Greetings Little One

You decide

There are two reasons why an action is deemed polite or well mannered, little one:

1. In your mind and heart, you know your words and actions are polite and can clearly express why.

2. Other people and/or tradition have deemed certain words or actions as polite or impolite.

It is my sincerest hope that you will always listen to your mind and heart, little one, and ignore the judgment and determinations of others. There is a large proportion of society who is quite invested in adhering to the thoughts and ideas of others and of the collective. These are the people who follow tradition for tradition-sake, who are overly concerned (and often obsessed) with what others will think of them, and who find comfort and peace in the mindless adherence to cultural norms.

These people are not free thinkers, little one. They do not change the world, and rarely do they even leave a mark on it.

Reject this, little one.

Case in point: Your mother and I send a holiday card to our friends and family every December, but unlike many, we email this card (which your mother designs). Though emailing a card is a much greener option than using the US Postal Service, saving in both paper and fuel, as well as the photo-developing chemicals that so many of today’s cards require, this is not why we initially decided to email our holiday cards. I’m pleased that our decision happens to be eco-friendly, but initially, we simply found email to be easier, less expensive, and more effective.

In sending our card through email, more of our friends and family receive it, and oftentimes we receive responses from our recipients, allowing us to engage in dialogue. I sent our holiday card out last night around 11 PM, and already I have responses from six people, some of whom wanted to compliment Mommy on her design and others who wanted to say hello and check in on us.

As I type this, another response just came in.

Rather than simply sending a photograph of the baby and the family dog, we send a card that allows recipients to respond in a meaningful way. Our card does not end up stuck to the refrigerator for a week and then thrown away. Oftentimes it leads to communication between friends, and when it is finally deleted, there is no waste left behind.

It’s a great way to send a card, but many people still find this option uncouth and ill mannered. Even those who like the idea often couldn’t bring themselves to do the same, fearful about what other might think or say about them. To send a card through email, in their minds, demonstrates an unwillingness to spend the time, effort and small expense required to send a card that will almost assuredly be added to a landfill by January.

If everyone decided to send a card by email, or if Oprah, Martha Stewart, or the Dalai Lama declared emailing holiday cards to be trendy and hip and ultra-green, then these same people would jump on the bandwagon in an instant, emailing holidays cards to everyone they know, but to do something that makes sense, regardless of what others may think, is beyond the capacity of many.

Don’t be like this, little one. Mommy and I want you to be an independent thinker, a trend setter, and self assured. We want you to choose your own path, regardless of what might be fashionable, popular, trendy, or traditional.

In short, little one, we want you to be you, and not some facsimile of what society and tradition dictate.

Does this make sense, little one? I hope so. Rejecting tradition, standing alone, and doing what you believe is right and just in your heart isn’t easy, but it’s my greatest source of happiness.

I hope it is yours as well.

Football in your future

I went to the Patriot’s game today, little one. The last one that I will attend prior to your birth.

I was making note of the small children attending today’s game, despite the frigid temperatures, snow and rain. They all seemed to be having a good time, regardless of the weather.

I wonder when you will be old enough to attend a game with me.

Soon, I hope.

Unwelcome

The doctors and nurses who we meet about your mom’s pregnancy pretend that they want me to be involved in the whole pregnancy process, little one, but they lie. Either that, or they have absolutely no idea how to make someone comfortable in their presence. Though they have assured me that I am an important part of this pregnancy, even your mother admitted that our doctor did not know my name for quite a while and made no attempt to learn it.

During birthing classes, I discovered another subtle reminder about my relative importance in this process: There are no restrooms designated for men in the doctor’s office. There are a total of three restrooms for patient use and all three are marked Women

Couldn’t one, if not all, at least be made unisex? Admittedly, the doctors are obstetricians and gynecologists, but soon-to-be fathers are in the office all the time, and from what I learned in birthing class, we are encouraged to be there. Having a second set of ears in the examination room is a good thing, I was told.

So why not provide me with a restroom?

Are these docs trying to make me feel unwanted?

They are doing a damn fine job of it, whether they mean to or not.

Internet stardom in my future?

One of our friends has requested to be present at your birth, little one.

More specifically, she would like to videotape me during labor and delivery. My reactions. And she’s promised to keep Mommy off camera entirely.

She thinks that it has the potential to be a YouTube phenomenon.

I am, of course, fine with this plan. I think there’s a chance that all she’ll capture on tape is my rapid descent to the floor as I faint at the first sight of blood. But if I manage to stay upright, it might be amusing.

Of course, this all hinges on your mother. Her call, little one, as she has more to do that day than me.

Friendship and frugality

I just learned that your mother is on a first name basis with at least one salesperson at J. Crew. A girl named Tara. She just called to check on the availability of a potential gift item. She’s actually on the phone, planning a meet-up with Tara at Starbucks with her as I type.

I expect that she’ll be over for dinner within the next three months, and by June, the two will be best friends.

That’s your mom.

If this wasn’t your frugal, sensible mother, I would worry.

In fact, I find it exceptionally impressive that she is on a first name basis with salespeople and shop owners all over town (at least one has even become her good friend), yet she manages to keep her spending well below most of her friends and family.

Good news for you, little one. We may be able to afford to send you to college someday. But don’t count on it. You may need some scholarships, too, so work hard, damn it.

Discipline

Last night your mother scolded you for the first time.  You were undulating in her belly, so she ordered you to stop, as if you were sitting beside her. 

Behave, little one.  Mommy can be one tough cookie. 

A new bed, a ventilator, and a pair of scuba tanks

Mom and I ordered a king-sized bed today.  This won't make much difference to you, little one, but it will certainly make the last few weeks of pregnancy easier on your mother and me.  Between her baby-filled belly, the multitude of pillows that she needs to prop herself up, and the animals, who have been consigned to my side of the bed, there is little room for me. 

A couple nights ago I fell out of bed in the middle of the night, landing on the floor after being squeezed out entirely.

It's not your mother's fault of course, but it wasn't any fun.  Oddly enough, your mother slept through the fall, unable to hear the crash through the ventilator-like sounds that have become her breathing.  

Even now, sitting across from me at the table, she sounds as if she's breathing from a pair of scuba tanks. 

Pregnancy does odd things to a woman's body.  

Christmas traditions

Your mother and I have been together for five years, and in that time, we have already started some much loved traditions.

Today we went to buy our Christmas tree, a ritual that has been the same ever since we bought the wild tree of 2004.

Being Jewish, Mom had never bought a Christmas tree before and chose one shaped like Danny DiVito.

The tradition goes something like this:

We hop in the car and head off to a tree farm in Glastonbury. Upon arriving, we don hats and mittens before walking to the greenhouse, where a Hispanic gentleman of questionable English hands me a saw. I am always shocked that this man chooses to sit in an unheated greenhouse all day without benefit of a book or music.

I just don’t understand some people.

Armed with our saw, we head off into a field of pine trees to choose the one just right for us. This process usually takes quite a while, as your indecisive mother drags us back and forth across the field comparing trees of the minutest differences. Being excessively pregnant this year, we made our choice uncommonly fast, and I was soon on the ground, cutting away.

Eventually the tree falls and I drag it to the car, where the gentleman of questionable English ties it down while I debate the appropriateness of tipping him for providing the twine and the extra pair of hands.

I usually do.

Your mother and I then head off to a farm stand down the road, where we purchase a wreath and assorted holiday accouterment from an excessively friendly gentleman of excellent English. This year they even gave Mom a free wreath hanger.

Pregnant women get all the perks.

With our car now packed with Christmas paraphernalia and smelling of evergreen, we head to Daybreak, a coffee shop in the center of Glastonbury where we drink hot chocolate and check out all the kitschy items displayed on the shelves. Since this is my only hot chocolate of the year (and my only hot drink of the year), I invariably burn my mouth or smear my nose with whip cream, much to your mother’s delight.

This year a woman with a newborn chatted with us for a while, describing how she and her partner had a natural, drug free birth at home with the assistance of a midwife. She passed on some advice regarding homeopathy and moved on, thus establishing herself as full-on Earthy Crunchy.

Arriving home, I battle the tree, the tree stand, and the lights for about an hour while Mom begins decorating the rest of the house. This year she wrapped the banister in ribbon and styled the built-in shelves in the living room. Once the tree is in place and the lights are on, your mother turns on some Christmas music and we spend the next half hour decorating the tree, reminiscing about the memories attached to many of our ornaments.

Next year you’ll be about a year old when this process repeats itself, and though you won’t ever remember it, I’ll write about and take lots of photos, or at least Photoshop you into old ones if we forget.

     

Where did their faces go?

Mommy and I were in Pottery Barn for Kids on Saturday, registering for baby shower gifts, when I saw these disturbing, faceless mannequins:

  

Frightening, little one.  Don't you think?

They remind me of the little girl from Twilight Zone: The Movie.  The one whose mouth has been removed by her God-like brother. 

Creepy. 

And they don't do a thing for the pajamas that they are wearing. 

Priorities

For the record, little one:

Your mother and I were in Pottery Barn today, registering for baby shower gifts with our good friend, Donna, when I received a voicemail from the producer who is trying to sell my book as a film or television series. Understanding my priorities, I informed Donna and your mother that I would return the call later, after our registering of gifts was complete.

They insisted that I leave the store and return the call immediately.

Just remember that I placed your needs ahead of all others, little one, while Donna and your mother did not.