For those of you who have been wondering, I’m still a Happy Husband. I’m just not a blogging husband anymore. Even so, I still think in terms of blogging sometimes. If I’d had the time and inclination over the past few months to actually put my thoughts on the web, these are a few of the things I would have written about.
We’re having another baby. Tomorrow. Literally. Tater is 15 months old. He’s walking, and he says a couple of words, but he doesn’t really talk. We still have to change his diapers. We also have to feed him, thought he’s getting to where he can eat certain things without help. And now we’re having another baby. Tomorrow. I hope I’m not freaking out too much.
I think if I ever get a job at NASA, I’ll make it a point to go to work every day and say, “Come on, people, this isn’t brain surgery!” I don’t think that would ever get old.
My mother knows a couple at her church who recently went through an interesting pregnancy. Their five-month sonogram revealed that they were having a boy. Another sonogram in the eighth month revealed that their child was actually a girl. At the time of delivery, they discovered that there was actually one of each. So I’m a little dubious about the accuracy of our sonograms, especially since there are a few sets of twins in Mrs. Happy’s family. And the sonogram techs and doctors are so cavalier about their infallibility. The tech that did our five-month sonogram said, “Well…I don’t see any boy parts….” Five minutes later, she said, “Okay…um…it’s a girl.” Since our proverbial cup runneth over with pink baby gear now, I seriously hope she was right.
You know what really annoys me about smokers? It’s not that they knowingly pump their bloodstream full of carcinogens, or that many of them feel they have a right to pollute the air of public spaces with secondhand smoke. It’s not even that they litter streets and highways with cigarette butts that take as much as 25 years to decompose. No, what bothers me most about smokers is that they’re so darn picky about the cigarettes they smoke. I understand that it’s none of my business what brand of nail anyone wants to use in his own coffin, but it’s torture when I’m standing in line at a convenience store behind a smoker who can’t fully communicate to the foreign-born clerk that he wants Marlboro Lights Low Tar Unfiltered Menthol 150′s, and not the 155′s that the clerk pulled from behind the counter. Smokers are even worse than scratch-off lottery players in that regard.
I’ve heard that when the body experiences too much sensation (usually pain), it sort of shuts down the part of the brain that registers that stuff. It’s commonly known as going into shock. I’m afraid that’s happened to my emotions lately. I and my family have been through a lot this past year (recap: unemployment—> pregnancy—> Tater’s birth—> move from New York to Texas—> continued unemployment and lots of personal stress—> Tater’s first birthday—> Tobe’s conception—> employment after 18 months of joblessness—> Tobe’s impending birth). It hasn’t all been pain, but I’ve felt so many intense emotions that I’m finding it hard to feel anything at all. On the other hand, I can also cry like a little girl with little or no provocation.
I’ve always had a very low tolerance for noisy children in public, especially in places that require a level of decorum (churches, restaurants, libraries, etc.). At my grandmother’s funeral, I sat with my extended family on my mother’s side while my father held Tater in the rear pew of the funeral parlor. The whole purpose of that was so that he could whisk the baby away if he started making noise. The problem was that my father adores the sound of his grandson babbling and cooing, and assumes everyone else does too. About halfway through the service, I started getting antsy because I could hear Tater making all kinds of noise, and I worried that my fellow funeral-goers would get angry about it. Then I thought, “If Nana were here and I suggested that her great-grandson be taken to the lobby, she would scold me pretty harshly.” I’m glad my dad kept him in the room for the duration of the service.
I’m having to wipe tears away after writing that last paragraph. See what I’m talking about?
In order to forestall criticisms, disapprovals, and suggestions for alternatives, Mrs. Happy and I have not told anyone what we plan to name Tobe. A friend of mine actually threw out red herrings in response to name inquiries before his daughter was born. He told people that “if it’s a boy, we’ll name him Halbert Porter, and if it’s a girl she’ll be Amethyst, with no middle name.” I tried that. I told a few people we were thinking of naming our daughter Penelope, but we would pronounce it to rhyme with antelope, and “we’re still deciding between that and Persephone,” which would rhyme with telephone. I didn’t have the nerve to let anyone believe I was serious for more than five minutes.
Two muffins are sitting next to each other in an oven. One muffin turns to the other and says, “It’s starting to get hot in here.” The second muffin says, “Holy cow! A talking muffin!”
I hate comment spam, but sometimes it’s entertaining. It puzzles me how thousands of cyberscumbags manage to flood blog comments with tripe and yet be unable to write an intelligible sentence or spell the simplest words. The Dadaists sometimes give me a chuckle. A couple of times, though, comment spam has really made a positive impact on me. A few months ago, my life was in a hopeless position. I had a wife, a child, a child on the way, and no job. In fact, I had been unemployed for over a year. I’d had many interviews, but no viable offers. I was on the brink of despair. Then one day I looked at my backlog of pending comments (400 or so pieces of spam) and saw one on a post called Hope for the hopeless. I didn’t remember what that particular post was about, so I read it. It had nothing to do with what I was going through except for the last line: “There’s no such thing as a dead end in His kingdom.” That encouraged me. Had it not been for that post getting spammed, I don’t know how I would’ve coped. What man meant for evil, God meant for good. It’s not Joseph’s story, but I’ll take what I can get.
Did I mention we’re having another baby? Tomorrow morning? I’ll be holding our new baby in about 12 hours. Wow.