Nathan Jr's Birthday

Tuesday is Nathan Jr's birthday.

Like his siblings', his birth was induced at 38 weeks. There was very little uncertainty about when he would be born. The obstetrician scheduled an appointment with the hospital, labor was induced with pitocin, and grandmothers' flights were booked well in advance.

I realized at the time that because we could schedule his birth, perhaps we should take advantage of the calendar and give Nathan Jr a cool birthdate: 08-08-08.

You may recall that I'm not a very happy pregnant lady. I'm sick for the first half and GINORMOUSLY HUGE for the second half. I spend the last month or so experiencing constant contractions which enable me to walk into the hospital already 4 to 5 centimeters dilated. (On the bright side, that makes delivery pretty fast. Nathan Jr was out on the second push.) Then there's that whole "sober" thing that doesn't mesh well with my lifestyle or personality.

Someday, when I'm far enough removed from the horror of pregnancy, I may wonder why we accepted the first available time slot on the 3rd. Why didn't we request the 8th? Well, Future Me, allow me to respond:

Reason 1: Bump's birthday is the 10th.

No one wants to share their birthday, and a full week between Bump's Special Day and Nathan Jr's Special Day seemed reasonable. That gives me a whole week to recover from planning Nathan Jr's birthday party and to prepare the Absolutely Nothing I typically shower on Bump.

(Yeah, I kind of suck. At least I make a cake, though, and seven days guarantees that Nathan Jr's cake will be completely gone and Bump will get his own damn cake.)

Reason 2, aka the Actual Reason, and Waaaaaay More Compelling Than That First Thing: There are FIVE days between the 3rd and the 8th.

If you had suggested to me - pregnant and contracting and extremely unhappy me - that I wait five (5! FIE-HUV.) whole days to get that baby out, just so he could have an amusing birthdate, I would have punched you in the throat.

If you had suggested it via telephone or email, I would have walk-waddled to your house and then punched you in the throat, muttering the whole way about what a fucking idiot you are.

So Happy Birthday Nathan Jr. I suppose I could have used this post to marvel that you're already two, to describe how awesome you are and what milestones you've reached, or to imagine the incredible man you will become.  But I didn't.

I'm glad you were born. On the 3rd.

I'll Need to See Your Referrrrrrrrraaaaaal . . . .

Nana came for a short visit last weekend, and we miss her already.

Among other things, she told us there are lots of film shoots around New Orleans right now. Some of her friends - the ones with lots of time and patience - have enjoyed serving as extras. She tried to get Doc (her husband) to answer a casting call for "big guys" to be zombies.

And then we laughed and laughed and laughed.

Doc is quite tall, like his son was, with the same lineman's build. He certainly fits the "big guy" description, but the hospital might not like scheduling around his budding acting career.

I should probably point out that Doc is a neurosurgeon.

"Yes, Thank You for Noticing" Might Have Been a Better Reply

My toenails and fingernails are currently the same color as Lula's.  On Sunday, a very sweet 20-something woman grinned at us and asked, "Did you get manicures?"

"Well," I said, "if by 'manicure' you mean sitting on the bathroom counter and painting under duress, then yes."

"Duress?" she asked warily.

"She was yelling and I tried to shut her up with nail polish," I explained while darting off to prevent one of my children from causing yet another disaster.

"Oh," the poor girl said softly.

I think she was imagining the lovely world of having a daughter, where charming mommy-and-me outings for mani/pedis precede baseball games. I probably shouldn't have burst her bubble.

Squick

I went to a Big Box Hardware Store this afternoon to buy paint. Bump is refinishing furniture for Lula's room, and we were negotiating color choices this morning. I was being difficult because the correct shade of pink was not among the 45 frillion color chips he brought home (That's too light! That's not red enough! I want it to match the super-cute rocking chair Nana sent!) so Bump threw up his hands and sent me to the damn store myself -- well, with the chair.

I eventually found the right hue and collected all my purchases while lugging around a child-size rocking chair. I got tons of comments about it (it is super-cute, after all) and realized that my quasi-standoff with Bump about which of us was trudging back to the damn store with the damn chair to find the perfect damn pink probably ended the right way. While he is physically better able to carry a piece of furniture like a handbag, socially it was probably less awkward for me to haul a wee pastel chair around in public.

All the attention from strangers about the chair meant I wasn't alarmed when someone approached me in the parking lot with a smile.

"Are you Vietnamese?" he asked.

"Nope," I chirped. I always find that question a little weird. Sometimes I go out of my way to avoid satisfying random obnoxious curiosity, but I was feeling generous. "Korean."

I put the chair in the passenger's seat. By the time I got behind the wheel the guy was next to the car, waving expectantly. I rolled down the window.

He was earnest and stranded. His car had broken down. He called his friend but it had been over an hour and his friend hadn't arrived.

I offered him my cell phone.

He declined. He worked at a National Gas/Service Station Chain (a work shirt bearing the company's name was draped over his shoulder) and really just needed a ride. Did I live around here?

They're Half Dutch, You Know

On my side. Yeah, it's confusing.

You can't accuse Lumpyhead of jumping on the bandwagon - it's the 2006 uniform.

Parental Relativity of Time

5:38AM - Baby cries

If you're the one getting out of bed, the baby woke up at five-thirty.
If your spouse got up, the baby woke up at quarter-to-six.

And that, my friends, is absolute.