Archive for November, 2007

EDD +3

Yesterday on our daily lunchtime constitutional, Sarah and I ran into a contingent of strikers from the Writers’ Guild.  They were picketing in Battery Park outside the Museum of the American Indian, neither of which as far as I know employs any members of the Guild, but I’m not an expert on unions or labor law so I’m sure this tactic makes sense somehow.

Anyway, inspired by their efforts, I decided to form my own union and try to obtain better working conditions.  As such, the International Brotherhood of Expectant Fathers, Local 406, (i.e., me) is now officially on strike from being Sweet Pea’s father-to-be.  The way I see it, we’ve been operating without a contract since last Sunday.  We refuse to perform any additional paternal duties until the other side at least comes to the negotiating table and agrees to start uterine contractions.  Binkies down means binkies down!

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EDD +2

Still no baby.  Sarah has an appointment with the obstetrician today, which will hopefully shed a little light on where things are.

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Sarah’s EDD (Nov. 11) has come and gone, and Sweet Pea is still in utero. If anyone knows any non-awful folk methods of inducing labor (yeah, I’m talking about you, castor oil) we’d love to hear them.

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I Can Die in Peace

Not only is there such a product as Bacon Salt, but there’s a Bacon Salt Blog.  I especially like how they recommend you nosh on some Creamy Bacon Salt Dip while preparing your Hannukah dinner.

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We’re now less than a week from Sarah’s estimated due date.  Since some very large percentage of women deliver in the period from one week before the due date to one week after (and since many other women deliver prematurely), I feel comfortable declaring that, as a purely statistical matter, I’m already the father to a bouncing baby girl.*  Call it Schrödinger’s baby.

*Yes, I feel comfortable grossly abusing half-remembered statistics from the childbirth class we attended.  I’m a lawyer – we’re verbal.  If I were numerate at all I’d be something useful, like an architect or an accountant.

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Our cat, the illustrious Calvin Coolidge, the Cat, has a number of bad habits that are nevertheless quite endearing. He always follows us out into the hallway, for example, whenever we’re leaving for work, or church, or just to go out. He also likes to go out into the hallway when we’re not out there, rocketing past our feet the minute we open the door on arriving home. One of us has to pick him up and carry him back in. For his troubles, the pick-upper gets a torso covered in fine orange hairs and usually a few “just a reminder I’ve still got these” claw pokes to the chin. He never does anything out there, opting mostly just to sit and groom. I guess it’s just the allure of the forbidden.

Another charming habit was Cal’s former, umm. vomiting problem. He never picked up the idea – which at least some other cats I understand intuit – that one’s litter box can be used for throwing up hairballs, too. Instead, he chose to just throw up wherever, usually on a soft surface like the bath mat or the bed sheets that he was able to claw over to cover the small pile of stomach acid, cat hair and undigested food he’d just summoned forth. Our repeated attempts to explain that it was actually much easier for us to clean up if he vomited on the floor fell on deaf ears. Luckily, improving health plus an aggressive brushing program on our part have kept him vomit-free for a couple months.

Cal also likes to help with making the bed after we’ve done laundry. But, since he lacks opposable thumbs, all he can do to help is lie on the bed as we try to make it, or burrow under the sheets as we’ve got them on, or pounce after the small folds or bunches in the fabric that move past him as we straighten up the sheets. He was particularly helpful last weekend, and your faithful correspondent was there with his camera to capture it.


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A ghost-less Halloween

Official count of trick-or-treaters last night:  Zero*.

The bright side:  Enough leftover candy to keep us all on a solid sugar high well past Sweet Pea’s due date.

*For comparison.  Here were the two treat-expecting weirdos that spent last Halloween with the Dwyers:

The happy couple

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