A Stone for Two Birds

I've been meaning to jump back into Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge, but haven't in a long time. Also, I was declared 2nd place winner of Trifecta's first of three prompts this week, which earned me a place in the Write-Off this weekend. So I decided to fulfill the requirements of both prompts with one piece, because I'm lazy like that, and a sick kid all week kind of wore me out. Here's "Triumph" for Trifecta and "Swagger" for Velvet Verbosity, with a 100-word count:

Parenting teaches: do not plan; you will plan for the wrong eventuality. I bought my son a balance bike at two. When he graduated to a pedal bike, he wouldn’t need training wheels. But he did.

Imagining myself running beside him yelling encouragement, I bought a handle for the back of his bike. We used it once before he demanded his training wheels.

A friend rode two-wheeled; he borrowed that bike and took off without me or my plans. It was a triumph. You should have seen his swagger. He was proud, and it had nothing to do with me.

Wow, I Was WAAAYYYYY Off

I should post more. I've been busy. And Twitter makes me lazy. So in lieu of an actual post, and with the rapidly approaching anniversary of the birth of my son, I thought I'd share with you the version of a birth story I wrote when I was still in high school. Man, that kid had no idea what he was talking about.

The Birth of a Child

With a sigh and a smile, Tom flopped into the big easy chair in his study. The house was empty and silent, and to keep the mood, he neglected to turn on any lights. The sigh was from exhaustion, both physical and emotional; the smile was the only expression of utter joy left to him as he had already used every other expression he knew.

At 9:13 A.M., Tom's wife gave birth to a son. A son! The sound of the word made his heart want to burst. William Daniel Grey entered the world weighing a healthy seven pounds, nine ounces and was every bit as indignant at his arrival as a self-important politician who realizes that he has been booked at the local Motel 6. To his parents' relief, he arrived in possession of all of his parts and with all parts in proper working order. Little William's eyes, when they were not squeezed shut in a tiny tempestual rage, were a clear and brilliant blue. In Little William's father's unabashedly subjective opinion, his was the finest boy to have ever graced the planet with his presence.

Tom spent the previous twelve hours on a continuous circuit between the bedside of his wife Elizabeth and the vending machines. He had only just left a few moments before at the gentle urgings of a matronly nurse. Tom, being the coward that many men are in the area of childbirth and other mysterious female processes, had elected with his wife's approval, indeed at her suggestion, to remain in the waiting room throughout the entire ordeal. He originally had every intention of experiencing the miracle of childbirth hand-in-hand with his wife, wearing a fatherly smile on his face, but when the time had actually arrived, Elizabeth had seen Tom's face turn ashen and had heard the strength drain from his voice, so she mercifully suggested that he remain outside.

Tom then spent the ungodly and unbearably long three hours in a cold sweat. He unconsciously fit every stereotype of the nervous first-time father to perfection by pacing continuously and talking to himself for the duration. His nerves were drawn pianowire-tight, and his nervous energy was at an all-time high. Tom did nothing to remedy this situation, and in fact spent most of the three hours pouring sugar into his bloodstream in the form of Hershey's, Life Savers, and Coca-Cola. Only the mercy of God kept him from collapsing into a diabetic coma.

At last the moment arrived. Tom's heart skipped a few beats when a small, somewhat mousy-looking nurse stuck her head into the waiting room and asked, "Mr. Grey?" Tom nearly jumped on her, making her flinch, with a myriad of questions at his lips, each so important that he was at a loss as to which to ask first. The nurse merely asked him to follow her, saying nothing else. She walked abominably slowly, and Tom realized that she was enjoying herself. Apparently this was the part of her job that she loved the most: watching the poor, tortured fathers squirm with anticipation.

Knowing this, Tom tried, but was unable, to calm himself and to end the ceaseless babble that was issuing forth from his lips. Without realizing that he was doing it, and in a period of mere moments, Tom managed to tell this amused nurse the entire history of The Romance of Tom and Elizabeth. With something similar to awe, Tom listened to the words flow out, unbidden by any human will.

The walk from the waiting room stretched on and on; Tom had never walked so far. The sterile, white halls stretched on to infinity, and a helpless Tom, feeling detached from his body and floating in some ethereal fluid, watched himself amble along, babbling contentedly.

At long last the nurse opened one of the hollow, wooden doors and ushered Thomas into the room. At this point, Tom's heart did not just skip a beat, it nearly stopped altogether. His wife was in the plain, white, hospital bed, smiling at him with a look of expectancy on her face. She held a baby; their baby. His face and his mind both went blank, and his wife could suddenly read no emotion in his face or eyes. Then his shock broke, and his eyes filled with wonder. In a breathless whisper he asked, "A boy?"

She nodded, laughing and crying, and held the boy up to meet his father. Tom took the baby with all the awkward care that befits a new father. In Tom's eyes, the boy seemed to be surrounded by a hazy glow, an aura. The father held his son for a time and thought of personal things. Eventually he looked around as if waking from a dream and went to his wife's side.

"William?" he asked as he handed the child reluctantly back to the mother.

"Hey! I thought we had decided on Daniel," she replied.

"William Daniel it is, then," spoke a voice from the corner. Tom looked up to see his mother-in-law, previously unnoticed in his understandably emotional condition. He went to her and gave her a hug, whispering "I'm a father!" in her ear.

And thus it was decided. William Daniel Grey. The rest of the day Tom spent in a haze; first he watched his wife feed the child and then went on a tour of the hospital, telling everyone he met that he was a father. Finally, when both his wife and his son were safely sleeping, a large and motherly nurse quietly suggested that he go home and get some sleep, all the while gently leading him toward the door.

So Tom went home. His troubles were only beginning, he knew. Would he be a good father? Would he do all the right things at all the right times? How was he going to get Little William through college? His were happy troubles, though, and he fell asleep in his big easy chair in his dark, empty house with his car keys in his hand, still smiling.

Birth Story

We went to the regular weekly OB check up at 37 1/2 weeks with some mild concern. On Saturday, Mrs. Rodius had a couple of strong contractions, then nothing. Beginning on Sunday, and continuing into Monday, little Thumper was more lethargic than his usual self. He wiggled around in there, but not with his usual frequency or vigor. He was even unenthusiastic about his post-ice cream dancing. The OB had told us that decreased fetal movement was one of the four reasons to call and wake her up in the middle of the night, but Thumper had sleepy days before, and we didn't want to be the nervous parents who called at the slightest provocation. We should have called.

The nurse took Mrs. Rodius blood pressure. She didn't tell us the numbers, as she usually does, but said that it was fine. When the doctor came in, we expressed our concern about Thumper's lethargy, and she chastised us kindly and put Mrs. Rodius on a fetal heart monitor for twenty minutes. Halfway through, she came to check on us, and wasn't encouraged by the squiggly lines on the stock-ticker paper. She gave Mrs. Rodius a couple of juice boxes with which to stimulate Thumper's thumper, but when she came back again, she announced that we had failed the test. It wasn't so much that his heart rate was fast or slow, it was just flat. She expected to see it increase and decrease over the course of the twenty minutes as he moved around in there, especially after the stimulation of the juice. Instead, it remained fairly constant, between 135 and 145 beats per minute. She also mentioned that Mrs. Rodius blood pressure was elevated. After an ultrasound, she said that Thumper was transverse. He'd been head-down at the previous week's appointment, but maybe during those contractions on Saturday, he'd been spun around sideways. The doctor's concern was that if Mrs. Rodius went into labor with him in that position, there was a risk of the cord "presenting" first, which would be bad. Very bad.

"You're having a baby today," she said. Huh? What? Today, like today? Well, can we go home and get the bag?

"No. I don't want you to be concerned. This isn't an emergency where we're rushing you over for immediate surgery, but I'm concerned enough not to let you go home for the bag. It looks like you're going to have this baby in the next few hours. Go across the street to the hospital, straight up to the third floor, and check in. I'll call ahead and let them know you're coming."

Huh. Wow. Today. We're having a baby! While Mrs. Rodius went to the restroom, I listened to the doctor call the hospital. She reiterated the same equation: heart rate + blood pressure + position = c-section. Today. I wasn't so much excited, or scared, or nervous. I was simply stunned. I felt like I'd been programmed to proceed with a set of directions, but I wasn't really thinking much. I was in cruise control. But by the time we'd pulled into a spot in the garage, it was starting to hit me. His birthday would be July 31. We were really doing this.

Mrs. Rodius called her office to let them know she wouldn't be coming in. I called my office and did the same. I don't remember who else I called. I think I called my mother. And maybe Mrs. Rodius' mother. Or maybe she called her herself, I don't know. Things were starting to feel a little unreal. When I left the hospital the next day to go home and give Puck his antibiotics, I would have absolutely no idea where I'd parked the car.

And speaking of Puck and his antibiotics, I felt guilty every time I left Mrs. Rodius at the hospital over the next four days. Puck had already been through one round of antibiotics to fight a urinary tract infection, and I really didn't want it to come back again because we didn't finish this round. So I went home twice a day every day but one. To give the cat a pill. At his follow-up this week, they pronounced the infection beaten. Thank God, because I don't think we really need that to deal with on top of everything else.

So, we went to the third floor, dropped Mrs. Rodius' name like a password, and were immediately ushered to a room. A nurse, named Angie if I recall, hooked Mrs. Rodius up to a blood pressure monitor, a fetal heart monitor, and IV fluids. We watched bad weekday morning TV. We made small talk and laughed nervously at each other. We listened to the underwater sound of the heartbeat on the monitor. We listened to the underwater heartbeat of the baby in the belly in the room next door, too. We watched another stock-ticker stream of paper slowly ooze out of the machine.

Angie typed an exhaustive medical history into the computer next to the bed. I'd wondered aloud to Mrs. Rodius earlier if I could get internet on that computer, so I could blog, "Today's the day!" She said probably not. After maybe an hour or so, Angie pronounced Mrs. Rodius' blood pressure perfect, examined the squiggly lines and declared Thumper "the most beautiful baby ever." His heart rate was rising and falling just as it should. She speculated that perhaps Mrs. Rodius had been dehydrated, causing the reduced movement and flat heart rate, and that her stress over that had elevated her pressure. But with the introduction of IV fluids, both problems had resolved themselves. Mrs. Rodius didn't really see how she could possibly be dehydrated, though, with all of the water she was drinking, and all of the trips to the bathroom to get rid of it again. But whether dehydrated and rehydrated, whether high blood pressure or low, the kid was still stuck in there sideways.

So after we called the offices and the moms again to say maybe it wouldn't be today after all, the doctor came in to check on us, and agreed with Angie's assessment. Things looked good; maybe today wasn't the day. But: he's a big kid, with a big head, and he's only going to get bigger. He's in there sideways. Mrs. Rodius' swollen legs and feet indicated that blood pressure was likely to eventually become a problem again anyway. We're here; we're ready; what do you say we just go ahead and get this kid out of there?

Hey, sure! What the hell? Why not? Let's have us a kid today!

From that moment, things moved rapidly along. From "What the hell, why not?" to "Holy crap, that's my son!" was probably about 45 minutes. I got papered over, with hat and mask and gown and booties. They wheeled Mrs. Rodius into an operating room to prep her and give her a spinal. I stood in the hall holding her purse until a nurse took pity on me and showed me where I could leave it. Then she sat me on a stainless steel chair outside the operating room to wait.

I noticed I was breathing hard, fogging up my glasses above the mask. I did some breathing exercises from BFF's bible. I tried not to look as if I was listening to two nurses trying to detective out what happened to some narcotics. One was sure she'd given it to the right patient, but marked it down to the wrong patient in the computer. They were poking away furiously at a touchscreen computer. Surgeons came and flirted with the nurses while they washed their hands. None of them paid any attention to me.

I was beginning to feel exactly like I did right before riding a roller coaster the last time I went to an amusement park. When I was a kid, I could ride all the rides and never get sick. But after many years in roller-coasting hiatus, I returned to discover that even the kiddie coaster made me vomit. After the first vomit experience, I suddenly became very nervous while standing in line and especially while sitting in the coaster as it click-click-clicked its way up that first anticipatory hill. Saying to myself, "Don't throw up, don't throw up, please don't throw up," oddly had absolutely no effect, and I threw up on every ride I tried.

Big Brother had told me about his surreal cesarean experience of talking to his conscious and coherent wife on one side of the screen while looking right down into her exposed guts on the other side. Many years ago, after several stitches experiences, I decided I was going to sit up and watch the doctor stitch up a cut in my hand. He thought it was a bad idea, but wasn't inclined to stop me. As soon as the needle touched my skin, a nauseating wave of heat hit me in the face, and I suddenly had to lie down. Watching was indeed a bad idea.

So between the roller coaster, the brother, and the stitches, I was not at all confident of my ability to stay conscious in the operating room. So I sat still as a stone on that steel chair, my eyes darting all over at the doctors and nurses bustling by. Occasionally a nurse would pop out to tell me "almost ready for you." I tried to keep breathing. I tried to stop with the "don't pass out" mantra. Finally, they called me in.

I needn't have worried. Perhaps they've had experiences with the fabulous fainting fathers, so they immediately directed me to a chair by her head and told me to hold her hand. The screen hid everything below her neck. It was high and insurmountable, and I said a prayer of thanks for that. We grinned nervously at each other. The anesthesiologist said a few encouraging words. Mrs. Rodius kind of jiggled around a little bit as they tugged and prodded her. After a few minutes, she said, "Have they started yet?" just as the doctor said, "Here he is! He's definitely a boy. Oh, he's peeing already!" He started crying immediately, and so did we. They carried the bloody squirming bundle of arms and legs over to another table that wasn't hidden behind the screen. Somebody told me I could go over and look, so I did. My mind's eye was blinded by the white-hot flash of that singular moment, though, and I cannot see him there in my memory. He peed on two more nurses there; I do remember that. They carried him over to Mrs. Rodius, and she cried as she kissed his fuzzy little head. Then they said I could carry him to the nursery, and I thought, "What, me?" I followed the nurse, walking, walking, turning, walking, turning again. It was a labyrinth. I didn't look at him, for fear of tripping. But he was hot and squirmy on my chest and arms. He squeaked and snuffled. "Don't pass out" had been replaced by, "My son. My son. He's here. My son."

We got to the nursery, and I handed him over to his nurse for the day, Jennifer. I was told to discard all of my coverings, except the gown, because that goes into linens. Then I could watch from outside. So I did. Jennifer wiped more goo off of him, weighed him, took his temperature, and looked over his various body parts. Thumper, in turn, peed on her. Twice. He had now christened one doctor and three nurses, all within his first five minutes out here in the world. Before long, he'd get his mother too, making a beautiful four-foot arc as I changed his diaper to hit her from the crib beside her bed. It must've been all those IV fluids. Then Jennifer gave him a more thorough bath and shampoo, which lowered his temperature, so they had to bake him under the heat lamps for awhile. I stood and watched him wiggle, squirm, cry, and sleep for about another 45 minutes with another new father. His baby, his third daughter, had that newborn conehead, as did several of Thumper's cellmates. Some had hair, some didn't. Some were outraged, some were placid. Thumper was the second biggest, but he was by far the most beautiful.

I took out my phone to call my mother and tell her the good news, and it rang before I could dial. It was Mrs. Rodius' oldest sister, calling to check on us, so that's how she became the first to hear the news and his name. She works hard at brainwashing the nieces and nephews into calling her becoming the favorite Aunty, and I have no doubt she will carry on the tradition with Thumper. So that's how Grandma became the second person to hear, through no fault of my own, except that I answered the phone when it rang.

Eventually, Jennifer pronounced him done baking, and asked me if Mrs. Rodius was ready for him. I had no idea, as I'd been standing there staring at Thumper. She called to find out, then swaddled and capped him, and let me push him back to Mrs. Rodius in a miniature plexiglass crib. For liability reasons, the baby had to be in the crib while out of the room, except for that one "New Dad Walking" march from the operating room.

Mrs. Rodius looked exhausted, but relieved and thrilled to finally be able to hold the baby. I've since seen her looking more exhausted, though. That was the beginning of the strangest, most surreal, exhausting, exhilirating, thrilling, desperate, frightening, worrisome, funniest, saddest, happiest time of my life. She kissed him on the head again. Neither of has stopped since.

The Coming of Thumper III: The Arrival

More pictures and details to follow, but Thumper's here! He showed up a bit early, which all in all, was probably a good thing.

7/31 at 3:41 p.m.
7 lbs. 15 oz.
19 3/4"

With his Mama's nose and his Daddy's big ol' giant head.

Religioso

Thanks to MTAMM for her post yesterday on kids and religion. I've been thinking about it for years, actually, and I don't even have a kid yet. Some people have accused me of over-intellectualizing things. Well, of over-thinking them, but I had to intellectualize it up a bit.

A couple of years ago, Mrs. Rodius and I went to dinner with Big Brother and his wife. Because Mrs. Rodius and I were thinking about maybe beginning to consider the idea of having kids someday, I naturally jumped right to thinking about the religious education of our not yet even theoretical children. Of course!

So we got well into an interesting conversation. Big Brother and SWSIL (Social Worker Sister-in-Law), like many of the commenters on Minivan Mom's site, did not participate in organized religion, but did, at least in SWSIL's case, believe in God. I don't recall if Big Brother said he did or not. But they tried to live spiritual lives, and taught their children that many people believe many different things, and that that's OK.

On a side note, their 8-year-old daughter may or may not have had occasion this month to explain to her Baptist grandmother that she's Greek. As in, she believes in the Greek gods and goddesses. I never did hear the rest of that story. I'm sure it's bound to be a good one.

Anyway, we were deeply involved in our religious education conversation, with me wondering aloud if, by attempting to teach your kids all religions, you effectively teach them none. It seemed to me that it's more likely for a person to embrace a religion if he does so at a young age. And for a young person to embrace a religion, it seemed to me that he would have to be indoctrinated in it, not just educated in it. I don't think Mrs. Rodius, Big Brother, or SWSIL necessarily agreed with that position, though.

Suddenly, a woman from the table next to ours rolled her chair over to join our conversation. I'm not sure why Olive Garden has chairs with casters on them; perhaps it is to reduce the chance for abdominal injury by encouraging patrons to wheel their overly-full bellies well away from the table before attempting to stand. Or maybe it's just to make it easier for strangers to insert themselves into your conversation. I'm sure it was the subject matter that made her feel welcome to participate. If we'd been discussing the relative merits of a variety of sexual positions, she may not have felt so comfortable offering her own opinion on the matter.

I don't really remember now what she contributed, probably because I spent the entire time she was talking drowning her out with my own internal monologue of, "What the hell?" over and over again. I vaguely recall her taking the pro position on formal religious education. I also recall thinking that she wasn't quite understanding any of the counter-arguments that Big Brother or I may have tried to employ. But mostly I remember thinking, "What the hell?"

So I don't really think that conversation resolved any of my uncertainties of the time. I think I mostly just tabled those uncertainties until a later date. Myself? I'd call myself an atheist if I wasn't afraid God would strike me dead for my arrogance. I was not brought up with any particular religion. I attended services at a Presbyterian church for a few years with my mother and Big Brother. I was never deeply touched by the dogma or the services. I thought the giant cross was pretty cool. I enjoyed the grape juice and hawaiian bread. I liked to contemplate the practical mechanics of things like the distribution of the bread and "wine" and passing the collection plate. I wondered where one could get the plastic shot glasses for the wine in such bulk, or the red-velvet-and-brass carrying case with holes custom sized to fit those plastic shot glasses. Mom had her own spirituality going on, but she wasn't very open about it with her kids at the time, though she is much more so now.

I had regular playdates for awhile with the niece and nephew. Once, when I asked the niece (who is now Greek), what she wanted to do for our next playdate, she decided that she wanted to go to services at the Lutheran church where her little brother was attending pre-school. She glowed with delight when I showed up at her house to pick her up wearing dress clothes (including a tie, and shoes that were neither sandals nor tennis shoes. But it wasn't a suit. I don't own a suit.). If you knew me, you'd know that such an outfit is almost unheard of for me. I thought when she suggested it that maybe this would be the occasion that would open my heart to the church. The people there were very warm and welcoming, and I could imagine myself becoming a part of their community, volunteering to help at the barbecues, and so on. But the service itself just did not resonate with me. We stood when were supposed to stand, we sang when we were supposed to sing. We listened when we were supposed to listen. Neither the substance nor the ritual sounded an echoing tone in my heart.

So thinking of young Thumper and his religious education, I wonder:

Is it possible to indoctrinate your child into a religion without participating in it yourself?

If you teach a child that there are many religions in the world, and all of them have equal relative merits, are you not also teaching your child that none of them is actually right and true?

Is it possible to teach children to be ethical and compassionate without teaching them that there are grave and eternal consequences for not being so?

He's Just a Simple Caveman

And by that I am referencing Phil Hartman SNL skits and not Geico commercials. Does that make me old?

The simple caveman to which I refer is, of course, young Thumperino. He's just a simple caveman. He doesn't understand our fancy, modern way of life.

He says, "I want cranberry juice!" I just went to the grocery store yesterday, and nobody said anything about wanting cranberry juice. Thus there is no cranberry juice in the refrigerator today. I try to explain this to him. He says, "Cranberry juice!"

He has also done the same thing with meatballs. And chocolate. Granted, the chocolate thing was my fault. There's almost always chocolate in stock. He had every reason to believe it would be readily available. He's my boy, after all, and I live by the motto, "If it ain't chocolate, it ain't dessert." I'm afraid I let him down on the chocolate thing.

But meatballs? When was the last time we had meatballs in our freezer, just waiting for their chance to get called up to the Big Show? The only reason he knows he likes meatballs is because his Aunty T gave him some at the baby shower. We haven't had meatballs at our house since Hector was a pup! I mean, I'm happy to get the boy meatballs, but it would be helpful if he could, you know, make a list in advance or something. Let me know on shopping day. I tried to tell him that. He said, "Meatballs, please!" Sometimes he says please.

Thanks for All Your Thoughts; Now Here's a Baby Update

Thanks for all your input. I think I won't exactly tell the BFF to piss off, but I'll just wait and watch it fade away after I tell him thanks but no thanks on the Forum in January. I don't think he's long for Austin, anyway. He's bought property in Costa Rica which will sustain him when the End Times come (i.e., when the oil runs out and the U.S. starts looking like location shots of The Road Warrior or, alternatively, we all start having to learn Chinese. Or when the Killer Plague comes. You know, six one, half dozen t'other).

In other news, Thumper is continuing his southern migration. This morning, the doctor could feel his head, but used some B word that apparently means he's not fully engaged yet. The cervix is softening, but not effacing or dilating yet. By poking, squeezing, and making faces, she estimated him at about 7 1/2 lbs. It'll be 37 weeks in two days; after that she'd be happy to see him come any time.

When Mrs. Rodius asked if a pedicure with leg and foot massage would be OK this weekend, the doctor said, "Oh yeah. You're ready. When women start worrying about their toes, they're ready." But is Thumper ready? He hasn't said if he's started worrying about his toes yet.

Crisis Point for a Lifelong Friendship

I have a friend. I remember quite clearly twisting around in my seat with the rest of the first grade to stare at him and his glasses at the back of the classroom. It was his first day at a new school. I don't remember introductions, or slowly becoming friends. We just were. His mother was our Cub Scout Den Mother. His father was our little league coach. His house was always stocked with home-made cookies and cakes and all manner of sugary delights. I may have spent more of my childhood in his house and yard than in my own. We were inseparable from 6 to 15, BFF's, though of course we'd never heard that term at the time.

After junior high, I followed Big Brother's example and transferred out of the high school that Phil Donahue once referred to as "Ken and Barbie High" to go to the rival high school a little further away. We weren't the kids whose parents bought them Mercedes and Mustangs for their 16th birthday. BFF wasn't either, but he chose to keep on at Ken and Barbie High.

Without seeing each other daily, the distance between us grew. Our activities and our circles of friends diverged, but we still remained friends. After high school, he spent a semester in the dorms of a college some 200 miles away. When he came back, I moved to Boston. We wrote letters to each other, in those days before email and instant messaging, and we played a long distance game of chess, one move per letter, over the course of years. He came to visit, and so did I.

We moved to Austin because Big Brother and his family had settled here, my parents and oldest sibling were only 200 miles away, and because I intended to go to grad school at the University of Texas. A bonus incentive was that BFF had settled here, too. With my return to Texas, our friendship was renewed. But now, it may be ending.

Since my return to Texas eight years ago, BFF has demonstrated a tendency toward evangelism. Not of the fundamentalist Christian variety, but evangelism nonetheless. He discovered The Tao of Health, Sex, and Longevity by Daniel Reid, and it became his bible. He felt healthier than he'd ever felt before. He no longer had problems with allergies or acne. He had found The Way that was right for him, and he immersed himself in it completely. He also gave copies of the book to many of the people that he knew, including me. The tenets of the book dominated his conversation for a long time.

He also became an environmental activist. Again, he gave away copies of books that were important to him, like The End of Oil by Paul Roberts. Daily, he forwarded emails from the various green listservs to which he belonged. He pointed out the dietary and environmental failings of his friends and lovers. He preached with the fervor of a born-again sinner.

It was important to him, and he was important to me, so I went along. I tried his diet for six months, and felt no different. I fasted twice a year for a few years, and I got a little bit more out of that, but not enough to make it a permanent aspect of my life. I debated politics with him, in person and in email, until I could no longer stomach the same arguments going around and around and around. As I've mentioned before, he helped curb my rampant conservatism, to a degree. But I finally had to tell him how weary I've grown of his relentess efforts to change me into the friend he wishes I was.

And now, he's discovered Landmark Forums. After a lull in our friendship, he called me out of the blue to apologize for not being a very good friend to me and to ask me to support him by attending a graduation ceremony for a class that he had taken called Landmark Forum. I was touched that he reached out like that, and I told him I'd be there. After I hung up, I Googled it. I was concerned by what I found. It struck me, rightly or wrongly, as a cynical combination of cult and corporation, manipulating their clients' emotional response to the carefully developed and presented content in order to convert them to recruiters to grow ever-larger the corporate bottom line. Is it an actual cult? I don't know. Is Scientology a cult? I don't know. Do the histories and ideologies of Landmark and Scientology intersect here and there? I think so.

The language BFF used in that phone call was repeated in the pages I found: he had been "running a racket" on me, creating "vicious circles;" he wanted to "be present" with me, and "create the possibility" of a better relationship. I read that the phone call he made to me and the invitation to the "graduation" were indeed part of the Forum, and that part of their purpose was to have current Forum attendees working on their friends and families to increase enrollment in future Forums. I found it disturbing. I called him back to tell him that, while I would attend his graduation, I'd appreciate it if he did not give Landmark my contact information and let me make the decision myself how much involvement I wanted to have with them. He agreed, though he felt I had their motives all wrong. I considered parking a few blocks away and walking, so they couldn't hunt me down through my license plate.

The graduation itself was less a celebration of what the attendees had accomplished through the class and more an hours-long marketing session for the rest of us. I managed not to fill out the contact information cards that were repeatedly offered, and they were much less pushy about it than I anticipated. Near the end, the attendees were instructed to invite the rest of us to sign up. I told BFF I was skeptical and wanted to do some independent reading on it. He seemed disappointed, but understanding. I told him that it seemed to me that what the Forum promised to teach me over a weekend were in fact the years-long lessons that make up a life, the kinds of lessons that define each of us as people. I told him I didn't believe there were any shortcuts to be had. Truthfully, I had no intention of ever signing up, and I hoped his passion for it would fade over time. I didn't want to hurt his feelings, though, and I didn't want to drive an even larger wedge between us.

I thought my hopes were being realized when he refrained from evangelizing for Landmark on the several occasions we got together for lunch since then. He barely mentioned it, only referring obliquely to his intention to take additional Forums in the future. Saturday, he called me while Mrs. Rodius and I were driving to meet some friends for dinner. He said he didn't want to distract me while I was driving and asked me to call him back when I got home. We took too long, though, and he called again as we were headed home. I couldn't for the life of me guess what was so urgent. Mrs. Rodius guessed that he was calling to tell us his ex-girlfriend was pregnant.

He was not. He was calling because he'd just taken another Forum and was again all fired up to enroll me. He told me Landmark had more power to positively affect the future of the earth and humanity than did his previously-beloved environmentalism. He wanted me to join him, because the two of us together, with Landmark behind us, could be such powerful agents for change. He told me that he knows me so well that he knows this was just the kind of thing I was looking for to make my life better. He wanted to get me into a Forum right away, before the baby comes, because he knows I won't have time for awhile after that.

I told him I don't have time now. I told him I can't spend the money. He said it's not about the money, and he'd pay for me to go. I told him I'm not looking for a change, because my life is exactly where I want it to be, and I'm happier now than I've ever been before. I told him again that I know this is important to him, and that he is important to me, but no matter what he said to me, the answer now would be no, because with the impending birth, I have no room in my life for the Forum.

But I do not want to lose him as a friend. I do not want him to become isolated from anyone in his life who is not a fellow proponent of Landmark. So I told him that if it was still important to him in six months, we could discuss it again. I did not promise to sign up, but I didn't make it clear that I won't be. I did not tell him that if he knew me so well, he would know this is exactly the kind of thing I would never want to be a part of. I did not tell him that it is about the money; it's not about whether or not I pay to attend the one Forum, it's about convincing me to be a recruiter, just as he has become. It's about convincing me to start a lifelong involvement with many more and more expensive Forums down the road. He would say that I'm "creating" that reality myself.

So now I am very sad. How do I keep my friend without signing up for a program that is utter anathema to me? Do I sign up in six months and let him pay for it (because I'm certainly not dropping hundreds of dollars on this thing after cutting our income significantly), just to keep him from feeling like I rejected it, and therefore him, without even giving it a try? What would you do?

Oh Crap, You Mean We Might Really Have This Baby?

Yesterday Mrs. Rodius, bent over in the laundry room, said "Ah!" and then just kind of stood there, still bent, forehead resting on the top of the washer.

"Are you OK?" I asked from the kitchen. When she didn't respond, I walked over to the laundry room and said, with a touch more concern in my voice, "Are you all right?"

"Just a contraction," she said calmly and straightened back up.

And then my brain said, "Ohcrapwehaven'tpackedabagthenursery'snotreadythediapershaven'tcomeIjustputaroastintheovenholycraparewereallyhavingababy?"

But it was just one of those practice contractions the uterus uses to work out with, pumping up its muscles for the real thing. So I had a little chat with Thumper later in the evening. I told him if he was going to come early, that'd be OK. In fact, if he's planning on getting any bigger, earlier might even be better. But really, this week's not good for us. If he could hold out until next week, at least, I'd really appreciate it. Do the ol' man a favor, would ya?

Hippie Medicine

"So's your back any better?"

"Not really. It's not really down in the boo-tock like sciatica anymore, but my lower back is still driving me crazy. I'm doing all kinds of stretches and using the heating pad, but it won't go away. It's been about two weeks now. I've stopped working out, and I feel like I'm gaining weight again."

"Well, let me ask you this: do you feel like you can support your family?"

"Uh... On my back, you mean?"

"No, like financially. It's the first chakra. Are you worried about being able to support your family?"

"Well, I am going to quit my job and go down to part-time employment. It's going to be a big change in our household income. It's probably one of the biggest worries I have about the baby coming."

"Ah, see?"

"OK. So what do I do about it?"

"Well what do YOU feel like you should do about it?"

...




"$&%@! Stupid hippie medicine!"

Sympathy for the Bedeviled

For a couple of weeks now, I've had a pain in my lower back that runs straight down into my right butt check. It hasn't been that bad, but yesterday morning, I almost fell over when I got out of bed to hobble-hop to the bathroom, and this morning, it took me an inordinately long time to make it from the car to the desk.

"Aha!" the more astute and experienced of you may be saying now, with that smug little grin on your face. "Right butt cheek. Sciatic nerve. Pregnant wife. He's got sympathetic sciatica! Isn't that cute?"

No, it's not cute. It's a pain in the ass. I know I'm not supposed to complain about anything, what with the wife who's got a giant trump card brewing in her belly, but: Oooowwwwww!

What's the deal with this, anyway? Is it the running? And by running, I mean walking and jogging? True, it seems to be worse right after a workout. But when I get into a good rhythm and really feel like I've got a proper ChiRunning form going on, the pain goes away entirely. That's got to be a sign that I'm doing something right, doesn't it? Of course, it comes right back as soon as I start walking again, but, you know, baby steps. Maybe I should've started with ChiWalking. But I imagine ChiWalking must be a lot like ChiRunning, but slower. Part of the ChiRunning form is visualizing that there are bars sticking straight out of your ankle bones, so that you have to lift each foot high enough not to trip on the bar sticking out of the other ankle. I just can't bring myself to do that when I'm walking through the office.

And OK, maybe it's so bad yesterday and today because I drove to Houston and back on Saturday to pick up baby furniture. My brother-in-law helped me haul the bigger- and heavier-than-expected dresser and changing table down the stairs and into the rented van. He was kind enough and manly enough to take the bottom end on the stairs, which gave him all the weight, but it meant that I got to walk down the stairs hunched over to keep my end low enough. And there was the part where we grunted it into position in the van, which doesn't exactly have a cargo space tall enough to accomodate my 6'3" of rippling muscle.

So you see, it's not some kind of sympathetic pregnancy thing. It's not in my head, it's in my butt. I earned my back pain through manly pursuits. Don't look at me like that...

In Which I Abuse the Exclamation Point Key on my Keyboard

We went to our 34-week ultrasound appointment this morning, and I haven't been able to stop smiling since. Can I bore you with some pictures of my son?

First of all, everything looks great. One potential problem is no longer even close to being a problem. Yay! And even though we did the "anatomy screen" six weeks ago, the doctor still went over a few parts and said, "heart's great, kidneys are great." Great, great. Great great great. Great!

But there are two things that just fill me with idiotic, grinning pride, and shouldn't really. One, they estimate his weight at 6 lbs, 5 oz., with six weeks still to go. I put the size chart that the ultrasound tech gave us into a drawing program so that I could blow it up and measure with pixelated precision, and I calculate that he's bigger than 74.29% of his peers. That's my boy! Let the competitive child comparing begin, even in utero!

Two, did you see that foot? Now, I know it's hard to judge relative size in a grainy ultrasound picture. Looking at those things is kind of like seeing shapes in the clouds. (Hey, look! A foot! No, it looks like a rabbit to me... ) And I didn't, but should have, ask the tech to measure it in centimeters. But, that's a foot, and those are two hands, and man! That's a big foot! That's my boy!

So I guess that's why I've been grinning like a Transformers junkie all day: it's all starting to feel a bit more real now. There's a person in there. At one point, the tech said, "Those spiky things are his hair." The kid's got hair! Of course, she did have a heavy accent, and she may have said "ear." But I don't think ears show up in an ultrasound as "spiky things," so I'm going with hair. The kid's got hair! And a big ol' foot! And if you kind of squint one eye and turn your head to the side, you can make out a face, and hey! He's kind of cute!

At another point, the tech froze the image on a perfect circle and said, "That's his belly." That's my boy! He's got a basketball belly and big ol' feet! Just like his old man!

I do feel kind of guilty about being so happy about all of this, though. I haven't had much of a chance to talk to Mrs. Rodius about it yet, but somehow I bet she's just not nearly as thrilled as I am with the "6 lbs, 5 oz, with six weeks still to go" part.

But have you seen that kid's foot? That's my boy!

Wow, That's a Lot of Stuff

Mrs. Rodius' sisters threw a baby shower Saturday. Mrs. Rodius shed a few tears that day, and I think every day since, thinking about the generosity of our friends and family. Indeed, it is a giant pile o' stuff. And her co-workers are throwing another shower for her next week. And this weekend, I'm driving to Houston to pick up the crib, dresser, and changing table Mrs. Rodius' brother and his wife are kindly giving to us now that their youngest has graduated to the "big boy bed." It's gratifying to know that Thumper already has developed such a large entourage of groupies and admirers, and he hasn't even arrived yet. I think we may have to move the kid into the master bedroom and move ourselves into the nursery, just so he has enough room for his stuff.

I am looking forward to blogging about our use of all of these items, and posting pictures of Thumper in every one of those outfits, particularly the hat with the panda ears that my mother gave us. I even welled up a bit myself looking at the Snugli and thinking about all those days upcoming when I'll get to walk all over the greater Austin metropolitan area with the boy strapped to my chest. I'm even looking forward to sucking snot out of his nose, and putting the Butt Paste to use.

So thank you all so much, and I'm sorry I ever called you a cheap bastard.

Graduated

Mrs. Rodius and I officially received our Birthin' Class Diploma last night. Last week, the teacher hung a poster just inside the classroom door. It asked: "What one thing can reduce the likelihood of c-section, decrease the need for pain medication, reduce the use of forceps, vacuums, and other interventions, improve latching on for breastfeeding, and increase a mother's satisfaction with the entire birth experience?" We were encouraged to write our guess on the poster. Some of the guesses were yoga, or emotional support, and one brown-noser wrote, "this class!" They were all good guesses, but not what she was looking for. If I tell you that the teacher is a doula, it's easy to see the answer coming, though: a doula of course!

This week, we entered the classroom to a dry-erase board full of "Resources for More Information on Doulas," so after we spent the first half of our last class discussing c-sections, I was afraid the second half of the evening, after the obligatory pregnant chick pee break, was going to be entirely a hard-sell session. Thankfully, though, she kept the doula marketing to a minimum.

Dutch at sweet juniper! called birthing classes "Fifteen hours of your life you'll never get back." I didn't feel that way about it. I consider myself an educated guy, fairly well-read, and the subject does interest me, so I know a little about it. Even if there wasn't a lot of information in the class that I didn't already know, though, it felt good to talk through it all with someone who was experienced and with a roomful of other people who were just as nervous or more so as we were. I'm usually not a group activity kind of guy, but I enjoyed the feeling of being in it with other people this time.

I did try to get Mrs. Rodius to skip the last half of the last class with me, though. The dry-erase board said we would be doing a "birthing rehearsal." Like I said, I'm not a group activity kind of guy, and the thought of a birthing rehearsal really kind of turned me off, I think for a couple of reasons.

One, performance anxiety. The doula had led the women through breathing and relaxation exercises each week, with a clothespin to pinch the ear to simulate a contraction. Some of the partners really got into their supporting role during these fake contractions, stroking the mother's hair, whispering encouragement to her. I kind of tried to, but I felt self-conscious, and I didn't want to compete for the position of Best Supporting Actor.

Two, how useful an exercise could it really be? Mrs. Rodius and I are both very familiar with the standard relaxation exercises. They're the same body awareness and focused relaxation techniques used in hypnosis and meditation, and we'd both used them throughout our lives. I had first encountered the techniques in the fourth through sixth grades, in a gifted-and-talented program called REACH ("Realizing Excellence in Academic Cognition Heuristically." What does Heuristically mean? Hell if I know...) Once a week, we spent half an hour in a guided breathing and relaxation session. When I think about it now, I can't imagine a public school committing resources to a similar program in elementary education, though it was the one thing about that program that has stuck with me the longest and proven the most useful in my life. In high school, I also played around with self-hypnosis and successfully blew my own mind by actually changing the temperature of my skin, verified by thermometer, by visualizing a heat source near it. So I just didn't think one more session of breathing through fake contractions with a clothespin on her ear would really change things much for Mrs. Rodius.

So I tried to get her to cut class. But she wouldn't do it.

"What about the diploma?" she said.

"What do I need with a birthing class diploma?" I asked. But I should've already known the correct answer:

"Put it in the scrapbook!" she said.

I should've known. She's been planning baby scrapbooks longer than she's been planning for a baby. I think she got her first Little Suzy's Zoo stickers three years ago. So we stuck around, and we graduated. And we've got the document to prove it. Come by our place some time next year, and I'll show you the scrapbook.

Living in a Sensitive Age

Early in the pregnancy, we got What to Expect When You're Expecting. I've heard and read some criticism of this book, mainly that it takes some of the joy and mysticism out of pregnancy by trying to scare the crap out of you. I haven't felt that way about it, though I haven't read it as thoroughly as Mrs. Rodius has. I also signed up for "Heidi's Daily Delivery," a daily email that gives you additional tips and information to coincide with where you are in your pregnancy. Because I used my "high likelihood of spam" email address that I only check via a web page, and not one of our personal addresses that gets downloaded to Outlook on our home computer, I'm the only one who sees the emails. I tried to change it later, but whattoexpect.com tells me it's not a registered email address. Yet the emails keep coming. And I'm the only one reading them.

It's kind of fun getting the emails that are intended for a pregnant chick, though. I get tips on how to do my makeup to counterbalance the fact that my cheeks are probably starting to get puffy. I get explanations of why my vision may be getting a bit blurry these days, or how that buzzing sensation in my right butt cheek is probably because the baby's head is pressing against my sciatic nerve. I also get a weekly email that I'm supposed to forward to my "partner."

As someone who is looking forward to taking on a "non-traditional" role, I like that the authors of these kinds of resources are open to the possibility that not all of their readers are a married man and woman. The book, too, tries its best to be inclusive. For the sake of simplicity, it tells us, it uses the word "father" throughout, but if that's not your situation, that's cool too. If you're part of a lesbian couple, or if you're a single mom relying on the support of your family, or whatever your situation might be, just pretend we used a different word when you read those parts.

Despite that, the "for the partner" emails generally conform to a pretty stereotypical view of the father. They generally say, "Hey there, Dad. We know you were mostly in it for the sex, but it's time to get serious because guess what? Sex has consequences. So even though you're scared out of your mind, it's time to step outside of yourself and be aware of Mom. She's probably freaking out, too, and on top of that, some weird stuff is happening to her body. Maybe you could do some housework for once, and give her a massage now and then. You might even get laid!"

Our birthing classes have been kind of like that, too. The teacher always calls us "the partner" and never "the father" or "the husband." I get it, because some of the couples are unmarried. One woman was accompanied by a male partner the first week and a female partner the next. I'm not really sure what her situation is, but there's no reason she has to feel left out because she doesn't have a husband, or because the baby's father is not involved. But still, the tone towards the partners is always sort of patronizing. When addressing us, the partners, the teacher puts her hands on her hips. She tilts her head to one side. She nods a lot. She doesn't seem to think we're very bright, or involved. We have to be prodded off the couch, where we're probably watching football, and enticed into the supporting role with hints of the sexual favors to come and reminders that we did this to them in the first place.

Well not me, lady! I'm here, and I'm ready. I'm nervous, especially for her and what she'll have to go through. We tend to make 'em big in my family, and it could be pretty hard on her. If she does need a C-section, I'm not really confident I won't faint. I tried to watch a doctor put stitches in my hand once, and I came perilously close to unconsciousness. But I'm willing to give it the old college try! I want to give back rubs, and count, and tell her how well she's doing. I'm ready to be on my knees for hours, or be leaned on or yelled at, or otherwise engage in non-ergonomic activities if I can help carry some portion of the burden for her. Bring it on! I just can't promise I'll stay upright if I lay eyes on her intestines.

Happy Father's Day

Thumper's first Father's Day offering.

Thumper did good for his first Father's Day. I thought I might be starting that collection of ugly ties already, but this is much cuter. I can't wait to put them to use, but I think it'll be awhile yet.

He also took me out for steak and a beer!

T-Minus Seventy-One

Tomorrow makes 30 weeks, with only 70 days to go. I know I shouldn't be complaining, since, well, you know... I'm not the pregnant one and all. But I am ready for this to be over.

First, I'm ready to get started. In some ways it feels like I have been waiting my whole life to be a father, and I've certainly been waiting for it since the end of July last year. There's little in my job to challenge me or give me satisfaction or meaning. I'm not relied upon; I make no meaningful decisions and solve no complicated problems. I'm ready to find out if I can do this job. I'm ready to find out if I'm buried under the mountain of parenting minutia, or if I revel in it. I know, it will probably be both. But my past work experience demonstrates that I have a huge capacity for carrying on through the most soul-crushing monotony, so with the added bonuses of purpose and meaning, I think I'll thrive. I can't wait to find out.

Second, I'm ready for the pregnancy part to be over. I'm superstitious enough to cringe at saying that and whisper, "Not premature, though, please. Not premature." It's just been hard on Mrs. Rodius. Well, the first and third trimesters have been hard; the second flew by much too quickly. She was happy, laughing. I felt and saw the baby move for the first time. It was glorious. But now, she's tired. She's uncomfortable. She hates the way she looks. Her clothes don't fit. Her shoes don't fit. She can't get enough sleep. She cries more than she laughs.

And I'm not happy with my performance as her partner through this. I don't do enough to support her, or I do too much. I get mad at her for being unhappy, and angry at myself for being mad. I promised myself that I wouldn't drink while she was pregnant, because she can't drink either. But I broke that promise after three months and repeatedly since.

Ah well. We'll get through it. We've made it through tougher times. But 71 days through the middle of the pregnancy was too short, was gone before I really knew what happened. 71 days through the end, though, it just can't go fast enough.

Throw Down

People like to give pregnant women advice. They like to advise the husband, too. This morning, the security guard at my office passed this one along:

"When my kids were, you know, still in the belly, the doctor asked if she was getting any exercise. I said she was walking. He said it is not enough. She needs more... You know, for, like... To make the delivery easier. You know?"

Here he pointed at his belly. I nodded knowingly.

"The doctor said to take a box of matches. You know, the matches that come in a box?"

Here he mimed striking a match against a box. I nodded again to let him know I'm hip to the whole match-in-a-box thing.

"Take the box of matches, and throw them all over the floor. Really spread them out. Then tell her to pick them up."

Here he mimed a person with a large belly bending over, picking up a match, and putting it in a box. Then he repeated the maneuver, in case I hadn't properly appreciated the amount of exercise involved in picking up an entire box of matches, one by one.

"Picking up the matches, it is very good. It makes it easier."

For my part, I'm not sure that throwing a box of matches on the floor and telling Mrs. Rodius to pick them up would make anything much easier. In fact, I'm pretty sure it would have the opposite effect.

Paving the Way II: Give Me a Gift, You Cheap Bastard

We've been getting some pressure lately, mostly from one of the Once and Future Grandmas, to make a gift registry for the baby shower. This is apparently serious business that must not be postponed.

There's something disconcerting to me, and to Mrs. Rodius, about telling people what gifts to give us. "Mom, I think you should buy us a rocking chair. And you should spend $300. Maybe more, we haven't decided yet." Seems a little, I don't know, awkward. I know, she offered. Both of the Grandmas have said they want to buy us Something, and preferably one of the Bigger Somethings. Even so, telling them what the Somethings will be, and how much the Somethings will cost, feels a little presumptuous.

A co-worker with four kids gave me this advice: "Be thorough, and be specific." He said he felt awkward, too, for the first kid. But by the time the fourth came along, they were asking for everything, specifying colors and sizes, and registering so they wouldn't get duplicates. It all sounds so mercenary.

We've been very generously offered a crib, changing table, and dresser, as well as what sounded like many cubic yards of clothes, from Mrs. Rodius' brother and his wife. The nephew is ready to graduate to the Big Boy Bed, and we're grateful to give the furniture a new home. So with the furniture, and the rocking chair and stroller/carrier/car seat "Travel System" that the Grandmas are very kindly giving us (or else!), I don't know what to put on the registry. Not that there aren't lots of helpful suggestions at Babies 'R' Us. But my God, surely you don't need that much equipment to raise a baby! They're just little people; how could they need all that stuff?

I'm getting better at it, though. $30 for a thermometer? I wouldn't pay that! But hey, I'm still not, so on it goes! What else you got?

But you, you should definitely buy us diapers. Cloth diapers, though. I don't want you thinking you can get away with a bag of disposables, like that's going to cover it. Our friendship is definitely worth cloth. You can get us a couple of 12-packs of one-sizers for around $400. That should do it. But remember, I've got my eye on you, you cheap bastard.

Paving the Way I: Running on Empty

I've always been heavy. Well, not always. There were 2 or 3 years starting at 18. I worked out in my parents' garage every day for a summer and lost 50 pounds. I went to college and fooled Mrs. Rodius into falling for me through false advertising. (Sorry, that's sarcasm. I've been reading through Melissa's archives at Suburban Bliss lately, and I just recently read the Great Weight Debate of March '06 begun at Morphing Into Mama and carried on at Homesick Home and probably elsewhere all over this wacky internet thing. I'm heavier than I was in college. So's Mrs. Rodius. So are a lot of people.)

Now, as at other times in my life, I'm Trying to Lose Weight. It's part of my preparations for the Coming of Thumper. I'm afraid he's going to come out already able to outrun me, so I thought it was time to give this "healthy lifestyle" thing another shot. I've been working out. A lot. Like four, five, and six times a week, since February. Running, even. Well, walking and jogging, anyway. And I cut way back on the drinking. I mean, I'm not self-medicating through some very emotionally tough times anymore, like I have been for a good part of the last ten years. The time is ripe, right? The pounds should be falling off me, right?

You might think so. But you'd be wrong. I'm still 250 pounds at 6'3", and I'm not talking about a waxed and oiled rippling 250, I'm talking about hairy belly, boobs, and thighs 250. Still. After all this time. That's about 5 pounds lost in three months of sweating my ass, well, not off, really. But sweating a whole hell of a lot, OK? What's up with that?

Well, part of what's up with that was that I started replacing my booze calories with sugar calories. Chocolate, and I'm not sure if you've noticed this, is tasty. And when I start to get a handle on the calorie shift, and manage to avoid both booze and sweet, sweet delightful snacking in the evening, I lose motivation on the exercise and only work out once or twice a week. And when I get back on the workout track, I find I'm drinking again, more than a little, on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights. And hey, that's only the weekend, right? Well, yeah, but it's also kind of like half the week. Half the week pouring hundreds and thousands of calories down my throat. But yeah, drankin' is fun.

So how do I get a handle on why my brain, or my body, or maybe both, doesn't want me to be svelte? I want to be svelte! Who doesn't want to be svelte?