Adventures in Parenting #13: First Father's Day

Growing up, my family was never the biggest on holidays. Check that, we were never that big on the ancillary holidays. Christmas was a big shebang, kid birthdays were played up quite a bit (not so much for the adults, as it should be), and Thanksgiving was given its due. But that's generally where the celebration ended. When I was younger Independence Day meant fireworks at the lake but that tradition dissipated at some point, Mother's and Father's Days respectively usually meant a card and possibly a restaurant, and the rest fell by the wayside. I'm not bitter about this by any means as I've been around families who treat St. Patrick's Day, President's Day, and National Pancake Day as if Saint Paul himself was coming to dinner and I think it's kind of weird. If I don't get the day off of work then what's the point? But, as you might expect, this year's swim through the Mother's and Father's Day shenanigans brought some added importance because, you know, the kid. Lindsey is one of the world leaders in coming up with parties and celebrations which is totally great except that means I have to try to match that somehow when it's her turn to be celebrated. For Mother's Day, I think I knocked it out of the park: I stayed up all night with Cooper, allowing Lindsey a full eight hours of uninterrupted sleep (which was worth about $3.2 million at that point). In the morning, I presented her with flowers, an ink footprint (Cooper's, not mine), and donuts. (It's possible that I left our three week old baby in the car while I ran into the donut store at 5 in the morning but that's neither here nor there.) Boom, roasted. Perfect first Mother's Day.

But of course Lindsey topped that when Father's Day rolled around this weekend. I went to bed without the baby monitor and without setting my alarm (if you don't understand the utter joy that one can draw out of not setting the alarm, then I don't think we can be friends) and didn't wake until after 10:30. Glorious. When I did arise from my hibernation, I found this bounty of gifts awaiting me in the hallway:

With baby in tow, Lindsey trucked all the way out to Central Market to assemble a collection of fine foods I happen to love. Whataburger's Spicy Ketchup (FINALLY IN A BOTTLE AND AVAILABLE FOR MY CONSUMPTION AT ANY TIME), caramels with sea salt (life changing), and an assortment of green olives. What can I say, the road to my heart is paved in green olives. And sodium. And artery blockage, probably.

After pouring Whataburger Spicy Ketchup down my throat like a fat kid with cheese whiz, we headed out to Ol' South Pancake House for brunch, which is kind of like skipping school and then getting rewarded for it. "Breakfast at noon?! Where do I sign?!" Cooper wore his Bill Murray onesie to celebrate the occasion:

(Note: The kid slept through the entire thing. Ol' South is one of the loudest places on earth, akin to standing at the foot of Niagara Falls, and it is filled to the brim with the smell of bacon. He never stirred, even when the waitress kind-of-sort-of dripped water on him. Nothing. And yet at 3 o'clock in the morning he's disturbed by the sound the TV makes when I turn it off. I'm onto your game, kid.)

From there, we headed out to one of my favorite places, the Fort Worth Zoo. It may be childish but I love zoos. Always have, always will. And unbeknownst to many in the area, the Fort Worth Zoo is actually one of the best zoos in the country. I know because I have been to a thousand. (Or maybe a dozen but either way.) In order to cement my zoo nerdery and pass on said nerdery to the next generation, Lindsey purchased our family a zoo membership so now we can go whenever we want.

Again, however, notice the sleeping baby. The sun is shining directly on his little face, there are a thousand people milling about, and there is a live ALLIGATOR roughly 10 feet away from us but not a peep. Fine, whatever. We left shortly thereafter because of the aforementioned sleeping baby and because HOT but not before adding to our ever-increasing file of memories and possibly creating some new traditions in the process.

You win again Lindsey, Brian

Adventures in Parenting #12: The Face of Cleanliness

By all accounts, my son is reasonably well-mannered given that he is 6 weeks old and has yet to go through etiquette school. (Note: Is there anything more first world/stupid than etiquette school? I await your arguments.) He sleeps half-way decently for a baby, he doesn't cry much, and he almost never screams/throws baby tantrums. For this, Lindsey and I are eternally grateful. The only time that he gets really upset, and I mean dirty looks, horrifying screams, and fists shaking in anger, is when it's time for a bath. Because, as we all know, being clean is a fate that should be reserved only for Nazis and Justin Bieber fans. Now it should be noted that both Lindsey and I are not fans of water. Well, I think Lindsey would like to swim every now and then if it weren't for the skin cancer she had when she was a kid that has robbed her of her ability to be out in the sun for long. I, however, am adamant in my distrust and disdain for swimming, floating, and generally getting wet in any environment outside of my shower. Ocean, lake/river, pool, doesn't matter, I want nothing to do with it. I can swim if I have to so I'm not exactly sure where my hatred for the water comes from (besides this, this, and for some reason ESPECIALLY this) but it is just a fact of life. I'm like Bruce Willis' character in Unbreakable. Even I, however, recognize the value and wonderment of a hot shower. Cooper, on the other hand, wants nothing to do with this whole bathing thing.

This is a picture of my son during his first sponge bath:

Notice the picture is somewhat out of focus. This was approximately the thirtieth attempt at getting a clear picture but he was squirming so much that it never worked out. The aftermath was this:

Notice the lack of trust in his little eyes. It only took like a week for this kid to start to wonder if his parents are out to do him nothing but harm. But at least we wrapped him up in a cute shark towel, right?

It gets worse, however. This is a picture of the first time we actually stuck him in a tiny pool of water to clean him off:

That initial distrust in our motives turned into a full on nightmare. Not only did we lather his little body in a lukewarm, wet substance known as "tap water", we actually made him sit in the water as well. Two minutes later that distrust turned into...

...complete misery and perhaps a loss of innocence. This, dear friends, is hell on earth. Not only is he wet, not only is he being made to sit in a pool of water (which may or may not have included some pee at this point and by "may or may not" I mean "he totally peed in this water that he's now sitting in") against his will, his tormentors are his parents, the two people in this world who have been charged with his protection. This is indeed a dark day for Cooper and I'm sure he has already begun to plot his revenge for this indignity.

Now, before you run off assuming that things have only gotten better since this first round of torture as he's adjusted to bathing and not smelling like the dog, this is the photo I took of him yesterday during his, say, fifteenth bath:

Still distrusting, still angry, still hurt and still certain that his parents want him to suffer. This, my friends, is the face of cleanliness.

I await your offer for these photos Johnson & Johnson, Brian

Adventures in Parenting #11: First Movie

As you can probably determine based on the number of reviews I post that none of you read, I'm a big fan of the cinema. For as long as I can remember I have found great joy and satisfaction from the world of film. It started with Star Wars, matured with The Shawshank Redemption, and developed into borderline obsession with the turn of the century and The Lord of the Rings series. Over the first 30 years of my life, there are a number of landmark memories that jump out because of a particular theater experience. Some of these include: 1989 - The first new movie I remember seeing in a theater. My dad took me to see Batman with Michael Keaton in the lead; 1990 - Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles came to theaters and my brother I were REALLY stoked about this; 1993 - My parents took me to see Jurassic Park which remains, to this day, the greatest theater experience I have ever had and likely will ever have; 1996 - In the midst of a family reunion, all of the cousins piled into the front row of a dinky theater to watch Independence Day on Independence Day. During the surgery scene when the alien's chest cavity snapped open, my brother freaked out and ran out of the room; 1999 - The most anticipated movie of my entire life, The Phantom Menace, came to theaters and I'm pretty sure I skipped school to see it. This is also the most disappointing movie going experience of my life.

I could list many more but you get the picture. I have a freakish memory for names, places, and dates and more often than I'd like to admit these memories are hallmarked by what was happening in the worlds of film or sport at the time. I cherish these memories and I find that there is great value in the cinema if you are willing to look for it. As such, among the many things I look forward to sharing with my son, my love for film takes a prominent place. When the news that Disney had acquired the rights to the Star Wars universe was announced and a new set of films became a reality, one of the first thoughts I had was that Episode VII (expected to drop in summer 2015) could very well become Cooper's first real theater experience. Because obviously he needs to be raised in the ways of the Force.

We'll see if that ends up playing out accordingly, but in the meantime, Cooper's exposure to film has already begun. Having bristled through numerous annoying experiences involving children in a standard theater setting, I am hyper sensitive about making sure he doesn't find his way into a theater until he's capable (or mostly capable) of sitting through the movie. But thankfully, there is a loophole: the drive-in theater. The Coyote Drive-In opened just a few weeks ago on the outskirts of downtown Fort Worth and last week, on a strangely non-busy weekday, we decided to venture out and take Cooper to his first movie.

I folded down the back two rows of seats in our Honda Pilot, we laid out a heap of blankets and pillows, and all three of us stretched out in semi-comfort. Like most drive-in setups, Coyote shows double features on all of their screens and the movies for the day were Epic followed by Iron Man 3. In hindsight, it bothers me a little that Cooper's first "big screen movie" experience will include a throw-away animated film that absolutely no one will remember in a year but he isn't quite ready for the subtle nuances of Fast and Furious 6 so I didn't want to waste that on him. We bailed out in the intermission between Epic and IM3 though not because Cooper was fussing but because Lindsey was. (Something about having a baby has made her really lazy lately.) But really, the film didn't matter so much as the experience did. This is yet another in a long line of landmark memories that are attached to film and it stands as the beginning of teaching this little guy about the things that I love and hoping he'll share in some of those passions. Now if I could only figure out how to warn him about Jar Jar Binks...

Han shot first, Brian

Adventures in Parenting #10: Can Babies Eat Muchacos?

A while back, Lindsey entered herself in a contest thrown by Taco Bueno that awarded the winner with a year's supply of Taco Bueno and the title of Bueno Head of the Year. I refused to participate in these shenanigans for the following two reasons: 1.) I think Taco Bueno is at best "adequate" and at worst "vomit-inducing"; and 2.) I hold a strong dislike for performing in any manner that draws a spotlight. Public speaking, singing, dancing, dressing up for theme parties, etc. are all things I do not like, preferring instead to sit in the back and make inappropriate jokes.

With virtually no prep time, Lindsey came up with a plan, executed it, and inevitably won the crown. She received a ridiculous amount of adequate/vomit-inducing food, the vaunted title, and a trip to New Orleans for the company's management conference. I was proud of her and also incredibly happy that I didn't have to participate in any of the shenanigans. It was a win-win.

This difference in personality between Lindsey and I is well-known within our circle of friends and family. Lindsey choreographs and performs in Summer Spectacular, our church's VBS on steroids, every year while I will not get within 100 feet of the stage. When we got married and moved into our first home, Lindsey brought with her many boxes filled with dozens of costumes; I have a Marty McFly shirt-jacket-vest that I once wore to an 80s party that I probably wouldn't wear again even if the party theme was actually Back to the Future (let's be honest, I probably wouldn't go to the party, anyway). Lindsey will gladly be the first one on the dance floor at a wedding while I sit in the back and make fun of how white all of our friends are, knowing full well that I would look even worse if I mistakenly found my way onto the floor. We have struck an accord on this in that I support her performance gene in whatever form it manifests itself as long as I do not have to participate against my will. This works well for us.

I do wonder, however, what side of this equation Cooper will come out on. Will he be a performer like Lindsey or shy away from the spotlight like me? We got our first taste of this confluence of personality over the weekend with Taco Bueno once again serving as the catalyst. Having been inspired by the rousing success of their previous contest, Bueno yet again afforded their fans the opportunity to win a year's worth of their adequate to vomit-inducing product, this time calling for a dance video centered around the performer's love for the company. A dance contest involving Taco Bueno sounds like the perfect opportunity for Lindsey. Dancing, probably bad music, and Mexican food?! It's like this contest was designed specifically for her. Unfortunately, however, she is still out of commission following the delivery and hasn't been approved for exercise yet. Sometimes you just can't catch a break, you know?

Fortunately for Lindsey and possibly unfortunately for Cooper, we have the most adorable baby in the world. Lindsey set about a plan that involved re-writing the lyrics to a horrendous pop song from the late 90s, enlisting the help of her brother-in-law John to sing the newly re-worked horrendous pop song, purchase a bag full of adequate to vomit-inducing food as well as a collection of possibly racist props, and forcing our young child to "dance" along with the music. The result is as follows:

http://youtu.be/53peD9Qo28k

If your first reaction to this video is, "I'm going to call CPS", don't bother. I already called it in myself and they have informed me that unless we actually made the baby eat Taco Bueno, there's nothing they can do. Their hands are tied. That's the government for you. The video is, however, unquestionably cute. I'm still not sure whether this is the best thing to happen to Cooper in his short 5 weeks on the planet or the worst but I guess we will have to wait and see how he comes out on this whole performing thing. Who knows, maybe he'll end up being Taco Bueno's version of the Gerber Baby and this foolishness will pay for college. Either way, it will make for excellent blackmail material in the future and will serve as payback for the lack of sleep he has subjected us to over the last few days.

Rosa's > Taco Cabana > Taco Bueno > Taco Bell = Slow Death, Brian

Adventures in Parenting #9: One Month Review

Dear Cooper, Over the weekend you had your one month anniversary with this family and your celebration got a little wild. You stayed up late, drank too much (milk), threw up all over yourself, and woke up in different clothes with an apparent lack of recollection as to the previous night’s events. You’re a wild and crazy kid.

As the cliché states, children do indeed grow up rather quickly and it is almost impossible to believe that you have been a part of this family for a full month now. It is also quite remarkable that you have survived given your frailty and our complete lack of experience with babies. I mean, I’ve done my part. I have dropped you less than five times and I only shake you when you’re REALLY crying. Still, you deserve credit for fighting through this month with parents who know next to nothing. Kudos to you, sir.

Now, with your one month anniversary upon us, it seems only fitting to review the events of that period and discuss what you have done well and what you can improve on in order to make this arrangement work out long term:

STRENGTHS

1. It goes almost without saying that you have staked your claim to the title of “Cutest Baby in the World” and you’ve held on to it quite tightly. We’ve all seen our fair share of ugly babies and you, my friend, are not one of them.
2. As far as babies go, you have shown an above average ability to sleep, albeit on an irregular schedule.
3. You work well with other babies, an attribute we can only hope will carry over into your school years.
4. You seem completely unfazed by the incessant barking of the dog nor are you bothered by her need to lick your hands and feet. This bodes well for you in this household.
5. When we watch TV together, you show an equal interest in baseball games and Star Trek. Hopefully this means you’ll be this kind of nerd and not this kind.
6. Numerous people have remarked about the length of your arms and legs which obviously means you’ll be able to play passing lanes quite well once you become a basketball prodigy.
7. You have great social skills for a baby even if you’re not the best with the words.

WEAKNESSES

1. While your coos, grunts, and whimpers are cute, the infrequency at which they occur in the middle of the night makes it difficult to sleep. Sometimes you sound like a gremlin and I don’t mean Gizmo.
2. Your demands for food at entirely inconvenient times have become tiresome.
3. Your favorite hobby appears to be finding a way to get your pee to leak out of your diaper.
4. Though I find it funny now, your mastery of repetitive farts will put a damper on your social life at some point.
5. You seem to have a deep-seated hatred for bathing which could lead to some hygiene issues down the road.
6. This thing where you don’t poop for two days and then wreck shop for 12 hours is obnoxious to say the least.
7. You might be a vampire.

All in all, I’d say it’s been a successful first month on earth. By way of a 2-1 vote with the dog being the only dissenter (albeit a very vocal dissenter) we have decided to extend your stay with the family for the foreseeable future. Keep working on the aforementioned areas in need of improvement and I’m sure we can make this work for a very long time.

Regards, Brian

Adventures in Parenting #8: Can't Hold Us

So it may come as a surprise to most of you that, on occasion, I have been known to enjoy a little bit of hip hop. Not much, mind you; of the 10,510 songs on my iPod, I imagine hip hop/rap is responsible for maybe 150 entries and some of that is made up of Will Smith hits that can hardly be considered hip hop. I listen to a wide range of music, though, and occasionally a hip hop song catches my ear. And so it is with Macklemore. Now, I had heard Macklemore's last song, "Thrift Shop", a few times while flipping channels in my car on those days when I left my iPod at home and I HATED it. In fact, it cannot be overstated how much I hate that song. If given the option to listen to "Thrift Shop" five times or stab myself in the hand, I guess I'd probably choose to listen to the bloody song but I would really have to think about it. Awful. So I had written Macklemore off entirely. By chance, however, I happened to catch him on Conan singing "Can't Hold Us" a few weeks ago with Ryan Lewis rockin' the turntable and Ray Dalton dropping the chorus. And I kind of dug it. Then I heard it again and I really dug it. Then I grabbed it off of iTunes and listened to it a dozen times and it's been stuck in my head ever since. And I'm still not tired of it. The song has an infectious energy to it, a major prerequisite in good hip hop for me, and...well, what can I say, the performance was oddly enjoyable. See for yourself and pay particular attention to Mr. Dalton, the brother dressed as a milk man with a gold bowtie:

http://youtu.be/W5dDcA6M7JM

Lindsey is a bigger fan of the hip hop than I am and was pretty keen on "Can't Hold Us" from the get go. We talked about the performance on Conan several times before Cooper was born and decided that, in our family band version of "Can't Hold Us" (which is OBVIOUSLY a thing that is going to happen since both of us are incredibly musical, right?), Cooper would be responsible for the chorus which calls for everyone to "Throw our hands up/Like the ceiling can't hold us." Since his arrival, we haven't been driving much and as such, my iPod has remained on pretty much the same playlist, meaning "Can't Hold Us" has been playing nonstop for the last four weeks every time we're in the car. Each time it gets started, one of us will usually turn to Cooper, asleep in the backseat, and demand that he sing his part. I don't know why, we just do it.

Well, yesterday I came into the room to find Cooper in this state:

I am left with only one conclusion: Cooper was so concerned with fulfilling the expectations that we so unfairly placed on him that he fell asleep working on his part of the song. Now that, ladies and gentlemen, is dedication. At this point I feel pretty good about him nailing his part but unfortunately that means Lindsey and I have some serious work to do.

Dibs on the turntable, Brian

Adventures in Parenting #7: Staycation

I’m not sure where exactly the term “staycation” originated from or when it came into the popular vernacular but I tip my cap to whoever created it. For the first 25 or so years of my life I, like many others, was devoted to the idea of vacation meaning a trip somewhere, either foreign and domestic, packed with organizing, traveling, being molested by a TSA agent, scheduling activities of varying degrees of strenuousness, and then returning home much more tired than I began. This led to my coining of the phrase, “I need a vacation from my vacation.” HAHAHAHA! (Of course, I did NOT coin that phrase and in fact, the person who DID coin that phrase should probably keep it to him or herself in order to avoid a beating. Worst phrase ever.) But somewhere in my post-college years I discovered the bliss that is the staycation and have made great strides in becoming one of the leaders in the field of staycationing. Here’s how it works: I take off work, I usually don’t set my alarm, I watch movies, I eat poorly, and I generally stay away from anything resembling responsibility. I’m quite good at it actually; one might even call it a natural talent. It’s as is if I was made to do nothing and enjoy it. Sometimes I staycation by myself, usually around Christmas when I have to use my two weeks of vacation or lose them, but sometimes Lindsey joins me in a staycation and it is glorious. More television programming is consumed in these staycations than most people watch in a year and a new standard for laziness is usually set, only to be broken the next time one of these staycations rolls around. It’s a family tradition.

I’m not sure maternity/paternity leave actually qualifies as a staycation but, quite unexpectedly, it hasn’t felt far off. As I’ve mentioned before in this space, as the delivery of your first child approaches, all anyone will tell you is that your life is about to change dramatically. Almost everyone then makes it clear that being a parent is great and the child is (usually) worth all the trouble and you probably won’t want to kill yourself and blah blah blah but the implication is pretty serious: this is going to be rough. When every human is essentially telling you that your life is about to suck miserably for the next couple of months, it’s only natural to let that get into your head and freak you out a little bit. “What if this kid never sleeps?” “What if he has an embarrassing skin rash that makes him unpleasant to look at?” “What if the beagle tries to eat his bones like a KFC commercial?” “What if he throws up in my mouth and then I throw up on him and then I’m the dad who threw up on his newborn baby?” These and a hundred other horrifying thoughts begin to fly through your mind and eventually you become convinced that the first six to eight weeks of your child’s life will be a bloody nightmare.

Well…the first three weeks weren’t. In fact, they were kind of awesome. Lindsey and I have both been (mostly) off work, people have been bringing us free food pretty consistently, and while I haven’t been getting the amount of sleep I would normally expect to get on a staycation, most days haven’t been so bad that I couldn’t function. We’ve caught up on all of our TV shows, spent time hanging out with friends and family, and sometimes we’ve even showered. Basically it’s been just like an extended staycation except that every two hours or so someone poops. So that’s not so shabby. It certainly helps that Cooper is probably the most adorable kid in the known universe and that he sleeps like a champ but regardless, it’s been three weeks of chilling together as a family and what a blessing that’s been to all of us (except the dog, who may never recover from this intrusion into her life).

Alas, this staycation is coming to an end and my continued shouts of, “We want more! We want more!” in the direction of the heavens have gone unheeded. I started working from home last week and had to do serious, real office work over the weekend and Lindsey will be seeing patients for the first time today. (Note to future potential parents: get your short term disability lined up way in advance so you can stay home for longer than three weeks. Lesson learned the hard way.) Neither of us will be putting in the full number of hours that we will in a normal week for a little while longer but still, the staycation has effectively ended. And that’s a bummer as no matter how much I love my job (and I do), it’s not nearly as enjoyable as watching Arrested Development with my son. So if any of you would like to volunteer to continue bringing us meals and occasionally paying our mortgage, I’ll be happy to bribe you with more photos of our crazy-cute kid eating his own hand or snuggling with the dog. Think it over.

The KFC commercials make me laugh more than they should, Brian

Adventures in Parenting #6: Is My Son a Vampire?

Last week I wrote about the origins of my son's middle name and mentioned that we almost named him after Jack White. In certain circles, Jack White is known as the Nashville Vampire because he looks like this: He also happens to be the most singularly gifted musician I've ever seen and that's why we almost named Cooper after him. But that's beside the point. The point is the nickname because given this kid's sleeping habits, maybe we should have gone ahead and named him after the Nashville Vampire.

I was, of course, warned about the manner in which newborn infants choose to sleep. "Get sleep while you can" is one of the three major tenets of the Church of Random Strangers Who Give You Unsolicited Parenting Advice. But other than preemptively throwing yourself into a miserable schedule wherein you rarely sleep and force yourself to wake up in a haze every 30 minutes or so, there's no way to TRULY prepare for this phenomenon until it's actually thrust upon you.

My son is formula fed which means Lindsey and I are essentially taking shifts with him. Since I'm a late night person, I stay up with him and/or sleep on the couch until I can't handle it anymore while Lindsey sleeps and then we switch. This is fine until about 2 am as this is usually my breaking point but it's not really late enough to switch and have an even split so I have to fight through to at least 3 and sometimes 4 in the morning before throwing in the towel. This wouldn't be so bad except that the 2-6 am range is apparently prime time for Cooper.

This is a photo of my son at 10 pm:

Notice he is completely gone, sprawled out like he couldn't care less about the uncomfortable position he's laying in or the flash on my phone splashing over his little face. (Also note that his face really isn't that fat and he does, in fact, have a neck.) Lindsey went to bed shortly after this picture and my shift began.

This is a photo of my son at 12:30 am:

Now, if that looks like a peaceful, sleeping baby, let me tell you that this is a lie. He's been "stirring" for about an hour now, flailing about and making his little grunting noises that are just loud and infrequent enough that you can't sleep through it. Just moments after this photo he exploded in a fit of rage because someone (note: it was him, he did it to himself) pinned his arms down at his side and he hates not having his arms up above his head. This will be the source of his rage for the rest of the night I'm sure.

This is a photo of my son at 3:30 am:

Note that he has had plenty of food (though if I had to eat formula eight times a day I'd probably kill a man), his diaper has been changed (repeatedly) and I have acquiesced to his demands by swaddling up his legs and allowing his arms the freedom they so obviously deserve. And yet...he remains awake. Wide awake, in fact, and unwilling to allow anyone in the room (including the dog) to sleep. We have been sitting and watching old episodes of The Office for hours and each attempt to lay him down and get some rest has been unsuccessful.

Note that this kid sleeps throughout the entire day. We often have to wake him up to feed him and if you happen to wander into a room with a particularly bright light while holding him he shrieks and covers his eyes. I can draw only one logical conclusion, of course: my son is a vampire. He is most active during the prime vampiring hours and despises the daylight as if the sun stole his girlfriend. I can only hope now that he will become the Jack White/awesome sort of vampire rather than the Edward Cullen/sparkly sort. Apologies in advance to any friend or family member whose neck is attacked by my baby in the future.

Does anyone know where I can find a drifter? Brian

Adventures in Parenting #5: What's in a Name?

As a kid, I was never entirely fond of my own name for two reasons: 1.) Everyone had it. I don’t think I was ever in a public school classroom that did not also feature at least one other Brian or Ryan and at one point I was on a soccer team with four other kids of the same name. 2.) There was no real meaning behind my name. I had friends whose names were bestowed upon them because it was a family name or because their parents had a best friend who helped them through hard times or because why wouldn’t you name your child after Ronnie Van Zandt? (Not joking about that last one, by the way.) (Side note: It also had something to do with the fact that about half the time, to this day, people still spell my name as “Brain” and that drove me bananas as a kid. Now it only slightly makes me want to punch a puppy instead of full on murder someone.)

I required no therapy to get over the curse of such a common name and it’s not like I hated my name or anything. Likewise, I hold no ill will towards my parents for bestowing it upon me. They almost named me Patrick and what an awful fate that would have been. (My apologies to any Patricks I may have just offended. Please don’t leave!) But still, it’s not the name I would have chosen for myself because obviously that would have been Dwayne The Rock Johnson.

As such, when Lindsey and I found out we were going to have a kid, one of the first things my mind went to was what to name him. For months I “jokingly” referred to him/her (before we knew the gender) as “Baby Dirk” or “Baby Dirkina” hoping that it would stick but alas Lindsey saw right through my plan and rejected it immediately. (Despite my unhealthy love for Dirk Nowitzki, I would have never really named my son after him. But the middle name…maybe.) We didn’t really discuss the name thing until after we found out we were having a boy and that’s when things got pretty interesting.

We agreed on three criteria for this child’s name:

1.) We wanted a last name (traditionally) for his first name, a phenomenon both of us have become big fans of; 2.) We wanted it to be relatively unique so that he wouldn’t be the ninth Brian in every elementary school classroom; 3.) We wanted the name to have some sort of meaning but we also did not want to open up the can of worms that is a family name.

This is where our agreement ended, however. In the history of our relationship, Lindsey and I have very, VERY rarely fought or had a longstanding disagreement. We think similarly on most things and what we don’t is usually worked around pretty easily. This is one of the few occasions when we locked horns. Lindsey bought a book called “100,001+ Best Baby Names” which I highly suggest expecting parents get their hands on because you’ll never have any idea how many names you DON’T agree on until you’re presented with 100,001+ different options. Also some of the names are hilarious and they’re broken up into lists like “Names That Were Invented” (by the way, ALL NAMES WERE INVENTED), “Skydiver Names”, and “Wine Names.” (Note: If any of my friends were named after a particular wine, you better keep that to yourself because if I find out I will NEVER let you hear the end of it.) We went through the whole book as well as the names we thought up from other sources and made our individual lists before getting down to brass tacks of actually settling on one.

My top choice was Griffey. It’s a last name, it’s unique, and Ken Griffey Jr. is the greatest baseball player I’ve ever seen in my lifetime and since this kid is OBVIOUSLY destined for fame and glory in the athletic arena, that namesake would come in handy. Lindsey was having none of this, however, and I blame all of our friends and family who are women. Literally every guy I spoke to about this possibility was on board but every girl rejected it posthaste. I will never forgive any of you for this. My second choice was Jackson White Gill. That one had a double meaning as my favorite character from any movie ever who is not Chewbacca (nerd alert!) is Private Jackson in Saving Private Ryan and the greatest musician of his generation is unquestionably Jack White of The White Stripes. I think Lindsey liked this one but the problem was twofold: Jackson is a very popular name, perhaps even to the level that Brian was back in 1983, and also Jack is Lindsey’s dad name which opens up the whole family name can of worms I mentioned earlier. So that was nixed as well. My third choice was nothing. I had no third choice and I didn’t really want one. I was so sold on the top two that any other option felt like a major concession.

Instead, I struck a deal with Lindsey. She could name this child but in exchange I got the middle name AND the first name of our hypothetical second child that may never come into this world given how excruciatingly awful our hospital experience was. I admit that, on the surface, this is a hard bargain but the thing is we already have a name picked out for a girl so there’s only a 50/50 shot that I’ll have free reign over the name choosing next time around anyway. Eventually Lindsey gave into this compromise and she settled upon Cooper, which I like just fine and have grown even fonder of since this kid actually came into the world and became immediately awesome. But, Cooper has no real importance; it is essentially a name drawn out of a hat. I considered telling people he was named after DB Cooper (whose legend I am fascinated by to the point that sometimes I stay up at night thinking about it) but I figured naming your child after a legendary criminal is probably cause for a CPS investigation. So the need to bring some significance to this kid’s name fell to me and the middle name.

I considered a number of options. I thought about athletes who have amazed me, musicians who have entertained me, Biblical heroes that have inspired me, and even historical figures that have drawn my interest over the years. (Crockett was a major consideration because Davy Crockett was a BOSS of the highest order.) Eventually, though, I settled in on Riggins. Now, if you’ve never watched the show Friday Night Lights (which I wrote about at length about here) then when I tell you my son’s middle name comes directly from a TV show you think it’s ridiculous and that we are probably bad parents. I understand this and accept your judgment. But if you had seen the show, you’d understand. Literally every person who has seen Friday Night Lights and hears his name immediately gives the seal of approval. Few characters ever in the history of TV have inspired such outspoken adulation as Tim Riggins and I think it’s because we see ourselves in him. He’s a good-hearted kid who can’t quite put it all together but who struggles with his humanity, with his morality, with his place in the universe.

In a weird way, that’s what I want for my son. I don’t want him to be perfect and I don’t want him to go through life on the straightest path possible because I don’t think you can truly figure out who you are if you never have the occasion to look back and learn from your tangential wanderings off the beaten path. (I’m sure I’ll regret saying this when Cooper throws a sitcom-inspired kegger party at our house when Lindsey and I go out of town for the weekend but I like the sentiment right now.) So yeah, I named my kid after a TV show character and yes, I’m totally content with this choice even if it seems like complete idiocy to the outside viewer. Just be glad I didn’t name him Tyus, which was a one of the names I assigned to a puppy in the 7^th grade. We all make mistakes.

Texas Forever, Brian

Adventures in Parenting #4: When Can We Get Out of Here?

Note: I promise that future installments of these posts will be shorter. The goal in general will be 800-1000 words, give or take. But I'm tired and don't feel like editing much right now and these first few entries have gone long. Please don't leave! Now that you've all come around so much over the first two weeks I physically need your attention. Carry on.  Whew. At the time of this writing, the entire family (including the blasted beagle) is home together and unless things go horribly, horribly wrong in the next few hours (always a possibility at this point) we will have been home for five full days. I had never really given the process of getting out of the hospital post-delivery much thought before this last week. In my mind, as I prepared for the biggest life event ever, I thought a lot about the day of the delivery and I thought a lot about what life would be like back at home with a baby but I skipped over the hospital stay without a second thought. Whoops. Today I bring tale of the stupidest two weeks Lindsey and I have ever gone through for the best reason possible.

ACT I – In Which We’re Having a Baby and Then We’re Not and Then We Are and Then… If you haven’t seen Lindsey over the last month or you don’t know us personally (hi, my name is Brian, pleased to meet you), you may not know that at the end of her pregnancy she was the most swollen human on the planet. If her skin turned blue she would have become Violet Beauregarde. It was sad. Because of this, the very second that our doctor broached the subject of inducing labor, Lindsey jumped on it. We were tentatively scheduled for Thursday, April 25^th, assuming there was a bed available. We used the weekend to enjoy a movie and started prepping for the big day. But come Monday, Lindsey was informed that there was no bed available on Thursday but we could bump it up to Tuesday if we wanted. I was sitting in my optometrist’s exam chair when Lindsey called to say that we would be heading to the hospital in 15 hours. Okay then.

Now here’s where things get tricky. We were originally told that Tuesday wasn’t an option because you have to be 39 weeks along in your pregnancy in order to be induced (barring an emergency more impressive than swelling up into a blueberry) and Tuesday was 38 weeks, 6 days. But the nurse who scheduled us said it was cool and Lindsey certainly wasn’t going to argue so great. We both ran home and manically tried to put our things together for the following morning and then I went to play basketball because I just went from, “You’re going to be a dad in a few days” to “You’re going to be a dad tomorrow” and, you know, STRESS WAS TAKING OVER MY BODY AND I NEEDED TO WORK SOME OF IT OUT. But just as I was finishing up, Lindsey called in tears because our doctor’s office had made a huge mistake and scheduled us before the aforementioned 39 week cutoff point and the hospital wouldn’t allow us. Our doctor (who is AWESOME, by the way) apologized profusely and scheduled us for the following Monday. I don’t have to tell you that it was not a pleasant night in the Gill household. Because if there’s anything you want to do with a seriously pregnant woman, it’s play with her emotions.

On Thursday we went in for Lindsey’s weekly checkup and suddenly some of those key signs our doctor was looking for previously started to pop up, meaning the new Monday induction date might be too far away. Lindsey did some blood work and we were told to expect a call after lunch in regards to whether or not we would come back in later that day for the induction. We went home and waited patiently. I’m just kidding, we were both pretty much worthless all day and I paced a lot. FINALLY around dinner the call came through and our doctor told us to be at the hospital at 5:30 the next morning for the big event.

Act II – In Which We Have the Baby and Such I’ve already written my Pulitzer-caliber account of the events of the actual delivery day in the post found here. If you haven’t read it, you should check it out now because it’s much more entertaining than this post is turning out to be. By the time all of that was finished and we cleared everyone out, it was midnight and after saying goodnight to literally the most adorable baby ever in the history of ever, we settled into our hospital room to crash like college students at the end of finals week. I don’t remember much about that night except that at some point our incredible nurse woke me up ever so gently to drape a warm blanket over me which was just the bee’s knees. I’m considering hiring her to come to our house this winter to provide freshly laundered and warmed blankets for us in the middle of the night but I can’t figure out how to request that without sounding creepy. The next day was filled with visitors and getting to know our new little buddy while catching little naps here and there. It was definitely the best day of the week, all things considered.

Act III – In Which We’re Going Home Except No We’re Not By the next morning, Lindsey and I were starting to get restless in the cramped hospital room and with the okay from the doctor, we requested our discharge papers. There is a LOT that goes into checking out of a hospital. Approximately 27 different doctors and nurses came by to check on both Lindsey and Cooper (not a single one of them asked about me, strangely enough), then a nice man in a suit came around demanding money in a very pleasant but, “You’ll be stuck here like the Hotel California if you don’t pay up now” sort of way, and finally the nurse came around with the discharge papers. My parents came up to help load all of our stuff and even took it home to unload for us so we wouldn’t have to. The problem was, by the time I got back up to the room after loading (literally a span of 15 minutes tops), the nurse had done a last second check on Cooper and decided she needed to run another test for jaundice. Fine, we thought, but bear in mind we’d already signed the discharge papers for both parties. The test was conducted and we were told it would be 20 minutes to get the results. 90 minutes later, the lab tech came back to say that, haha, she hadn’t really warmed our baby’s foot up enough to draw enough blood so the test hadn’t worked and as such, and this is hilarious, she would have to stick his foot again. So another hour or so passed and finally the nurse came back to say everything was fine, she was just waiting for the doctor to call back with to grant the release. Fine again.

A while later (I lost track of time due to sheer boredom) the nurse came back with a doctor’s order to let us go but first we had to talk to the doctor on the phone about making an appointment for the following day. At the end of this conversation the doctor told the nurse to weigh Cooper before letting us go (maybe do this BEFORE telling the parents they can leave for the fifth time in the span of three hours). When his weight came back lower than they expected, we were held over for another night so that Cooper could spend some time under the bili light, which is probably the saddest invention ever. This whole process took about six hours and we weren’t able to reacquire our bags until after 11 pm, after which we just had to try to sleep while laying 10 feet away from our little boy who was being tortured under a tanning bed light. It wasn’t the best. But he was fine the next day and mercifully we were granted our release. We got home late on Monday afternoon and attempted to settle into our new life. Ah, but it didn’t stop there.

Act IV – In Which We Had So Much Fun at the Hospital the First Time We Just Had to Go Back Again We’d been home for about 24 hours when Lindsey started to feel sickly. Her blood pressure had been an issue during labor and it spiked that night. My parents came over to watch Cooper and I took Lindsey back up to the hospital and into the emergency room. (Side note: I believe there’s a market for emergency room services provided for people who just have high blood pressure and haven’t been involved in a massive car wreck, aren’t going through a heart attack, and have never taken place in a fight at a strip club. I would pay more to go to an ER where I was 100% positive I wasn’t going to get hepatitis. I’m just saying.) The first doctor said he’d get her on a drip and have her out of there quickly, the second nurse/doctor said it might be a couple of hours, and the final doctor decided Lindsey needed to be admitted for 24 hours of observation. It took four hours to reach this decision and in the process we started out in a hallway, witnessed an old woman wretch a half dozen times, had a nurse miss on sticking Lindsey’s IV four times because she’s “never been that great at finding the vein” (please die, Nurse Ratchet), and basically lost the will to live. Lindsey was taken up to her room at 2:30 am and by the time I got back with a change of clothes, toothbrush, etc. it was 4:30 and we’d been up for almost 24 hours. And yes, our first night away from Cooper was when he was four days old and it was spent in a hospital room. That’s not scarring at all.

In typical emergency room fashion, Lindsey’s real issue went completely unnoticed until the following afternoon when someone finally figured out that she was super anemic. Apparently you lose a lot of blood when birthing a seven pound football but I wouldn’t know because as I discussed in the previous post I was doing everything I could to stay north of the mythical sheet. At 5 pm that day (I think it was Wednesday but honestly you could have told me it was a Saturday and I would have believed you at this point) Lindsey began a blood transfusion that almost immediately brought her back to the land of the living. It was not unlike the photo of Marty McFly’s family that suddenly went back to normal when he insured his parent’s romance. (That’s two Back to the Future references in two posts and I don’t plan to look back any time soon.) This was great and all, but the 18 hours it took to get some real results wasn’t so great.

At this point, the real cabin fever/frustration set in. Lindsey felt and looked fine by the end of the transfusion but of course more tests had to be run so we were stuck for another night. This time, though, Cooper stayed with us in the hospital, all three of crammed into this sad little room that looked like the inside of a FEMA trailer. The nurses continually told us they’d come back to do this or that by this time or that time and then failed to come through on that to the point that we finally decided no one was coming back to check on Lindsey until the morning. At 3 am we all turned in, which was apparently the signal for every nurse, doctor, and lab tech in the building to come in and out of the room, turn on the lights, and slam the door on the way out in order to insure that our five day old infant would wake up and demand food.

It goes without saying that, come the next morning, we were all on edge. We had packed for one day of hospital living that had stretched into two and a half, the weather had dropped by 40 degrees since we arrived and we weren’t dressed for that, and Cooper was out of both diapers and formula which you would think would be easy to come by in a bloody hospital but since he wasn’t a patient anymore that wasn’t the case. So when the new nurse came in to tell Lindsey, essentially, that everything was fine but no one would be around to yay or nay her release until after business hours, the thought of at least 15 more hours of sitting around in a hospital room took its toll. Lindsey was borderline distraught, Cooper was fussy, and I was exhausted, having pieced together something like five hours of sleep in the last 60 hours. Both of us went after our new nurse a bit (apologies to that poor soul) and made our displeasure known. Through the use of nagging, aggressive facial expressions, and threats of physical harm, we eventually got the nurse to work the phones until finally, mercifully, our doctor gave Lindsey a clean bill of health. We got home late Thursday afternoon, meaning Friday was the first day in over a week that was spent entirely out of a hospital.

Over the course of the week, we were seen by (by my count) 15 nurses, 12 lab techs, six doctors, and countless other hospital employees including the poor women who kept bringing us cafeteria food that we never touched. Some of them, like Sarah of the Warm Blankets, were incredible, people who will always have a special place in our ridiculous story. Some, like the aforementioned Jane, we’d just as soon forget if she wasn’t plastered into our collective memory. But all of them, in some way or another, helped get us home in relatively good condition. For this we are thankful even if it was just about the most round-about, idiotic way in which to get to this point. And in the end, the perfect little bundle of joy and farts (DO NOT pull this kid’s finger) currently sitting in my lap makes it abundantly clear that all this would have been worth it even if he wasn’t the most adorable kiddo on the planet. Or maybe not, I don’t know, I’ve never had an ugly baby so maybe that would change everything. Kidding. I think.

They should serve beer in hospitals, Brian

Adventures in Parenting #3: Epidurals Are For Closers

I’m a sucker for articles written in the “event diary” format. My favorite sportswriter, Bill Simmons, is a pro at this method and I look forward to his NBA draft diaries more than just about any other recurring piece of journalism that comes down the pipes in a given year (besides People’s Sexiest Men Alive article, obviously). As Lindsey and I prepared for the biggest day of our lives, I considered how I could do such a monumental event justice in writing form and decided to try my hat at a “Birth Day Diary.” It should be noted that as I write this introduction, I’m becoming keenly aware that the day is a gigantic blur and this may end up being the worst idea of my life (other than eating Long John Silver’s last week). What follows is a look at Delivery Day through the eyes of the father/husband. It is terrifying. Note: It’s 2:30 in the morning at the (hopeful) end of what has been the longest week of my life. We’ve been in and out of the hospital since Cooper’s arrival so we’re all pretty exhausted. As such, I’m sure there are a lot of gaps in my memory and the grammatical errors here will be plentiful. I’ll edit this thing later. Also, if you don’t get the title of this post, Google “Coffee is for closers.” It’s one of the greatest monologues in film history.

4:15am: Alarm goes off which is good because I got a suuuper restful night of sleep knowing that my entire life was just about to change forever. I can’t sleep the night before driving to Lubbock so I don’t even know why I bothered going to bed in the first place.

4:50am: The car is packed and we are on the road to the hospital. I have already consumed the first Red Bull of the day.

5:30am: We have walked into the hospital and have been assigned a room. It seems like a ridiculously large room until you consider the fact that in a few hours it will be filled with 28 different hospital employees and a baby that we will be responsible for. That’s assuming none of the hospital employees have seen this blog and know I am completely unfit to be in charge of a baby prompting them to call CPS.

6:00am: Our first nurse of the day enters the room. I will not remember her name because A.) It is 6 in the morning and I am never up before the sun and B.) She will only be on duty for an hour so she doesn’t matter.

6:22am: One of the numerous machines in the room (just so many machines!) is making an ear splitting noise and no one seems to care except Lindsey and me.

6:33am: Unnamed Nurse installs the first IV in Lindsey’s arm and the party is about to get started! Lightheadedness! Inability to move about the room with freedom! A keen awareness that we’re about to have to get mad responsible with a baby, yo! Do we know how to party or what?!

6:40am: The shift is about to change so Unnamed Nurse is back to introduce us to our new nurse. We’ll call her “Jane.” Jane is…interesting. She has a long braid that goes down to her butt, she has a matter of fact bedside manner, and she has DEFINITELY enjoyed an Aerosmith concert or two in her life.

6:55pm: The beeping noise is back and I’m about two minutes away from stopping the noise myself. It’s always a good idea to fool around with insanely expensive medical equipment, right?

7:10am: Jane is back to ask the exact same questions that Unnamed Nurse asked an hour ago. So that’s fun.

7:18am: Jane just informed us that inductions usually take about 12 hours to conclude. Just let that sink in.

7:30am: We have our first visitor of the day! Congratulations to Lindsey’s dad. You can claim your prize at the window.

7:50am: As this is likely to take at least 12 hours, I am retrieving my pillow from the car.

8:05am: I stopped by the coffee shop on the way back from the car for a bottle of water and a muffin (treat yo’ self). It took 10 minutes. I’m not saying the coffee barista is slow but yes I am, she is the slowest moving human I’ve ever seen.

8:55am: Nap number one is over. That’s approximately 45 more minutes of sleep I’ve had on a hospital delivery room love seat than I had in my own bed last night.

9:15am: Our second visitor, Patty (boss, friend, Saturday Night Live character in the flesh), is here but she won’t be allowed to stay long because Jane is back and she likes kicking people out of the room including me. So now Patty and I are standing in the hall. I don’t know why.

9:30am: In the hall, Patty and I witness a young man with two cups of coffee in hand looking confusedly at all of the doors. In an effort to be helpful, Patty points him towards the one he came out of previously. He comes back out 15 seconds later, red faced and bewildered, because WE JUST SENT HIM INTO THE WRONG ROOM ON THE DELIVERY FLOOR OF A MATERNITY WARD. That kid may be scarred for life.

10:25am: Our doctor is here to break Lindsey’s water and without getting into specifics let me just tell you that the tool used to perform such a task looks like it belongs in one of the Saw movies.

10:35am: Our friend Katie is here to help. Katie has two jobs today: 1.) Take pictures of the baby and our reactions to the baby post-delivery (but NONE of the birth because really, who wants to look at that?); 2.) Step in to assist Lindsey if and when I pass out. At this point, I would set the odds at passing out at 3:1.

10:50am: Lindsey’s blood pressure has started to rise so now she’s getting a magnesium drip in conjunction with everything else that is now coursing through her body. She’s now one IV in the back of the neck away from being in The Matrix.

11:15am: My mom arrived but I immediately sent her to get me food because, you know, I haven’t eaten in like three hours and that’s a long time. “Sorry you can’t eat anything, Lindsey, but Imma ‘bout to get me some waffle fries!” Brian Gill: Husband of the Year.

11:45am: Magnesium is a real drag and Lindsey has asked for the epidural.

12:15pm: The second request for the epidural has been made, this time to a random nurse who wandered in, and I’m starting to get a little frustrated with Jane. If you tell someone, “As soon as you want the epidural I’ll have someone in here to administer it” and then you don’t follow through on that promise, you should probably be punched by the person you made the promise to. Or her sleep-deprived husband. I think that’s only fair.

12:20pm: Jane is here to make sure that Lindsey did, in fact, request the epidural and when this is confirmed, she (laughingly) comments that, “I thought you might last time I was in here.” We’re not going to be friends, Jane.

12:30pm: The nurse who administers epidurals, we’ll call her “Pusher Nurse”, is finally here but before we can get started she needs to ask Lindsey the exact same questions that we’ve already answered twice. Because anytime you can badger a woman in labor for 15 minutes, you have to do it.

As a precursor to this next entry, it should be noted that I am horribly terrified of needles. Like, get shaky and pass out at the mere sight of a needle. I am a relatively normal and incredibly logical person in pretty much every walk of life that doesn’t involve my fears relating to both needles and sharks. If sharks ever learn how to administer shots I will probably just curl up into a ball and die.

12:45pm: Jane tells Katie and I that only one of us can be in the room during the epidural administration. As husband of the year, I stomach the nerve to stay in the room so that I can be there for my wife while Katie, who actually likes this sort of thing, leaves.

12:50pm: As the epidural process is about to begin, I walk over to Lindsey to…I don’t know...hold her hand or something? WHAT THE CRAP AM I SUPPOSED TO DO DURING THIS?! But Jane has other ideas and relegates me to the couch where I have two choices: stare at the floor and think about the Dallas Mavericks' 1992-93 roster or watch the horribleness unfold. I knew that this process involved a long needle but I had no idea what exactly happened during all of this and I never will because every time I glanced up the room started spinning and I immediately resumed my consideration of Sean Rooks’ rookie season.

1:03pm: I text my friend Tobin to relate my horror over this epidural thing. He concurs. We both express a desire for this to never happen to us for any reason. (As a side note, Steve Nash had not one but TWO of these procedures done on his back last week so that he could play in a basketball game. I love basketball but there is literally only one thing this hell is worth going through and that is the birth of a human child.)

1:10pm: Blissfully my mom is back with Chick-Fil-A so Katie takes my place in The Room Where That Needle Was Used so I can go into the waiting room and eat. At least I was kind enough to take it outside rather than eating in front of Lindsey.

1:35pm: Just got a report as to how far along Lindsey is in this process and now I’m kicking everyone out of the room so nap number two can commence.

2:50pm: Jane came back and I think she only did it tp wreck my nap. No, really she just came back to play another round of, “Ask Someone the Same Questions Over and Over Until They Go Insane.” This game show will NEVER catch on in the US but they like weird things in Japan so who knows?

2:55pm: I stumble into the waiting room to find way more humans who are here because they love me! And because Lindsey is about to have a baby, of course. Those two reasons are fairly equitable I would say.

3:20pm: Jane comes in to do something (I don’t even know what’s happening at this point) and in the middle of answering a very important question Lindsey has asked regarding the delivery of our first child, Jane stops down to talk about her husband’s vinyl collection. Don’t get me wrong. I LOVE vinyl and I’m all for the proliferation of the format’s value. But I’d rather not hear about it right now, thanks.

3:45pm: The third Red Bull of the day has been consumed and I’m considering asking Jane to set up an IV drip with this stuff so it can go directly into my blood. They can do that without using a needle, right?

4:00pm: I have added a new task to Katie’s list of duties: ask Jane all of the questions. All of them. Because she is giving us no information and as I’ve already mentioned, WE DON’T KNOW WHAT WE’RE DOING.

4:20pm: Jane keeps saying, “Is there anything I can do for your or anything I can get you?” And then Lindsey says, “Yes, in fact, could you do this or get me that?” And Jane says, “No.” So I don’t really understand this relationship.

4:45pm: I just spent 20 minutes putting a camera strap on our camera so, yeah, I’ve been pretty productive so far.

5:10pm: I’ve finished reading through a Reddit forum called, “The Creepiest Thing Your Kid Has Ever Said” and now I’m convinced that my son will see ghosts.

5:45pm: More of our friends and family have arrived so I’ve pretty much been going back and forth between the delivery room and the waiting room to give updates, not because there’s all that much to say but because OH DEAR GOODNESS THE NERVES ARE KICKING IN AND ALSO I’VE HAD WAY TOO MUCH CAFFEINE AND I CAN’T SIT STILL.

6:00pm: Lindsey requests a second epidural (I would have been on my fifth by now and also I would be dead) and a new Pusher Nurse is here to do so. Except she doesn’t because she’s not sure Lindsey is really in enough pain to need one. Because, hey, if there’s anything more scientific than asking the patient to rate their pain on a scale of 1 to 10, then I don’t know what it is. Seriously, medical industry, it’s 2013. The 1 to 10 scale needs to stop.

6:20pm: We’ve finally talk Pusher Nurse into another dose of the epidural and I leave the room in order to remain conscious while Katie handles the in-room madness.

6:30pm: Angela and Joe are here to provide me with sustenance in the form of Subway and I inhale it like it will be my last meal. Seriously, y’all, the realization that you’re about to be a father is stressful.

7:05pm: Jane comes in and jokingly remarks that she is disappointed in both herself and Lindsey that we couldn’t get the baby delivered on her watch. I jokingly remark that I’m disappointed that I left my prison shank at home. Jane introduces us to her replacement, Sarah, and rides off into the night on her Harley. (I’m just guessing on that part.)

7:40pm: Things are about to get real, y’all. Lindsey has progressed quite far and we are now on the verge of the pushing phase of the baby delivery process. I announce this to the crowd, finish off another caffeinated product, and perform the Lebron James pre-game ritual before heading back into the delivery room.

8:10pm: Welp, there’s no turning back now. Somewhat out of nowhere Sarah tells Lindsey to start pushing. Neither of us are quite prepared for this. I expected a breakdown of what was about to happen, perhaps a preview of coming attractions, but no, we jumped right in.

8:15pm: Katie, the only other person in the room besides Lindsey, Sarah, and I, picks up another job: hold one of Lindsey’s legs during the pushing. You would think this job would fall to a medical professional but I guess not. I’m just glad I’m not having to do it because, you know, I WOULD SPONTANEOUSLY COMBUST.

8:45pm: This pushing business is no joke. Lindsey is in pain (uh-duh), Sarah and Katie are encouraging her, and I’m holding her hand, trying not to pass out, and doing everything in my power to “stay north of the sheet.”

Side note: THERE IS NO SHEET. That sheet is only there in the movies and TV shows to keep every movie and TV show from being rated R. Thankfully one of my friends alerted me to this fact earlier this week because otherwise I genuinely would have expected a sheet.

9:10pm: Sarah is a rocking awesome nurse. She gives simple, constant encouragement over and over again and keeps us in the loop of what is happening. The difference between her and Jane is mind boggling. I’m starting to believe this kid held himself in until Jane was off the clock.

9:15pm: After every contraction Lindsey says she can’t do this anymore and then the next round comes through and she pushes like a champ. So, so proud of her.

9:30pm: A doctor (whose name I’ve forgotten so I will just call her Doc Brown because Back to the Future) finally comes into the room and it’s just in time, too, because Katie hasn’t eaten anything all day and suddenly she passes out and Doc Brown only just catches her in time to slide a stool under her and wheel her to the couch. I mock her with, “You passed out before I did!” in order to break the tension before realizing that without her here that means I have to hold a leg and now I’m going to pass out, too.

9:45pm: Katie resumes her place and now we’re in the homestretch as Doc Brown is perched in the prime position and all of the tools (OH DEAR LORD, THE HORRIFYING TOOLS!) are laid out. It’s becoming more and more difficult to stay above the mythical sheet and I’m doing my dead level best to keep my head down as much as possible.

9:55pm: Someone says something about the head being out so that sounds like progress.

10:04pm: With one last round of pushing, my son comes literally shooting out and I notice four things: 1.) He’s got a major cone head. Wowzers; 2.) In the interest of keeping this PG, let’s just say that the books aren’t lying when it comes to the look of the guy parts; 3.) The umbilical cord looks NOTHING like what the umbilical cord looks like on TV. The real thing is akin to something out of Alien not Friends. But most importantly, this is my son. As Doc Brown holds up my son, this tiny little thing that is covered in goo, the realization that I have a son hits me pretty hard.

10:08pm: The nurse lays our son on a blanket over Lindsey’s chest, and for the first time we get to really look at this little guy we’re now responsible for. I handle this like Don Draper and hold it together perfectly. Just kidding, I totally wept like a small girl whose puppy just died in a house fire. (Too much?)

10:15pm: The nurse takes Cooper away to measure and weigh him then asks me if I want to hold him. Now, I have had an aversion to babies for quite some time and in fact, have not held a real, tiny baby since my sister was born 20 years ago. But of course I said yes and she places into my arms the most adorable thing that has ever lived and now I have been reduced to a puddle of goo. He looks up at me with a complete sense of calm and we have a moment to just look at each other and consider what the next however many years are going to be like. This will heretofore be described as, “The Greatest Moment of My Life.”

10:20pm: Lindsey gets to hold Cooper for the first time and seeing the two of them together leads me to wonder if I might have some sort of hormonal imbalance. Seriously, get it together man!

10:40pm: As the nurses continue to clean up and fill out the appropriate paper work, I head out into the waiting room to announce to the assembled masses that Cooper Riggins Gill was born into this world at 10:04 pm, weighing 7 pounds and 3 ounces, and measuring nearly 21 inches long.

We are so thankful for the outpouring of love that has been showered upon us over the last week. From the people that came to sit for hours in the waiting room to the dozens of visitors that came through our room afterward to the hundreds (literally) of people who took a second to congratulate us through texts and Facebook messages, you have made us all feel truly blessed. We are now a family of three and I cannot wait to find out what sort of things the Lord has planned for us. Hope you’ll come along for the ride.

How much crying is too much crying? Brian

Adventures in Parenting #2: Waiting is for the Birds

Whenever you announce to the masses that you’re pregnant, they all freak out because you’re a guy and that’s not supposed to happen unless you’re starring in the movie Junior. No, but seriously, whenever you announce to the masses that your wife is pregnant, you think you’re giving everyone something to celebrate but really what you’re doing is opening yourself up to an abundance of free and unsolicited advice. Advice from family, advice from friends, advice from parents of children in your youth sports program (that one might not be as universal), advice from bag ladies with cat children, advice from literally every human being who crosses your path. Most of this advice or guidance boils down to one of three sentiments: 1.)    “Get sleep while you can.” 2.)    “Your whole life is about the change.” 3.)    My favorite, “It’s not going to be easy.”

There are other derivatives of those sentiments that get expressed along the way but really just about everything falls into those categories, none of which are helpful because 1.) I already do get all the sleep I can and it’s already never enough, 2.) I kind of figured being responsible for a life form that isn’t a beagle would change some things, and 3.) Having worked with kids for the last 15 years of my life, I can attest to the fact that they are not easy to deal with. Sometimes these sentiments are wrapped up inside actual meaningful guidance from people you really care and those thoughts are genuinely appreciated. It’s the random human who stops you in the grocery aisle to talk about what they did that made their kid turn out so well that you begin to get frustrated. Being the sarcastic, somewhat confrontational person that I am, these encounters require great willpower as I fight to overcome the urge to whip off a pithy remark or just make the most annoying sound in the world until the person walks away confused. I imagine I’ll teach my son to do these things in my stead so that I can be a responsible adult in the presence of these valued strangers but still get the satisfaction I feel I am due.

The one thing that no one tells you, however, is that the vast majority of your time leading up to the actual arrival is just spent waiting. You wait for the first sonogram, you wait until you can tell your friends and family, you wait until your wife starts to show signs of pregnancy which brings on the onslaught of advice from the aforementioned strangers, you wait until you can find out if it’s a boy or a girl, you wait until the baby shower, you wait until it’s appropriate to put the kid’s room together, you wait and wait and wait and wait. Lindsey and I did our best to minimize the waiting in that we really didn’t cracking on the whole baby preparation thing until we were well on the way to his arrival. I mean we told people we were expecting and went to all the doctor’s appointments and such but for the first five months of the pregnancy, we kind of just went about life as usual (minus the crazy drug parties, of course). But still, no matter what you do, there’s always this underlying sense of wait.

I don’t consider myself to be a particularly impatient person but I am definitely a “get busy livin’ or get busy dyin’” kind of person. If something is going to happen I’d just assume it get moving. If, for example, I’m going to take a trip it’s likely that I’ll just leave at one or two in the morning rather than waiting for daylight because I won’t be able to sleep anyway. I like to be moving forward at all times. I’m like a shark (a small, unintimidating shark like a lemon shark but a shark nonetheless) that has to keep moving. I’m totally that guy that will jump out of traffic and end up costing himself an extra 15 minutes on the road so that he doesn’t have to stay still. Perhaps I should be reconsidering that statement about not being impatient. The point is, waiting around for something to happen isn’t my strong suit.

But that’s exactly what pregnancy is (at least for the guys): waiting. You have nine long months during which you basically have six weeks’ worth of stuff that needs to get accomplished and that time ticks by incredibly slowly when you’re in the day-to-day phase. Those 40 weeks are hallmarked by feeling the baby move, learning the sex, assigning a name, etc. but there are these excruciatingly long stretches where you’re just biding your time and coming ever so close to boiling over when the cashier at Chick-Fil-A reminds you that your life is about to change. After a while all you think about is what you’re going to do when this kid gets here, all the things you want to teach him, and how your rotten dog is going to react to all this nonsense. Wait, wait, wait.

Well, today our waiting is over. This journey that Lindsey and I started at a Rosas’s Café five years ago will take another exciting turn sometime today as we welcome baby Cooper into the world and put this maddening waiting to rest. Now if only I could get someone to tell me whether or not my life is about to change.

I haven’t slept in days, Brian

Adventures in Parenting #1 - What Do We Do Now?

I imagine that every parenting blog that has ever existed in the history of parenting blogs has begun with a post similar to this one: We're pregnant, so what in the world do we do now? Well, if you're me, you spend nine months doing things like this:

1.) Tell all of your friends and family, making sure to hit all of the "important" people before posting the news on Facebook. This is crucial because if anyone should take objection to finding out through Facebook, you need to be able to feel good about telling that person that they're just not that significant.

2.) Record your mother in law receiving the baby news so that you can hopefully win $10,000 from America's Funniest Home Videos and somehow pay for this kid's birth. 

3.) See literally every single movie a person could possibly see and still be relatively productive at his job.

4.) Elicit parenting advice from countless strangers. No, check that, don't bother doing that at all because they'll all give you their advice whether you want it or not (by the way, I probably didn't).

5.) Attend countless doctor's appointments, some of which are downright uncomfortable.

6.) See your baby on a sonogram for the first time and literally just stare at the screen with wide eyes and then say something stupid like, "There's a baby in there! Golly gee-willickers!"

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7.) Consider what sort of ramifications this whole "having a baby" thing is going to have on your long term policy of "not really liking babies and wanting nothing to do with them." This will be a theme here I'm sure.

8.) Resist the urge to strangle the next random stranger who offers his parenting advice while his kid runs amok through Target.

9.) Watch a movie like The Hobbitor Star Warsand contemplate the best ways to turn this kid into a nerd from day one. (The stuffed Chewbacca in his crib will probably do the trick.)

10.) Keep track of the number of times someone says something like, "Your whole life is about to change!" We're hovering somewhere around 93,000 such utterances now.

11.) Find yourself considering how literally every single tiny decision you make in a day will affect your yet-unborn child.

12.) Feel your baby move for the first time while sitting in a booth at IHOP at midnight. That place should really change its slogan to either: "IHOP: Where Dreams Come True" or "IHOP: Come for the Pancakes, Stay For the Kicking Baby, Leave Because You'll Need to Use the Bathroom After Eating our Food." Either one will work I think.

13.) Have a gender reveal party for your closest friends because APPARENTLY GENDER REVEAL PARTIES ARE A THING NOW.

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14.) Continually taunt your dog by reminding her that everything is about to change for her too and she has no idea what's about to happen to her world. (This alleviates the rising stress level that is beginning to consume your every thought.)

15.) Start eating healthier because you want to, you know, be alive while your kid is alive.

16.) Stop eating healthy because all of this is stressful and stress means Whataburger.

17.) Buy clothes that he won't be able to wear for over a year because HOW DO YOU NOT BUY A TEENAGE MUTANT NINJA TURTLES SHIRT ON SALE FOR $4?!

18.) Have a baby shower and receive more gifts than any child has ever received in the history of ever.

19.) Pray that Ke$ha isn't a thing when your child is old enough to start listening to his own music.

20.) Watch Dirk Nowitzki play basketball and wonder if he'll stick around long enough for your son to understand his greatness. (Literally a top five frequently occurring thought in my head.)

21.) Possibly get a little emotional when hanging up your son's newly washed clothes for the first time because they're so tiny but actually that didn't really happen because I AM A MAN.

22.) Have your friend, who was supposed to have her baby 6 weeks before yours, go into labor a few weeks early and totally freak you out because this is really happening oh my sweet goodness we're not at all ready...

23.) Get your dad to build a crib that will look better than anything you could find in stores and save you approximately $1 million dollars because hey by the way, baby stuff is stupid expensive. (Thanks Pops!)

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24.) Take a hospital tour but spend all of your time making fun of the other couples with your wife so that neither of you actually learn anything on the tour. (In our defense, there were a lot of freaks and weirdos on that tour.)

25.) Constantly doubt whether or not you have what it takes to see this thing through and not screw this kid up so much that he turns out like Orin.

In all seriousness, the last 39 weeks have been an absolute roller coaster of emotions. The anxiety has only been matched by the excitement which has only been matched by the hours spent drinking heavily contemplating what life is going to be like when this kid finally gets here. (If only I would have listened to all that advice from complete strangers!!!) Now we find ourselves on the precipice of the biggest thing to ever happen to me (possibly not including the Dallas Mavericks winning the NBA championship in 2011 but I guess we'll just see) and I can't wait to see what God has in store for our little family.

Can babies drink Red Bull? Brian

Welcome Aboard

When I was a kid, my dad was an aspiring writer who focused mostly on science fiction but dabbled in lots of subjects. I remember going to his Writer's Club meetings and listening as he and his friends discussed the books/stories/whatever they'd been working on. As such, I came by whatever talent I have as a writer quite naturally. I was a very smart kid (everyone caught up to me by 6th grade but I dominated elementary school academics like a boss) with an active imagination and a love of story telling and as a result I started writing at a very early age. Over the years I have gone through periods during which I did not write anything that wasn't related to school but I always found my way back eventually and this proclivity took on a new life when these things called "blogs" became a major part of our society. Over the last three years, virtually all of my writing has been dedicated toward film criticism. I've written somewhere around 300 reviews in that time at my site (The Soap Box Office) in addition to a number of lists, news pieces, etc. all pertaining to the world of cinema. Recently, though, my desire to write reviews and such has begun to wane and I've found myself contemplating bringing my run to an end. I wouldn't want to quit writing altogether, however, and film criticism is such a convenient field to write about. In fact, that's the real reason (beyond my love for film) I started The Soap Box Office in the first place: it served as a purpose, as inspiration. Before I got into the review business, I wrote when the feeling struck me and while I always enjoyed writing about life or whatever crossed my mind, there were plenty of days and even weeks where nothing sprung up that desperately needed to be written about. With film criticism, there's always something to write about. Five new movies hit theaters every week, big news comes down the pipes every hour, and major trailers drop every couple of days, not to mention the scores of films that have existed for years but have evaded my attention. There's never a lack of content that needs your attention in the film criticism game and that makes for prolific writing if you want to take it on.

(By the way it should be noted that despite my frequent use of the term "film criticism" I hold no grand illusions about my place in the film world. My little site brought in, like, 100 hits a day most of the time and that makes me perhaps the 1 millionth-rated movie blogger in the world. I'm cool with my place in things.)

But now I do, in fact, have something to write about. Later this week, my wife and I will welcome our first child into this world and I can't even begin to fathom how much more interesting my every day life is going to be now that this kid is involved in everything. I now have a built in platform from which to write and this life change has given me an out to set film criticism aside in favor of this new adventure we're about to embark on.

Now, what sets this site apart from the literal millions of other parent-related blogs out there? Probably nothing. Again, I have no pretense concerning my place in the digital space. But, at the risk of sounding brash, I'm a pretty solid writer if I do say so myself and I'm a relatively funny dude (or so people lead me to believe). Also, having spent a bit of time looking around the parenting blogosphere, I feel like there's a decisive lack of male voices in this field and by golly, I'll do my best to fill that gap.

What you can expect from Can Babies Drink Red Bull is a (hopefully) humorous take on parenting from a personal perspective, written in a semi-professional, cohesive manner that will put all other parenting blogs to shame, huzzah! (No, I'm kidding about that last part; this'll probably be fairly mediocre.) The idea here is to tackle the big questions about parenting, such as the site title and "Can my insane beagle babysit this kid so I can go to a movie?", in a sort-of funny way as I attempt to overcome my baby stupidity (this lack of knowledge CANNOT be overstated) and keep from screwing this kid up too badly. I also plan to touch on life events as well as film, sports, and other pop culture-related topics as I see fit, partly because I'm just not ready to set that side of my writing aside entirely and partly because IT'S MY BLOG AND I'LL DO WHATEVER I WANT.

Here's what I need from you: if you're here and you're reading this or any future posts, join in the conversation. I can't stress that enough. Insecure bloggers like myself feed off of your comments and interactions. It's what keeps us going. You get coffee in the morning, Emperor Palpatine draws his energy from Jedis coming over to the Dark Side (this will not the be last Star Wars reference you see on this site), and I feed off of your comments. So join in. Subscribe to the mailing list (sidebar on the right) so that A.) You're always aware of what's happening here and B.) I can stop posting my stuff to Facebook and annoying all of my friends who want nothing to do with this. If you really like something, then share it. Facebook, Twitter, whatever the heck Reddit is, etc. Let people know about this place even if the main reason for doing so is so that you and your friends can make fun of me together. I'm cool with that. Just engage with this site in some way if you enjoy what I'm doing.

Thanks so much for stopping by and I hope to see you around here in the future!

This kid better like Star Wars, Brian