Pregnant-Dad! Being Pregnant for a Day...(by Husband)

After watching some great commercial, my wife dared me to be pregnant for one day. I almost didn't make it. This is the story. And I apologize for not being more empathetic to any woman who's carried a child.

Don’t sweat the small stuff! (by Husband)

That’s what the wisest of women said to me this morning. My grandmother rolled out stories of a true lifetime that helped put my little woes into perspective. Don’t. Sweat. The Small. Stuff. Okay! That’s my new motto! In Bible Study last week, my Pastor told me specifically to not focus on the drab, grey skies behind it, but on the sun which illuminates the grey bodies that glide across the horizon. Okay, so it was my dramatic interpretation of what she said, but every blog needs a little Hollywood magic in it from time to time. Or maybe just mine do. My wife’s sweet words are always so transparent, so purposely un-punctuated to emphasize the unplugged nature of her confession, that it’s hard to rival on a blog that we share. She can make the simplest of moments magic. But I digress.

Okay world, today, I’m taking these words to heart, from a young woman and a sage grandmother, I’m taking these words to heart. And guess what that means for me, since I’m applying these words to my life today? Well, I’ll end with a joke to fill you in. One day, a man realizes his temperament is far too short. So he prays, “Lord, please grant me patience.” So the following day, he goes to the grocery store and gets stuck in the longest line ever. Every line he jumped to ended up taking longer than the line he left. After 40 minutes of hearing the scan sounds of other people’s groceries, he finally put his melted ice cream and other goods on the counter. And then He hears God’s voice softly say, “You’re welcome.”  I won’t sweat the small stuff, so small stuff, bring it on!

"How Quick Are You Gonna Get Up…." (by Husband)

One thing I’ve learned lately is, at work every day is a new day. Deadlines pile up, time runs out, people are disappointed, victories are won, decisions are made. And the next day, you start over again. That sounds refreshing. Like a universal windshield wiper shoving the day’s remains into a galactic gutter. Only, as Stephen Covey says, “With people, slow is fast and fast is slow.” I reckon myself to Kobe. Though not even a Kobe fan, some work days produce flawless performances. Magic fingers on the Xerox machine. The perfect key strokes and mouse handiwork to create the perfect design on time, on dime. The subtle combination of witty words necessary to woo a giant room (or a room of giants) into the palm of my hand. On these days, I am Kobe. And the rim is an ocean. And everything I throw up swishes the nets and yanks down on that corporate rim to the sound of cash registers. Or another biweekly check.

Then there are days where the “calls” are not in my favor. The computer wants to play one on one and posts the spinning beach-ball of death (mac users) with seconds left on the Close-Of-Business clock. I’m open for the shot, but the coach called another play, one where I’m the decoy, and the ball gets thrown in another direction. Or the defenders are extra precocious this fine day, and I have to struggle for even the simplest of tasks that would otherwise be routine. Yup, on these days, I too am Kobe. Fighting to win a game that has variable odds, angry opponents, and sometimes unfair circumstances. 

And I have to decide, am I going to burn through another lunch working, stay late yet again, phone my wife once more with the far too familiar words, “I’m working late again?” Or do I decide to wipe the slate clean and start again the next day? Each has its own set of consequences. Ultimately, however, the “home” team never has as many timeouts, jump balls, commercial breaks, or opportunities to switch angles in game play. So I’ve worn out my metaphor. In plainer terms, every new business project “could make or break our company.” And requires overtime. Weekends. “Extra” effort. As if my all were not already extra enough. Yet, after that day closes, the next day or the one after that requires the same ingredients. Stir and repeat. Not so at home. There is one birth. One grand entrance. One Chicago Bulls Announcer, and one opportunity to watch the fruits of husband-wife teamwork enter this world, and bond. There is no start again tomorrow, or watch a re-run and make up for working late, or try harder next time. There is not even a rehearsal. So every moment has to be “in the moment.”

Thus, (I pause to clear my throat on my soap box) I have learned, albeit the hard way, that nothing is more important than being a champion at home. A raise or bonus at the expense of marital bliss is a mouthful of curse words and a vein-full of high blood pressure. There are no second chances for a championship. Well, there are. Even my own wife has given me second chances. And second second chances. But certain moments of our lives are like game-winning shots that echo into eternity. Defining moments in history that cannot be repeated, recast, or postponed. Honeymoons. Childbirths. Weddings. First moments. And I am choosing to rise to the occasion of being a star on a much smaller court. Playing for an audience of 1, soon to be two. No matter how large the crowd, or how high the fame, if I suck as a Father, as a husband, then my talented efforts will all be in vain. My “championships” will count for someone else. And my closets will be filled with trophies instead of family memories. Oh, what world. 29 trips around the world, and I still haven’t learned a thing.

The Business of Being Born...a Girl (by Husband)

I’m going to be someone’s daddy! This thought alone is enough to spark its own entry, but I’ve expressed these thoughts so many times, it’s only right that I jot down these words and cathartically move on to more mature pre-daddy pregnant thoughts. Most people ask me what I’m having, and what I WANT to have. Are you kidding me? A healthy baby! What has happened in our culture that has gotten us so caught up in what the sex will be? How is it possible—before I go on, I am well aware that in some foreign cultures, a woman’s value may be so low that parents consider the birth of a baby girl worthless, and though I find it completely ridiculous, I’m reserving this next thought for our American culture—for someone in today’s time to be so bent on having a child of a particular sex, to the point where if they have a child of the reluctant sex, that they neglect the child? Isn’t that bogus? Have we forgotten that it is GOD who chooses not only conception, but the exact weight, sex and genes of our child, if we are indeed even fortunate enough to get pregnant? I guess I sound too formal and much more like political soap-boxing than blogging, so I digress. I said all that to say, I’m so glad that we’re pregnant, and I will let God do God’s business in choosing the sex of our child. Be it boy or girl, I will love them, as I already incredibly do, with all of my heart, devotion and energy, for as long as my heart beats fast.