In which the origin of the title is explained.

When discussing the impending child, The Wife and I have really only debated one thing. Will we find out the sex of the baby before hand?

The Wife was in the ‘Yes’ camp. For reasons that I can’t really explain, I didn’t want to know.  All right, I’ll attempt to explain.  I want the surprise the moment the kid is born. I mean, obviously it’s going to be a big moment anyway, but I think not knowing until right then will make the bonding moment even stronger. Instead of, “Hey, I have a baby whose gender I have know for months!” I want that moment to be “Hey, I have a son!” or “Hey, I have a daughter!” (For the record, there’s a 90% chance “Hey” will be replaced by significantly stronger language.)

After speaking to some of her parent-friends who also didn’t find out, The Wife came over to my side of things. Which was great except for the part where it gets tiresome constantly referring to “The Baby” and you certainly don’t want to keep referring to the baby as “it.”  While technically correct, calling the baby “The Parasite” doesn’t sound nice, now matter how cute your intentions.

Luckily, everything was solved at the first ultrasound.  First, an admission. I’ve looked at ultrasound pictures before. People are often excited to show them off, and well they should be, it’s an exciting time.  Here’s the problem.  I’ve never seen anything in any of the ultrasound pictures other people have shown me.  I know, I’m thick.  They’re not that hard to figure out, I’ve just never been able to do it.  Which is weird because I’ve always been able to see those crazy 3-d pictures where you have to cross your eyes, and ultrasounds are way less complicated.

So we go in for our ultrasound and I’m convinced that I’m not going to be able to see a thing.  I’m fully prepared just to smile and nod and agree on how wonderful it all is.  Then a strange thing happens.

I see it:  Giant head, stubs where arms and legs will grow. The tech says, “There’s the baby. Looks just like a Gummi Bear.”

And there we have it.  The Baby’s official pre-birth name: Gummi.

Thudthudthudthudthudthudthud

The first trip to the doctors office was a time of some trepidation.  Despite the fact that we had multiple stick tests supporting our suspicion that the wife was indeed carrying, I still didn’t quite believe it.  I was waiting for the official word from a medical professional before I started celebrating.

When we arrived at the office, The Wife was escorted into the back on her own at first.  Apparently things were being done that I didn’t need to see or hear.  I’d like to think this is the point where The Wife had conveyed upon her all the secrets of parenting, possibly through some divine light like the one that temporarily gave Bo Duke super powers on that one episode of Smallville. (Confession: I am currently watching that episode of Smallville.)

At least I hoped that was happening.  I hoped one of us would know what this whole process was going to be about.

Turned out someone knew.  That person is called the doctor.

After a few minutes (spent, ironically, reading up on all the newest birth control) I was called into the back where The Wife was already up on the table, but out of the stirrups, so I thought I’d missed all the fun. Turned out there was one more thing.  The doctor pulled out the Doppler Weather Storm Tracker 6000 and held it up to The Wife’s stomach.  The room filled with the sound of “THUDTHUDTHUDTHUDTHUDTHUDTHUDTHUD.”

Somewhere, a local TV station put up one of those damn weather warnings that take up a third of the screen and knock the HD feed off the air, but in that office it meant only one thing:

100% chance of baby.

It begins, or more accurately…

I suppose it  began 5 months ago, when the wife (Code Name: The Wife)* told me to look in the bathroom at the stick sitting on the sink.  Although really…

It may have begun 3 and half years ago, when after years of dating, The Wife and I got married.  But maybe…

Things were set in motion 11 years and 4 months ago, when, after months of overtures from me and one false start, The Wife and I started dating.  Of course I guess it really all started…

33 years, 1 week, 4 days ago, when I was released into the wild.  The first child of my comparatively young parents.

I say comparatively because they were 24 and 23 when I was born.  When my kid (Code Name: Gummi) comes along The Wife and I will be 33.

This will not be a blog about parenting, as I know nothing about it.  It will be a blog about trying to become a parent.

Welcome.

*The Wife has a job that requires maintaining at least a modicum of privacy, thus she will go officially unnamed.