A Parenting Crisis

The other night I was tossing and turning in bed and was suddenly hit with an incredibly troubling parenting thought. I don’t own Star Wars.

My reasons are equal parts inexcusable and completely justified. Yes, I know that it's a cultural phenomenon. Yes, I grew up watching it every chance I got. Yes, I promise I have every intention of raising my children right. No, it's really not as easy as going to the store and picking up a copy. The difficulty of owning the original version of the Star Wars movies is well documented (such as in the excellent documentary The People vs George Lucas [warning: angered fans use colorful metaphors to express their feelings]) but for those of you who have found so much purpose in life so that you don’t have an hour and a half to waste on an incredibly nerdy Netflix documentary, here’s a quick rundown:

WARNING: INSANE LEVELS OF NERDINESS FOLLOWS

As you may be aware, back in 1977 a little movie came out called Star Wars. It has gone on to become a cultural icon and global enterprise. I personally grew up watching a recorded-off-of-PBS VHS copy that my Grandma had. I just about had the thing memorized. I remember when I discovered that there were TWO MORE OF THESE! Moral of this part of the story is that it was a big deal. And this was not limited to just me.

The issue really started 20 years later. In 1997 Lucas released the “Special Editions” of the Star Wars trilogy. These editions had restored picture and sound, updated special effects, and most unfortunately updates and changes that upset a lot of fans. Nine years later, the trilogy was released on DVD for the first time. We were so, so privileged that then bothered to release the original versions as a “bonus feature.” When the Blu-ray versions came out in 2011, not only were there even more changes, they acted like the original versions were some sort of myth like Atlantis, Bigfoot, or Kanye West's sense of humor.

***CAPTION CENSORED***

For me, the issue isn't so much that he’s made changes. It’s his right as the creator, I suppose. The issue is that there’s a complete disregard for the original versions. Let’s take another bastion of Sci-Fi film, Ridley Scott’s Blade Runner: There are various and sundry versions that exist: international versions, early edits, Director’s cuts, etc. When it was released on Blu-ray in 2006 you could pick up a 5 disc edition. What on earth could one movie have to offer over 5 whole discs? Well, one disc was the original theatrical version, another was the Director’s Cut, and another was the recently made “Final Cut.” Don’t like the re-edit? Pop in another disc and watch the version you do enjoy.

Pictured: An example to us all. Not Pictured: Star Wars.

END RANT

For those reasons (and probably some more), I had never purchased the films. I waited in vain hope that someday the version of Star Wars that I had grown up with would become readily available. But it still hit me hard: how am I supposed to raise my child right if I don’t even have one of the most important pieces of my own life development? 

I quickly took to eBay and tracked down an old DVD copy of the theatrical version. Crisis averted. A bit anti-climactic? Perhaps.  But I slept like a baby after that. And perhaps even more importantly, I feel like I can use this post on my Father of the Year application.

'Nuff said. 

OhBoy!GYN

It was time to set the appointment.

The wife made the call to the doctor’s office that resulted in the type of interrogation one gets anytime they try and do anything medical related. After asking her questions that I don’t think anybody really wants to know the answer to came this little exchange:

Nurse: Are you married?

Wife: Yes.

Nurse: Is your husband the father?

Wife (taken aback): Yes…

Despite this test of morals, the nurse in subsequent questions kept referring to me as “the child’s father.”  I feel extremely confident in saying that this is the closest either of us will ever get to being on Springer.

When we get to the appointment the wife is handed a stack of paperwork to fill out, including a medical history sheet asking the exact same questions posed to her over the phone a few days previous.

After completing the pile of “sign here” “initial here” “this is your copy” “this form is just to let you know…” we get called back. Well, technically, just she gets called back. I follow because I’m a rebel like that. The nurse sits us down and proceeds to ask the same questions a third time.

After the nurse leaves and we wait awkwardly, the doctor arrives.

Pictured: The Doctor Not Pictured: The Doctor we Actually Saw

Fortunately for the Wife, the first thing he asked was how her morning sickness was. As mentioned previously, it had not been going well. The doctor immediately prescribed some anti-nausea meds and for at least a brief moment everything felt right with the world.

At this point in our narrative, I would like to pause and ask a very serious, very important question: why do men become this kind of doctor? I really don’t know. I mean, on one hand, babies are super cute. That’s just a science fact. But most of the time the doctor isn’t looking at a baby. I honestly wonder if there’s a bit of leftover frat boy mentality from medical school. I think this is just one of those unsolvable mysteries, like who killed Kennedy, who is “You’re So Vain” about, or why One Direction is allowed to put out "music."

After the doctor did his thing, we got to go in and have an ultrasound. I watched on the monitor and saw basically what the TV looks like when the cable goes out. The ultrasound tech lady pointed out a small little protuberance at the bottom of the screen. That little nugget was our baby. And even though it pretty much looked like a peanut, I could definitely tell it took more after its father. 

You can definitely see the resemblance.

After we finished gushing, the Wife had to get blood drawn. Here’s the deal, me and needles do not get along. Even just writing this now is making me start to hyperventilate and get super tense and sick to my stomach. So fortunately, I was not the one get poked, but I still had to be there. I plopped down in the corner as far away from the action as possible. The nurse tried to make small talk, but I just buried my head in an old issue of People magazine. And you know what? I made it without puking or passing out. I deserve a cookie or something. Oh, the Wife did just fine. Needles don’t bother her. Oh and by the way, did you know that Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston are breaking up?

Po' Boy

As you can see, there are few things different around here this week. I’ve made a few changes and want to expand the scope of the blog. I plan to keep the blog going after the baby is born, and while certainly the pregnancy and all that entails is certain at the very top of the priority list, I do have other interests and thoughts I’d like to share with you. And this week is the big roll out! So without further ado, let’s see what’s in store:

One of my main passions is food. Though you probably wouldn’t know it from looking at me. But I love to cook, and in fact I do most of the cooking at home. This of course isn’t to say that the wife doesn’t help, but it’s something that I can do for her.  So with summer in full swing, I decided to branch out and try something new. Well, several new things. I decided that I was going to try several new dishes (some coming from recipes, some straight from my head, and some a combination of both) and report on the results to you. So here is week one’s dish: The Po’ Boy Sandwich.

A Po’ Boy sandwich is a Cajun classic. Its origins and name are straight out of New Orleans. The story goes that during a streetcar strike, a restaurant served free sandwiches to the striking workers who they referred to as “poor boys.” The sandwich took on the name and with the native dialect became the “Po’ Boy.”

There are, in my opinion, three distinctive features of the Po’ Boy: the bread, the sauce, and the filling. Yes, I’m well aware that could be said of any sandwich. Let’s get into the specifics and see what I mean.

First up the bread. Po’ Boys are traditionally served on a French baguette type of bread. It has a crispier crust and a soft interior that to me just says good sandwich bread. I’ve seen other breads used, but it’s that long, slender bread that helps immediately identify the sandwich in question.

Then comes the sauce. I’ve had Po’ Boy that only have mayo, and while certainly not bad, if I’m taking the reins, I want to step it up a bit. Most online recipes call for a type of sauce known as remoulade. There are a number of variations with most containing mayo, horseradish, and seasonings. The recipe I decided on was basically a spiced up fry-sauce, but more on that later.

Finally, the filling. For me, there’s nothing like shrimp. Though chicken is a close second (especially if I’m eating at Popeyes). I’ve seen other variations with different fish and sausages as well. The key here is to really hit home on the Cajun. If you’re going with fish, go with fried catfish, for sausage it better be Andouille. I’ve seen some that are just roast beef or ham, but to me that just sounds more like a sub than an actual Po’ Boy.

So how did it come together in my kitchen? Let’s take a look:

Go ahead, lick the screen. You know you want to. 

I’ll start off by saying that I was rather pleased with the way it turned out. There were a couple of missteps: the bread I had bought the day before had gone rock hard by the time I tried to use it, and the Andouille I’d bought to pair with the shrimp remained forgotten in the fridge. But if you have all the ingredients actually in place, you’ve got a quick fix that is filled with flavor.

As I mentioned before, I used an online recipe for the sauce. About halfway through making it I realized that this was just a fancied up fry-sauce, but that’s ok. It tasted great .I didn’t have any horseradish on hand (because, yuck) and instead took a radish to the food processor to get some of that kick, but with an agreeable flavor. I let mine sit in the refrigerator for a bit to let the flavors combine; otherwise it takes no time to put it together.

I was surprised how quickly the shrimp came together. I think the longest part was peeling and deveining them, which could be easily remedied by purchasing the “all ready to go” stuff. Following another online suggestion, I coated the shrimp with blackened seasoning, dunked them in egg and buttermilk, dredged them in a mix of flour and cornmeal, and then into a cast iron skillet filled with hot oil. Our shrimp weren't huge (haha, get it?) so they cooked in just a few minutes. The crust was nice and crispy and I really liked the addition of the cornmeal.

With the addition of tomato and lettuce, the sandwiches were ready to go. I buttered and toasted the bread for a bit of an extra crunch and piled everything on. The addition of some Zapps New Orleans style chips meant that the good times were ready to roll. The flavors were all there, and one sandwich was definitely filling. I was surprised how mild the heat was. After eating most of the sandwich, I could feel a slight burn built up in my mouth, but not bad at all. I’d even go out on a limb and say my family might even be ok with them (note: my family are notorious [at least to me] spice shunners).

Hopefully next time I’ll remember to pull out the Andouille and brown that up to go with the shrimp, and I’ll probably add a bit more of the Cajun seasoning, but yes, there will indeed be a next time. With a rather quick prep time (which you could further shorten by using pre-breaded shrimp, but you wouldn't want to do that would you?) this makes a great, flavorful weeknight-friendly meal.

So there you have it, the first edible experiment was a success. We've got a new recipe for the rotation, and can easily enjoy a bit of the bayou with the benefit of not having to book a big…quick, what’s a synonym for vacation that starts with a ‘B’?

Morning Sickness

It seemed like almost the next morning after we found out the wife was pregnant the morning sickness set in. The term ‘morning sickness,’ at least in my wife’s case, is a bit of a misnomer. It should probably be more accurately termed ‘every minute of my life that I wish would just end so I would stop feeling so @#%* nauseous sickness.’ And so while the original plan was to hold off on sharing the good news, it soon became evident that the wife would need to tell her boss lest suspicion should arise over her heretofore nonexistent tardiness.

Amusingly enough, the day she decided to tell the boss she got into work a few hours late after readying herself at a snail’s pace in order to avoid having the supermodel-sized bit of breakfast she had managed to get down from making a return appearance. The first thing her boss said upon her arrival was “I was wondering if there might be a little Williams on the way…” To which the wife could only respond, “About that…”

I have certainly learned a lot through this process. For one, morning sickness apparently likes to take weekends off. Especially at the beginning the dreaded nausea nightmare was wreaking havoc on her work schedule. But come Saturday, sleeping in went just fine and the day’s activities could be enjoyed in relative peace. Now I won’t get into the chicken and egg debate that naturally flows from the facts I have presented, I will only say “you’re welcome” to all those we saw on weekend that did not end up covered with wife’s breakfast, whatever the scientific explanation.

The second interesting tidbit I have picked up on is how incredibly resilient the dread bile-beast can be. My poor wife tried everything to slay the dry-heaving dragon. One morning she added a bit of ginger to her oatmeal and it worked great. So naturally she tried it again the next morning. That breakfast got rejected faster than the captain of the chess club trying to ask the head cheerleader to prom. It’s like the puke poltergeist only other purpose besides getting my wife to become really close friends with our toilet is to become invincible. It’s like something out of a horror or sci-fi movie where the good guys have been gunning down the monsters, but suddenly the weapons become completely ineffective, causing the hero to stand in a moment of stunned terror before throwing the weapon at the creature before booking it in the opposite direction.

This whole ralphing routine has taught me a thing or two. For one it really humbled me and made me take inventory on my life and what I was doing with it. Here my wife is participating in the miracle of life (and getting her butt kicked by it) and the closest I ever get to a miracle is if I shower before noon. Now, I’d like to think that I’ve been at least a half-decent husband thus far, but with my wife more out of commission than she’s ever been in our married life I realized how much slack she picks up. I’ve still got a long way to go before I even do half as much as she does, but I have gotten better at doing the dishes (and I haven’t even broken any!) and I've even learned how to use our vacuum. Now I don’t want this to turn into some post about how awesome I am, it’s supposed to be about my wife and how she’s been holding up. So therefore I won’t even mention that one time I got really bad food poisoning and was puking all day so I totally know how she feels.

A visual representation of the offerings my wife has been giving to the porcelain gods lately.  

The Beginning

We found out that we would be having a baby right after returning from a vacation to Oregon. My wife had been suspecting, but it wasn't until we got back home that she could take the pregnancy test and know for sure. So she went in the bathroom and peed on the stick. She came out and showed me the stick which bore the double line of fertility. We hugged and celebrated and then she headed for the trash can. She wanted to throw away the Symbol of Conception! I chased after her:

“What are you doing?”

 “I peed on this! I’m throwing it away,” she responds in disgust (side note: My wife is a germaphobe. I feel like this could be a good bit of foreshadowing for later when we get to things like changing diapers and dealing with spit up).

“You can’t throw it away! That’s an important relic!”

“No! I peed on it! We are not keeping something I urinated on!”

“But what are we supposed to show the baby later on?”

“Not something I peed on!”

She at least let me take a picture. She would not, however, let me post the picture here.

Pictured: A stick my wife did not pee on. Not Pictured: The stick my wife actually did pee on.

Then it began to hit me. It went a little like this:

It was rather late, so we crawled into bed. As I lay there trying to fall asleep, the paranoia struck. Every possible concern one could have concerning a new baby came flooding into my mind: What if it’s a boy? What if it’s a girl? What if it’s both? What are the odds of it coming out a different race? What if there’s more than one in there? What if, heaven forbid, it wants to play sports? The wife reassured me that the odds of two white people giving birth to an Asian are incredibly low and eventually I fell asleep. 

Introduction

My wife is pregnant. In this day and age of technology, social media, and hashed-tags that means that every moment of pregnancy be carefully documented and published for the world to see in the form of a blog (short for web-log, fun fact of the day). Usually the expectant mother assumes this duty as she is the one with the firsthand information, what with the intrauterine parasite growing inside of her and all. The blog is usually titled something like “Our Super Crazy Wacky Life Together” and implies that this is, in fact, a family blog and about the wacky, super crazy adventures they have together. In most cases, however, the husband is mysteriously absent as the wife goes and gets a mani-pedi , or has a baby shower, or attends prenatal underwater Pilates class. At best he shows up as the one who brings home the pickles and ice cream, or the out of focus thumb that accidently made it in to the baby bump picture.

Left to Right: Beaming Mother, Incidental Accomplice

[Photo: baby bump, out of focus thumb in corner. Caption: Left to Right: Beaming Mother, Incidental Accomplice]

With us, however, that will not be the case. In this blog, I, the husband and father-elect, will take center stage with my wife off doing her own thing. That isn’t to say that her presence will not be felt here. I will certainly consult her on how to spell Fallopian and get her current nausea levels. But the focus here is on my journey through the land of ultrasounds, breathing exercises, and compound estrogen logic.

The Nerdy Parents to Be