Interesting, interesting

My father and stepmother are in town this week, part of a series of family/friend visits we're enjoying this month that began with trips from LittleBrother and BigMother. (Yes, Mom, that's you.) It's a great opportunity to show the people we love this place that we're quickly coming to love, as well as assure them that Portland isn't so different -- despite all the hippies and lefties and anarchists and, perhaps worst of all, The Gays -- than the rest of the country. But it's reminding me of a fascinating psychological soap opera playing out with The Boy, his tendency to gravitate toward men.

Maybe it's got something to do with having two mommies -- hmm, that wasn't hard to figure out, was it? -- but the kid loves the menfolk. He's still talking about LittleBrother, even though my younger sibling was only in town for a total of three days stretched over two weekends. And he ADORES my father. This is what we hear, on average of two or three times a day, "Want Pop! Want Pop! Want Pop!" Usually, if we put him on the phone with relatives, he babbles or whines or ignores the phone itself and plays with the cord instead. But when it's my dad, he clutches the phone to his ear and gives everyone else in the room the stare that means, "Quiet, I'm trying to listen here!"

If my dad is reading the paper, The Boy wants to read the paper. If my dad is napping, The Boy wants to nap. If my dad is in the bathroom . . . you get the idea.

Anybody have any theories here? You think we're doing permanent damage by raising him without a solid, 24/7 male role model? Besides our not-quite-male dog, I mean.

Hmph.

Poor, poor, put-upon AnnaRay. It must be so hard living with me. I really must thank you for setting down the speaking schedule restrictions. I've always had such a hard time remembering which 15 minutes between dinner and the baby's bath time I'm allowed to ask about work, and which days of the week I'm allowed that 2-hour window to mention household chores, and when during the vernal equinox - or is it the summer solstice? - I'm allowed to ask about vacation plans.

I do tend to nag incessantly, don't I? I guess it was unreasonable of me to ask for the third time in three weeks that you get your W2s together so I could do your taxes. I should just trust that you'll take care of it or at least file for an extension before May rolls around like you did last year. And I shouldn't worry about your getting your car registered, because I know you'll get right on it after the next policeman stops you. He or she will probably just give you a warning like the last one.

If only I'd had such clarity in the beginning of our relationship, back when I was learning to speak AnnaRay. It's an interesting language; it sounds just like English, but the words have completely different meanings. For example: "I would eat that," spoken in response to a suggestion of what I might make for dinner, actually means "I will not eat that. I will leave it on my plate and tell you I'm not hungry, then make myself a salad an hour later." You see how confusing it can be? I can't tell you how long it took me to figure out that "Yes," when spoken with a book or magazine in hand, actually means "I am not listening to you; please leave me alone," and "That would be nice," means "I will take no part in your crazy scheme, and if you make me, I will pout and be generally unpleasant."

With such communication problems, it's a wonder the relationship lasted!

The Rules

We have some new rules in the little green house on 21st Avenue. They're designed to keep me from going insane. (These are not the same as the guidelines I've had to put in place regarding the Great Sperm Search of 2005. the ones meant to keep our second child from going insane. Case in point: No schizophrenic sperm.)

Judybat, you see, is a very task-oriented individual. And on most days, she's got a long, well-thought-out list of tasks for me. A list she feels the need to present pretty much constantly. I say that with love. And irritation.

After some recent tension -- me snapping, her barking, The Boy crying, the dogs howling -- we've implemented some new restrictions. They go as follows:

1) There will be no telling Anna Ray all the things she must do in any given day before her first cup of coffee.
2) There will be no asking Anna Ray what she wants to eat for dinner during breakfast or brunch, and especially not before breakfast or brunch.
3) There will be no presentation of the day's "To Do" list during a meal, given that the sudden tension can impede digestion.
4) Bathtime is for relaxing. Thus, there will be no conversation of all the things Anna Ray failed to do that day during her time in the tub.
5) Bedtime is for sleeping, mostly. Thus, there will be no talk of the following day's "To Do" list once Anna Ray has entered the sleeping zone.

This all seems perfectly reasonable to me, given how many compromises I've made in this otherwise healthy relationship. (See: The Bathroom, My Lack of Privacy.) I also think it gives JudyBat plenty of time to remind me -- notice I didn't say anything pejorative, like, say, "harp at me," "nag me," "slowly but purposely drive me out of my mind" -- of all ways I can be a helpful and responsible partner in this, our happy home.

Conversations overheard during The Great Sperm Search 2005

(Note: At some point during this latest round of internet banking, we realized that itunes was serenading us with Leonard Cohen's I'm Your Man)

ANNARAY: Glasses? Out.
JUDYBAT: Allergies? Out.
ANNYRAY: Journalist? Out!
____________

JUDYBAT (reading from a donor essay): "'If you chose me, your children will wear glasses and have lots of hair. They may not play on the varsity teams, but they will be unusual and kind."
ANNRAY: Aw. I don't want his sperm, but I'd like to have a conversation with him.
____________

JUDYBAT: I think we looked at this one already. Is this the one with the schizophrenic grandmother, or the one where everyone had cancer?
____________

ANNARAY: Favorite color orange? Out.
____________________

JUDYBAT: He's got straight hair. He's got straight hair and blue eyes. AND fair skin! That's not me; that's you. You can't have your own baby.
____________

ANNARAY: He's got corrective lenses and a slight cleft in his chin. Forget it. Ooh, but he likes baseball and golf.
____________

JUDYBAT: You know, if your identical twin has schizophrenia, you only have a 50 percent chance of getting it.
ANNARAY: We are not using the guy whose grandmother had schizophrenia.
JUDYBAT: I'm just saying. His SAT scores were really high.
____________

ANNARAY: Oh, he likes sushi!
JUDYBAT: You're not having dinner with him.
ANNARAY: I'm having dinner with his sperm.

Full disclosure

Just to be clear about what you're getting yourself into, my dearest AnnaRay, (in case you have forgotten those 9 months of my misery - I certainly have,) let's take a look at a few entries in the journal I kept during my pregnancy with The Boy.

On July 29, 2002, less than a month into my pregnancy, I wrote the following:

"I have been duped! I have been queasy morning, noon and night for the past three days. I don't know how I could ever have felt that my life would be incomplete if I never did this. My own body conspired against me along with every woman who's gone through this before me and prattled on about what a wonderful experience it is. The irony is, of course, that I will happily join that conspiracy as soon as I've popped out the pooper and all this misery is a dull memory. I don't know how I'm going to get through two more months of this. And this is what I wanted! At least I no longer worry about whether or not I'm really pregnant."

Then, on September 19, I wrote:

"I am not finding this at all enjoyable. ... All I want to eat is cheese sandwiches, which doesn't help my uncontrollably neurotic feeling that I'm gaining way too much weight way to early. I try eating fruit, salad, nuts, whatever, but the only thing that makes me feel better is cheese sandwiches.
I really can't recommend this to anyone."

It goes on like that for a while, then the suffering eases up and somewhere around the fifth month, when the baby was kicking all the time, I even acknowledged that I had reached "the fun part." On November 15 I wrote:

"I cannot remember how miserable I was a few months ago. I hear myself talking about how cool this is; I make pregnancy sound wonderful, so I make a point to mention that it can be pretty crappy too. But my heart's not in it."

But that delusional state did not last long. It was soon followed by a slightly more aware yet forgetful one. On January 21, I wrote:

"When people ask me how I'm feeling, I say great! And I mean it. But it occurred to me last night that I'm actually quite uncomfortable. I guess I only notice it at night - the bloated feeling, back pain, and difficulty breathing that makes it hard for me to fall asleep, not to mention the constant need to pee, which keeps me from staying asleep - so it's easy to forget during the day, when people are most likely to inquire after my physical well being. During the day, I just feel tired. Wiped out really."

I won't even get into the labor and birth, since you already acknowledged your terror of it. The funny thing is, (and by funny I mean completely and diabolically wrong wrong wrong,) that even after I experienced 30 hours of labor followed by a c-section, labor is the one part of pregnanacy I'd like another shot at. If that isn't evidence enough of how f%&$#@ up this whole biological urge is, well, I got nothin'.

YOU think it's weird??

Dear, sweet, beloved JudyBat: You're not the only one. Even a few years ago, if you'd ask me to make a list of all the things I'd never do in life, pregnancy would have been at the top of the list, eclipsed only by scuba diving at night, coming out to my father and dunking on a regulation-height rim. Guess which one is left? (Here's a hint: My father and stepmother are coming to visit next week, and they're not exactly going to be surprised by the sleeping arrangements.)

The idea of being pregnant terrifies me. Actually, no, that's wrong. The idea of giving birth terrifies me. But for some reason, as I've my 30s and seen more of my friends have kids and experienced all the wonders of parenting, the idea of being pregnant has become, well, sort of exciting. And I don't think that's just wanting to be the center of attention. Although I do enjoy that. Say what you will about the stereotypes we all have about women and their biological clocks: I'm actually looking forward to the detox that begins on my birthday: No coffee, no sugar, no wine. Doesn't that sound like fun? And here's the scary thing -- I kinda, sorta can't wait! Tell me that's not hormones at work.

So stop worrying about thinking odd thoughts when I'm pregnant. We're all going to think it's odd. Especially when we get to the point where I need maternity clothes. You were lucky: You had my massive clothes to wear. Do they even make pregnancy-wear in my size???

One more thing

We are still months away from that magical day when Anonymous Donor Sperm meets AnnaRay Egg, but Anna started taking folic acid last week, and it got me thinking about her with a bun in the oven - something I've always had trouble imagining.

What I've come to realize over the past few days is that I no longer have any qualms about passing on the gestation duties this time around. You might think it odd that I ever had a problem it, given how little I enjoyed being pregnant and how much it made me miserable. I do recall thanking AR (on a daily basis for two months after The Boy was born) in advance for having the next kid, but like all things related to my pregnancy, that memory has retreated to a dusty corner of my psyche where I have trouble distinguishing between things that happened to me and things that happened to people on t.v.

Maybe being a girl makes me feel like it's my job in the relationship to birth the babies. Maybe I have control issues. Maybe the fact that I can tolerate my own discomfort and pain much better than someone else's makes me reluctant to step aside, or maybe I just worry I'll feel left out. Whatever the reason, I've always felt a little funny at the thought of standing on the sidelines while my partner goes through pregnancy, birth and breast feeding. But whatever the reason, I'm over it. This weekend The Boy kept turning to his other mom for comfort and attention and snacks, and far from feeling left out, I felt like I was on vacation.

Yeah, I don't think I'll miss being the host for the next little parasite.

First of all ...

There will be no baby Jeter, no little Roy, no tiny Dean Smith, and while Atticus is still under consideration, I'm putting the kibosh on Aristotle. (I think we're in agreement on girls' names, so at least that's not an issue.)

Secondly, what do you mean we're having so much trouble handling one? Sure the tantrum intensity has been ratcheted up a notch or six, but The Boy is still a happy happy kid 90 percent of the time, and so reasonable when it comes to sharing, (a skill few of us over the age of two have truly mastered.) Also, have you ever seen anyone, not counting the dogs, get more excited at the mere mention of going outside for a walk? Sure, it all turns ugly when it's time to come in from the walk, which in truth was just a dawdle over every rock, stick and bug in our path, but you gotta take the good with the bad and the ugly.

Besides, we've got to get you knocked up, AnnaRay, before we forget everything we've learned over the past two years. I'd hate to start again from the bottom of the parenting learning curve. Do you even remember which side you're supposed to lay the kid down on so s/he doesn't die in his/her sleep? Good lord, we're already doomed.

Everybody sing . . .

Happy Birthday to The Boy
He only drinks the soy
He'd like a new toy
He's our stinky little joy

Today is Junior's birthday. He's two. Terribly, terribly two. He's in this hitting, kicking, crying, screaming, grunting, biting, spitting, wetting himself phase. Because asking him to take a bath is unfair. Taking him out of the bath is unfair. Drying him off so he doesn't catch his death of cold -- sorry, I seem to have channeled somebody's grandmother there -- is unfair. Putting on his pajamas? So, so unfair. And don't even get him started about how his mean, mean mommies won't let him stand, weeping and sniffling and generally bringing the rage, in the open refrigerator doorway for 20 minutes each morning as he tries to answer that age-old question: Soy milk or orange juice?

We give him both, in case you were wondering.

JudyBat is shopping for sperm, yes, and at some point I absolutely expect to rent out the luxury high-rise loft that is my womb. But I'm wondering if we're really ready to push on with Derek Jeter (#2 on your scorecard, but right up there in our hearts) while we're having such trouble handling even one.

Doubt struck me recently as The Boy and I wrestled over his unwillingness to let me take his clothes off for bath time. At one point, the kid seemed to give up, and he backed away and gave me the most pitiful look. I opened up my arms to hug him, and he came rushing toward me.

And then he slapped me in the head.

Other than that -- and the fact that he's suddenly begun waking up multiple times in the night, screaming for no apparent reason -- he's delightful. So, you know, Happy Birthday to Him. There will be no cake, because the child clearly doesn't need any sugar.

On sale now

I started shopping for sperm today. The last time we did this - about four years ago - we spent a few months perusing online catalogues of the more reputable sperm banks, (shying away from the websites of those individuals who feel they are doing the world a great service by offering their premium seed FREE (plus shipping) to any interested lucky lady,) but today I just logged onto our bank of choice and found what I was looking for in about five minutes. It's weird to think I could have found so easily the genetic material for our future offspring (Segundo, as I like to think of him, even though AR's mom is hoping for a girl, and she usually gets what she wants) and to be honest, it sort of takes the fun out of it.

Shopping for sperm is a little like looking for used furniture, if you lived in an Aldous Huxley novel and that furniture formed the framework of your society. Sure there was some initial queasiness at the thought of going to a complete stranger for something so personal and consequential, but that didn't compare to the uneasiness I felt when I thought about using the sperm of someone we know. Way too much potential for weird feelings, broken friendships and lawsuits down that road. It helps that the bank we used subjects their donors to a rigorous screeening process and gives you more information about each doner than you're likely to know about your own partner - from hair color and favorite foods to SAT scores and detailed health histories of extended family members. So once you enter this brave new world, you find yourself getting very picky. This guy wears glasses? Forget it. This one has hay fever? Out. This dude's maternal aunt had vericose veins? Next!

And if that weren't enough, they now offer even more than they did four years ago. For a small fee, we can get a baby picture of the donor, an audio interview, a description of facial features, a Keirsey Temperament Sorter - none of which we are interested in. We want to know about the genes; the person who donated them is immaterial. When people refer to The Boy's father, I correct them. He has a donor, I say, and then they get huffy. He has to have a father, they insist. It's a biological fact; that sperm had to come from someone. But as far as AnnaRay and I and our kid are concerned (unless the kid tells us he feels otherwise, which he may well do someday) there is no person attached to that little vial of genetic material. We are in the market for a list of characteristics, and those traits come to us at our doctor's office in a sterile package.

One new thing I did find interesting, though, was the donor essays, in which they address the question of why they're donating in the first place. That was always a hard thing for me to imagine, and I guessed it had something to do with ego. It turns out that, like everything else, it's all about the money. The essays I read all said pretty much the same thing: I like the idea of helping people who want a family, but really I'm looking for a way to pay off my college loans.

God Bless America.

You couldn't pay me to be 8 again

Our neighbor's daughter had a birthday party today. She's very sweet and very smart and turned 8 or 9, I can't remember which. It doesn't matter. Listening to those happy little girls making their happy little sounds -- the giggling, the whispering, the chattering -- it struck me that there's really no amount of money that would convince me to go back and relive that age. Or any age other than the one I'm at right now. In fact, when I think back over my life, I'm struck by how embarassing so much of it has been. (And I'm not just talking about how I stalked Judybat in college. That worked out OK for everyone involved. Except that boy she was supposed to go out with that night. Heh-heh. I win!)

The good news: By the time I'm 40, I think I'll have reached the point where I don't make an ass out of myself every day. And by the time I'm 50, I might have achieved enough wisdom NOT to be horrified when I reflect on how I behaved as a young thing. Maybe. We hope.

Judybat, meanwhile, keeps getting better. She replaces toilets, she prunes the garden, she fixes four-course gourmet meals. She manages not to get angry in the middle of the night when I fail to hear The Boy screaming.

Oh, wait, that's not true. She gets very angry. Very, very angry.


More good news. We're naming the second baby Roy, in case anyone was wondering.

Heartbreak on the horizon: the return of No Cat

Parenting isn't all that challenging. It seems to me there are only a few basic things you have to get right in order to raise a happy, well-adjusted contributing member of society. Yet, it also seems that we are ill-equipped to handle such a simple task.

For example, when Griffin was no bigger than a hiccup and crying like a motherf*****, there were only three things you had to think about to soothe his tiny soul: 1. Is he tired? Put him to bed. 2. Is he hungry? Feed him. 3. Is he wet? Change him. That's it. Three things. The test was multiple choice and you got to take it over until you got it right.

Still, l managed to fail the test. Over and over.

"I don't know what's wrong with him," I'd say to AnnaRay. "He just woke up a half hour ago so he can't be tired and I know he's not hungry because I just fed him but he won't stop crying and oh god what am I going to do?"

"Have you tried changing him?" AnnaRay would ask.

Oh yeah. Option 3. I always forgot that one.

Here's another example: our first rule of parenting is Never Disturb a Contented Child. Yet how many times could we be overheard saying something like "Oh, he's so sweet sleeping there peacefully; let me just move his head to make him more comfortable" or "Ah, look how nice he is playing by himself quietly; why don't you come over here, Son, and play with these blocks."

So I guess it should come as no surprise that having lost and then found and then vowing never again to lose the object of our dear boy's affection, (and by found I do mean on eBay,) we would become careless once more with his beloved No Cat. I hesitate to show this damning evidence, but what kind of bloggers would we be if we were to hold back from our readers?








This is the scene as The Boy leaves No Cat behind. Fortunately, I was paying attention at the time and rescued the poor feline from abandonment. But I ask you, how long can this kind of vigilance last?