Crushing Krisis

Comic Books, Drag Race, & Life in New Zealand

Personal

Excitement Is Ruining My Grammar

by

It’s official.

I mean, we knew already from the many strips of paper and the lack of a period, but now we have a blood test that confirms it: you are having a baby.

I’ve been texting E about it all day. “Antici…”

She didn’t think it was as funny as I did.

The first thing I did was text Mel to tell her. To tell someone. I’m not sure how someone with a blog can be so very private about these things, but Mel is the only person in my world who even knew that E and I were talking about trying to get pregnant this year.

Why tell her and no one else? It’s something to do with her story, more than mine. I knew her before her kids, before there was any hint of them being on the way. I knew her through both pregnancies, and now on the other side, and she is the same brilliant, hilarious,  type-A person she was before – only now she’s that as well as the mom of two toddlers.

This has been a big part of my progress to becoming a willing father to be. In my life I’ve known so many people who have gone from vibrant adults to dull, disconnected parents who are no longer people in their own right. Before we got pregnant, I had to know – know that I could still be me, who loves words and music and making intricate plans. I didn’t want all of me to be undone just to have another person to look after.

I won’t say Mel is my only role model in that regard, but because we’re alike, and she is even more like E, she’s the one that’s brought me the most peace of mind. So, she’s who I told first, even though I can’t wait to tell Gina and Ross and all the other adopted aunts and uncles this eventual but no longer hypothetical baby will have.

Mel texted back two incoherent strings of text, and then: “Excitement is ruining my grammar!”

Yep, that’s Mel.

Note: This post was embargoed until we reached 20 weeks; it was made public on 3/20/2013.

Giving Thanks

by

Thanksgiving was a two day dance.

We hosted two consecutive dinners, one for each of E’s parents. Lots of cooking and tidying and carefully avoiding any hint that E is pregnant, because we’re only one week into this thing and it is too, too early for anyone else to exist in this gossamer bubble of nervous excitement where we exist.

It’s a little difficult, because E is known to love wine, and she doesn’t typically exhibit my unpredictably willful stubbornness where you could believe at any given time that I’m never eating or drinking a certain thing ever again.

There’s something to be said for being an only child.

Now, on the other side of the second dinner we are down to just E’s sister and her new fiance. That’s the other reason we really didn’t want to get into people poking about pregnancy – this is their holiday to enjoy the intangible difference in life now that they are pledged to each other in a way everyone else can see.

Note: This post was embargoed until we reached 20 weeks; it was made public on 3/20/2013.

Don’t Lean On Me, Man

by

I am not ready to be a parent.

I’m sure every expectant parent thinks that sometime during the pregnancy process, but I have real empirical evidence.

Like, I didn’t know scooping ice out of our ice cream maker with a spoon was going to scratch it up. So, I scratched it ALL up. E was like, “How could you not only do that once, but keep doing it for five minutes?”

I don’t know. For all of the smart stuff I know about words and music and human behavior, I don’t really know anything about the common sense of making things and maintaining them. Like, I can’t hang a picture on the wall. I don’t know how to keep most plants alive. I’m still confused about how to clean our butcherblock  counter tops.

I have gaps in my common sense in those areas. How the heck am I supposed to teach a very tiny person about any of them? All they’re going to know about from me is David Bowie. That’s it.

Note: This post was embargoed until we reached 20 weeks; it was made public on 3/20/2013.

Definitely Probably Pregnant

by

As I fall asleep, I think about cells rapidly dividing.

Nothing is ever a sure thing, but I am pretty sure we are pregnant.

ZygoteWe have been trying for a few months now, where “trying” means (close your eyes, future offspring) having sex with a little more consternation and chart-making than usual. I mean, depending on your usual sex, I guess.

This time around I don’t think it would be projection to say we both felt a little different as the week wore on. When we woke up yesterday, after much devil’s advocacy from both sides we wanted to take the test. I inquired if I needed to hold any sort of papers while E peed on them and was rapidly dismissed.

“Wait,” I said. “What should I do?”

“Not follow me into the bathroom?”

“No, I mean, what should I be doing in case you come downstairs and tell me we’re pregnant? I don’t want to be surfing the internet. This is a big moment.”

“It is,” she acceded, maybe fidgeting impatiently.

“How long does it take?”

“Five minutes.”

“I’m going to play a song. Something I wrote. A song about you.”

“Okay,” she said. And, maybe, “Can I go take the test now?”

“Yes. Okay.”

I played a song called “What Do You Want From Me?” which in retrospect was a peculiar choice. It’s a song about being an imperfect partner and lover, and being afraid you aren’t enough how you are. I don’t think I chose it with any intent, but it was a decent enough selection for five minutes of being Schrodinger’s Expectant Father.

She returned during the last verse and proffered me a tiny strip of paper full of arcane writing and a series of red lines.

“I think it’s positive.”

“What am I reading here?” I said, squinting down at the paper.

“Two red lines.”

two-red-lines“I see them. The one’s a little faint.”

“Doesn’t matter,” she replied. “I’m pregnant.”

Of course, this is me we’re talking about. E is growing a baby while I harbor an OCD Godzilla. She would need to test again. I would watch. Luckily, this was not the pee right on it sort of test. There was a sort of shot glass full of urine for testing purposes. Is that too much information? I’m just trying to be transparent about the utter ridiculousness of the situation. This is how new life is discovered.

We tested and I watched. Like a hawk. From two or three inches away from our second little urine-soaked paper strip while E kept time on a digital watch.

“I definitely see a second line.”

We were pregnant. Definitely. Probably.

“Can we just dip a fistful of the strips into the pee to be sure?”

She sighed, exasperated, maybe realizing she was in for nine months of me being the crazy one … and, that even if her hormones allowed her to briefly surpass my crazy, Godzilla and I would spring back into the lead and maintain it for the majority of our offspring’s 18 years of childhood.

“Imagine,” I encouraged E later in the day, “if we had a way to make just one or two of those cells the best possible cell right now. We’d wind up with a 12.5% better baby!”

That was most of the baby chat for the day. We’re not too precious. But, as I turned over in bed to face E all that was on my mind was cells that were once one and are now many, more even since we discovered them in the morning.

That was our baby.

Note: This post was embargoed until we reached 20 weeks; it was made public on 3/20/2013.

shots you don’t take

by

I know exactly three hockey players by name, and two of them are Flyers. The other, of course, is Wayne Gretzky, who famously said, “You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.”

(Actually, maybe it was his dad who said it to him? In any event, I enjoy this version: “I learned that 100 percent of the shots you don’t take don’t go in the net.”)

This might be the first time the visage of a sports star has graced the front page of CK. Bask while you can, sports fans.

This is one of those maxims that is so crazy obvious that we tend to lose the meaning. Like, duh, if you don’t try it, it will never get done. All of the shirts I never folded will stay unfolded until I fold them.

Except, I think it deserves a little more nuanced than that. It’s not just about taking every possible shot – like, asking every girl out until one says yes. It’s about maximizing your shots … which, in that unfortunate example, means going somewhere where there are a lot more girls.

(Or, maybe asking some of the boys out, too.)

This makes me think about how I play video games. I am a super-defensive player. This can be traced back to my great love of playing Chun Li in Streetfighter through ceaseless hours of turtling in strategy games like and Warcraft. I like avoiding attacks as I chip away at a player’s defense until I am big and bold enough to crush them decisively.

I take plenty of shots, as long as I stay safe while I”m doing it.

It should not come as a shock that I am awesome at playing these games against the computer opponent (hello: only child), but I am not so great at playing against other human beings. The computer isn’t terribly innovative, so my long game tends to work fine in keeping my undefeated, even at the highest difficulty. But, introduce one PVP game of Starcraft into my mix and all of my careful planning goes out the window. I get shredded. Or Zerg rushed. Whatever.

I’m taking every shot I can in my normal play style, so I’m doing Mr. Gretzky proud… right?

No. My play style isn’t meant to maximize wins – it’s meant to minimize damage. It features way less shots. That would be fine if I was a member of a team, but when we’re on our own we’re all playing the same position as Gretzky – center. I can’t afford to just play goalie, praying for shut-out.

The only way to take more shots is to change my entire approach to the game.

Hockey and video games might not be my calling, but when it comes to songwriting, me and Mr. Gretzy see eye-to-eye. It write it ALL down. I take every shot, even if it’s just a single line I’m jotting down, because I’ve seen too many bad one-liners turn into amazing songs to ignore them anymore. I know every song counts, so I stopped being such a perfectionist about it.

I’m a perfectionist in many things, and perfectionists take way less shots. Maybe they never get blocked or intercepted or misunderstood or finish second. Maybe every song is a hit. But, if you write down only the hits, you’ll be missing so many melodies, until you’re not writing down anything at all.

I do not want a life full of empty nets and blank pages.

I am going to take more shots. Defense be damned.