140 Beats per Minute

We had a checkup today and everything’s going great. The doctor thanked Andrea for being the “textbook perfect patient,” as opposed to the pregnant woman the doctor had just seen: a 300+ lb mother who couldn’t have her emergency c-section just yet because her fried chicken and biscuits hadn’t fully digested. Andrea is the valedictorian of pregnancy patients.

The best part of the appointment? Hearing Merlin’s heartbeat! As soon as our doctor put the doppler thingy on Andrea’s belly we heard a thundering, and fast, “swish, swish, swish, swish.” What a relief. This is only the second time we’ve heard from the baby. Andrea’s body isn’t sending us many signals that she’s pregnant, so it was nice to know that our little apple is alive and well.

In addition to a strong heartbeat, the baby’s now about the size of an orange, he’s developing his hearing this week, and he’s moving like crazy, though Andrea can’t feel that yet. I don’t know what we’ve done to deserve such a great pregnancy.

Drunk with Power

It’s a trip thinking about how much control I will soon have over another human’s life. For example, Andrea and I will choose the name another person will go by for the rest of his or her life. How crazy is that?

This ability to control another human being can be intoxicating. I can see why a person, upon realizing this nearly limitless power, might get carried away and give her children absurd “names” like Track, Trig, Bristol, Willow and Piper. But I’ve decided that naming my child is a privilege that tradition has bestowed upon me; I promise not to take it lightly.

Here are a few rules I’m going by:

• No made-up names. I just cannot justify torturing my child with the product of my very limited creativity. This includes names that have been made up by other people but have recently become popular.
• Nothing that’s too hard to pronounce. Unfortunately, since we’re not raising our kids on Iceland (dang), that means some kick-A Icelandic names like Úlfar (wolves), Þór (Thor), Björn (bear), Sigurrós (victory rose), and Brynhildur (armored warrior woman), are off the list. As awesome as those names are, I couldn’t put my American child through the countless mispronunciations and questions.
• Nothing that’s too popular right now. I just don’t want my kid to be one of 20 “Emmas” (or whatever) in her class.
• No classic names with whacked-out spellings à la Utah culture. ”Christopher” will not become “Krystuhfur,” and “Elizabeth” will not become “Illizuhbeth”

That’s it. Shouldn’t be too hard to get a name from those criteria, right?

What might have been

Imagine this:

Firm X offers you a summer job with the intention of giving you a permanent job when you graduate from law school. You like Firm X, but you like Firm Y just a tiny bit more. So you use your offer with Firm X as leverage with Firm Y.

“Hey, Firm Y, Firm X just offered me a job. I need to let them know if I accept their offer within the week. What can you do for me?”

Firm Y responds with an offer of summer work with the intention of giving you a permanent job when you graduate from law school. You accept, regretful that you have to tell Firm X that you chose Firm Y.

At the end of the summer, Firm Y says, “Hey, you’re a great guy, but we can’t afford to offer you a job when you graduate. Good luck, and have a nice life.”

To make matters worse, your friend, an attorney at Firm X, informs you that ALL SEVEN summer associates at Firm X got permanent offers.

Desperate, you quickly contact Firm X, hoping that they’ll remember you. Firm X remembers you, but says that they’re “finished hiring.”

This is what happened to me. I try not to let it bother me. And to be honest, I don’t often think about “what might have been” had I gone with Firm X. It’s over. I have to move on. I can’t change the past. But every once in a while, I get into a sulking/raging mood and feel like yelling. At somebody. At anything. Tonight, thinking about fatherhood and looking desperately for a job, I’m in one of those sulking moods. So I’m taking it out on you, internet. Arghh.

Babies Everywhere

I notice children more frequently. I look at their faces and their mannerisms and wonder how my child is going to act. What kind of personality is he or she going to have, and to what degree will I influence that personality? And if I do have a big influence on this kid’s personality, what if I turn him or her into a jerk? A big anti-social dummy? That’s a lot of responsibility. So that’s the question. How do I prevent my kid from being a dork? Some things I will be sure to teach little Merlin(da) in no particular order:

• To not write a check in the grocery store check-out line when people are behind you. It’s terribly annoying.
• To not be a know-it-all like his or her dad. People hate that.
• To read lots of good books.
• To listen to lots of good music.
• To wear comfortable shoes.
• To drive in the snow
• To not be impatient and irritated with the old lady writing a check in the grocery store check-out line.

That ought to do it for now. Just succeeding at half of these things would make Merlin(da) a terrific person!

(If) They Mated

Andrea has posted this here, and my sister has posted it here.

In my opinion, the internet cannot get enough of this photoshop creation.

I give you Merlin Nolan Alba . . . as an adult.

Chest Thump

I am man.

A strange thing happened to me when I found out Andrea was pregnant; I was overcome with a sense of sublime confidence that I’ve never experienced before. At the risk of sounding crass, impregnating my wife was the greatest affirmation of my masculinity in my life. I wanted to flex, strut, and lift heavy things. I had lived up to my fullest biological potential, and I was proud to be a man!

That confidence is still with me. I have a boat-load of insecurities, but I also have a cool assurance that I can take on challenging things, like finding a job, and being a good father. I can only hope that this confidence increase exponentially with every child. Andrea, lets make tons of babies, if only so I can feel better about myself.

The Naming of Merlin

The day before I found out Andrea was pregnant, I had a very strange dream. In my dream, I woke up late one morning to find out that Andrea had just delivered a perfectly healthy baby boy – a creepy-looking miniature version of myself. She didn’t want to wake me up for the birth because she wanted me to sleep in. How considerate. What’s more, she had already named the baby: Merlin Nolan Alba. The name sounded perfect in my dream!

So that’s what we call our muffin: Merlin. Giving it a name is just so much better than calling it “it.”

Anyway, we haven’t heard from Merlin in a while and it’s driving me nuts. Andrea’s not showing, she’s not sick, her boobs don’t hurt, she hasn’t gained weight, and we have no outside indication that Merlin is actually growing inside of her. The last time Merlin presented himself was at the ultrasound where we were surprised by the heartbeat. Since then, nothin’.

I wish we could get an ultrasound every week, or that I could peer inside Andrea’s uterus and make sure everything’s ok. It’s a little maddening.

Tick Tock Tick Tock

The sound of my baby’s little heart beat, and the warning of an imminent disaster awaiting if I don’t get a job soon.

I’m thrilled that we have a little muffin baking in Andrea’s oven. It’s humbling to imagine the delicate chemical reactions that are building the baby’s heart, nerves and eyes. Nature and Andrea are doing their parts. Now the weight of responsibility to provide for this child is bearing down on me.

Andrea and I grew up in with our mothers at home. We decided early in this marriage that we wanted the same division of labor for our future family; Andrea would stay home, and I would (hopefully) bring home enough bacon to feed the family. In the abstract, that sounded like a great idea. With the legal economy in the shape it’s in, however, our plan is proving incredibly difficult in reality. I can’t find a job for the life of me.

People tell us that if we “do the right thing” and have faith that “everything will work out.” But what does “everything will work out” mean?

At a minimum, I think it means that we’ll always have food and shelter. I know that we have a safety net with our families. We will never starve. We will never go without a roof over our heads. But the thought of relying on our families to take care of us is emasculating. I candidly admit that my pride would have a difficult time with that.

I want it to mean more than that, though. I want it to mean that I’ll be able to take care of my family independently. But maybe that’s where the faith component comes in. Maybe exercising faith means surrendering my pride and being willing to accept what’s best for my family, regardless of how it affects my career, and my view of myself?

In any event, wish me luck finding a job. I’m going to need it.

Little Heart

Andrea’s pregnancy came as a bit of surprise to us. Her body had been sending us mixed signals: no periods, but the home-pregnancy tests were negative. Relief flooded over us when the blood-work finally gave us a conclusive answer: PREGNANT!

I still had trouble believing, though. Weeks after the call from the lab, Andrea still didn’t feel pregnant. No nausea. No boob-tenderness, nothing. We had a routine ultrasound scheduled where we would finally get some answers. Was anything even in her uterus? If so, how far along was that thing?

We were the first ones in the OB’s office that morning. No waiting. We were quickly ushered to a waiting room with an enormous sonographic machine. My heart was pounding. I wanted to commit to this pregnancy. I wanted to tell myself that it was real, but I was hesitant to believe until I could see. We barely had a chance to sit before the ultrasound technician burst in and got to work.

Within seconds, I had my evidence. There on the monochromatic screen was a white, amorphous globule against a black background. Within that globule was a rhythmic flutter. ”You’re definitely pregnant,” the technician told Andrea, “About six weeks along.” ”And you see that flutter right there? That’s the heart.”

Come again?

Before I could gather my thoughts, the technician turned on the sound. Muffled, but steady “blips” filled the dark room. I was speechless. All I could do was smile. Andrea is definitely pregnant. I am definitely going to be a father.

Latest Family Portrait

Is that not the cutest ball of cells you have ever seen?!

She's Pregnant!

Andrea and I have been thinking about having a baby since the spring. She went off her birth control in May, but has only had two periods since then. This has caused a lot of stress. Is she pregnant? Is she ovulating? What the heck is wrong with her body? She peed on a few at-home pregnancy tests, which were never positive. We were confused. Our theory was that her skinny little body was just too fragile for the three years of birth control she had taken, and was having a hard time deciding what was going on now that the foreign hormones weren't regulating things anymore.

But we wanted a more scientific diagnosis. So last week Andrea went to the OBGYN for a consultation and an ultrasound. The doctor also wanted a semen analysis. Awkward. I will only say that the process of "procuring" the sample involved (1) blushing, (2) a small room, (3) a leather recliner, and (4) a walkie-talkie. I'm not kidding about the walkie talkie. "Um . . . we're done now . . . over?"

We met with the doctor on Tuesday to discuss the results of the ultrasound and the semen analysis. Turns out, Andrea and I each have some minor physiological problems that might make it hard to get pregnant. We were disappointed, but the doctor assured us that there were many options to get the process moving. First, Andrea had to have a period. The doctor prescribed progesterone to kick start Andrea's internal motor and get the pipes flowing again.

Before taking the progesterone, though, Andrea had to get a blood pregnancy test. Drawing the blood, of course, was an ordeal, see here, but Andrea was a trooper. The lab called us yesterday morning with the results: "Don't take the progesterone. You're pregnant."

Huzzah! Turns out my swimmers are perfectly capable after all!