking for some fabric with airplane patterns. There's a ton online (evidently this isn't a super original idea) so hopefully she'll be able to find some. In the mean time I'm here at home supposed to be sanding down the boy's chest-of-drawers so we can repaint them. I'm going to stencil some plane designs on each drawer afterwards and paint them. I'm thinking of a motif where the top drawer is the sun, the second drawer a plane, the third drawer a paratrooper, and the fourth drawer the ground. I don't know though, I'm going to play around with it and see. However, some rain started falling and some thunder kicked up so I'm doing this instead while watching Breaking Bad. |
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| This is, by far, my favorite picture of my son. He looks like a super chill evil alien with a mohawk. |
Another thing we can now discuss is a name for our kid. We had like four full (as in first and middle) female names picked out but had trouble coming up with male names. Of course, the child had to be a boy. Mag had liked, "Brooks Cameron" but as soon as it was announced that the He was a He she told me, "He doesn't seem anything like a Brooks Cameron to me." In the two weeks since we've found out we've gone over about 50 names, and I don't like barely any of them. There are about four that we have on our, "Eh, Maybe" list, which isn't very many at all. Mag has abruptly fallen in love with the name, "Andrew" which I find just bizarre. I've never really liked my name. I don't hate it, or anything, but it probably isn't the name I would have chosen. It doesn't help that (probably in honor of me) shortly after I was born there was a rash of everyone naming their sons Andrew so I've met about eighteen thousand Andrews all between two and five years younger than me. And all incredibly annoying. Mag has never made a habit of telling me how much she likes my name or anything, but suddenly she wants to name our son after me. It's flattering really. However, I am not a vain man. Far from it. In fact, I am a selfless man. I try to think about my son when it comes to naming him. What name will he like? More importantly, what name will girls be attracted to in the year 2028? While, let's face it, he is my son, and he is an O'Dell, he shouldn't really have a problem attracting the ladies, I still don't want to burden him with anything that might get in the way.
And now, a brief story to cap off our week in child-rearing:
On Monday, while we were at a doctors appointment (everything is fine by the way) Mag pointed at a carved Willow Tree statuette on a shelf and said, "That's the kind I want." It was, of course, of a pregnant wooden woman holding her pregnant wooden belly. Now, Mag pointing out something she likes is the closest that she ever comes to actually asking for something. I have to beg her for months in advance in order to get any ideas for her birthday or Christmas. So, since she wants it (and since she's being a nice little sweetheart lately) I decided to go buy her one of these figurines while she was out shopping today. I drove over to the local drugstore, where they have this whole section labelled (I assume), "Things Only Women Would Want (But Never Need)." I went inside and wandered around for a moment, for only for a short one, as I was accosted by a too tan, too blonde, to friendly woman who worked there. She asked if I needed any help and I instantly decided to play one of my favorite games. A game called, "Pretend To Be A Dumbass."
A brief history on Pretending To Be A Dumbass: I do this quite often, and it really is a ton of fun. I first started doing it as a child, when I'd hang out with friends. We'd be talking about something from a time we had hung out before and they'd get all the details wrong, or not remember who was there, or not remember what we did, and I would remember every detail in stark clarity. I'd pretend, however, that I didn't remember either - if I did then I felt I'd just look needy, or clingy, or like I put more importance on our time together than they did. Since I'm all grown up now I still play this game aW lot. When I'm around rednecks I change the way I talk, using, "I reckon" a lot and purposefully messing up my grammar. It's great fun, completely pointless, and a fascinating way to waste time.
"Yeah," I told the lady. "Somebody told me you sold those wooden people here."
"Wooden people?" she asked.
"Yeah...you know like those people...that are wooden?"
"Oh!" she laughs. "Those wooden people! They're right over here!" She takes me to the Willow Tree display. "Is there one you're looking for in particular?"
"One that's pregnant. Do they have those?"
"Oh yes! We definitely have those!" She jumps down and sorts through them all and then goes and gets an older lady and they eventually tell me that no, they don't have any of those.
"Have you tried Hallmark?" they ask. "Do you know where Hallmark is?"
"No," I tell them. "I don't even know what Hallmark is."
They explain to me where, and what, Hallmark is and tell me that they sell Willow Tree there and they probably have a pregnant one.
"Well when are you reordering?" I ask the older lady.
"Oh I'll order one when I reorder, and that'll probably be in the next few weeks. I just didn't know how soon you needed it. When were you hoping to get it?"
"I don't know."
"You don't?"
"No. I mean...It's no rush. She's still pregnant."
"Will she be pregnant for awhile?"
"At least until November, they tell me." (I'm skating on thin ice now, going so dumb that I run a risk of the ladies growing suspicious. It's time to leave). I tell the ladies that I'll check Hallmark, and if they don't have it I'll be back down to visit them in a few weeks. They bid me good day (good day I tell you!) and I meander out of the store, already noticing them smiling and whispering back and forth to one another. I hope it's a good story to tell their husbands when they get home tonight - the story of a sweet, dull-witted, dashingly handsome young man who was trying to buy a gift for his wife. "Why can't you be more like that honey?" they'll ask. "He may be dumb as a sack of bricks, but at least he was getting her a present."
This, my son, is the legacy I leave for you.
Addendum:
After writing this I realized I couldn't post it because Mag would know I was buying her this Willow Tree thing. Therefore I packed up and went to Hallmark, determined not to be stupid. Some things, however, are unavoidable. I walk in, ask about Willow Tree, and the girl points me to the rack of displays.
"So, do I just take what I want off the rack?"
"No, you tell me what you want and I'll go get it from the back.""I want the pregnant chick."
"The pregnant chick?"
"The pregnant girl."
"The pregnant girl?""The pregnant WOMAN. The pregnant MARRIED woman. The woman pregnant with MY legitimate child. My WIFE."
This is, obviously, the funniest thing uttered in a Hallmark store in the past seven years (based solely on reaction) but, long story short, I got that voodoo doll, along with a big magnet that says, "It's A Boy!" waiting on the kitchen table for when Mag get's home.
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