If you’ll be in or around Kansas City on July 24, 2010 come out to Take Five Coffee + Bar in Leawood, KS to enjoy a tale, a drink, and a snack!
My performance will begin at 3pm and last until 4pm. Join us for one tale or all!
This is a family friendly event. Please be encouraged to bring yourself and any kids you happen to know (parental permission is a plus).
For more information on Take Five Coffee + Bar events, visit their Facebook fan page!
Photo From http://whatscookingamerica.net
It’s been said that children have as much to teach their parents as parents have to teach them. Such being the case, our little blueberry (currently the size of a lime) is already teaching me a thing or two.
In this case, primarily, I’ve learned a few things about what it means to be a husband, a man, and a selfless father. Still new to marriage, I’m on a continuing journey to seek quality time for and with my wife, service with a smile, and to control my… playfulness… when she just doesn’t want to be touched.
First things first, I love my wife. I want to place her needs and emotions above my own. I’m also a bit of a sensitive fella, not the battle-hardened road warrior of today’s emotionally disconnected male. Nope, I think with my heart – which I hope makes me a better husband, a better father-to-be and a better writer / storyteller.
To compound this, my primary love language is Touch. When she plays with my beard or musses my hair, I fall into emotional bliss. I’m completely comfortable with hugging and back scratches and tickling and cuddling and public displays of affection. My secondary love language is Gift Giving. Put them together and you have a mixture for joy or moodiness. Joy when my gift of touch is perceived (by me) as accepted and moodiness when it’s not.
With that in mind, I find it difficult to not take things personal when she just got done retching for the sixth time on any given day but I suddenly want to get a little frisky. This is where there’s a head-to-heart disconnect. My head and heart for her say, “It’s not you, Ryan. She’s having a rough go of it right now, aim for more sensitivity and helping her feel comfortable. She needs to know you’re here for her.” My heart for my self is saying, “Again with the no? What am I doing wrong?” It’s a tearing. On one hand, I love that she trusts me to share what she’s feeling and to know I’m going to respond to her appropriately. On the other hand, what I’m feeling is rejection.
I know, I know: real men don’t respond this way. Well, wrong. The only difference between these “real men” and me is that I’m willing to put my emotions into words instead of burying them or shucking it all out the window to get what I want. Like I said, the lesson is selflessness. I love my wife, therefore, I put her above my self. I love our someday-child, therefore, I put it above my self. Before marriage, I occasionally had opportunities to be selfless, but nothing teaches this virtue more than marriage, pregnancy and family.
I try to keep a correct perspective, try to remember her perspective. But it’s difficult. First of all, it’s not truly possible for a man to empathize with a woman. Not in this. I just don’t and can’t understand everything going through her mind and body. I want to help. I want to ease her struggle. I want to be selfless. But I’m also powerless. I can’t make the morning sickness disappear. I can’t relate and because I can’t relate, I feel isolated from her. I feel like a bystander having to watch the one person I love the most in this world endure pain. I understand the third trimester is physically difficult too, but at least I’ll be able to do more to ease her struggle and increase her comfort.
As it is, the best I’ve found is making midnight runs to the grocery store for crackers and ginger ale. Both of which, at times, have actually encouraged the retching of morning sickness. Ginger ale, meet the fail whale, thank you very much. Even those minor band aids only bring temporary relief, if any at all.
As we enter the 11th week, respite is on the horizon. In a few weeks, we’ll enter the second trimester dubbed “the easy, fun trimester”. I love my wife. I love our baby-to-be. I’m thankful that, while I may be sensitive, I know enough about myself to recognize my sensitivity and to not let it dominate. Otherwise, I probably wouldn’t learn the lesson at all.
There is nothing so foreign to a man as a woman’s health clinic.
Recently, my wife and I attended our first visit to ask appropriate questions, check on her health, and execute the initial round of blood tests. This particular health clinic is marketed as a birthing center. We expected to see rushing doctors, sweaty, urgent mothers-to-be, and men slapping backs and passing out cigars. I had considered bringing my pipe along just in case an opportunity to join in their revelry arose.
We nervously rode the elevator to the fourth floor. The doors opened to reveal walls of glistening white and blue, pictures of strong confident women with their babies. She approached the desk. I hung back. I had no idea (and still don’t) what questions to ask or information to give. The only information relevant to me at this moment was my name, rank and serial number. That is: Ryan Rosser, Scared Expectant Father, Two Bowls of Raisin Bran.
After check-in, she made a beeline to the restroom with donation cup in hand. I took the opportunity to soak in my surroundings. There were no rushing doctors, birthing mothers, or joyous fathers. In fact, there was only one other man and he looked miserable. I began to feel a little unwelcome. My eyes glanced from side-to-side, noting hues of pink and chartreuse and nurses smiling a little too matronly at me. I checked behind me to make certain I was, indeed, sitting in the “Men Allowed” area.
I breathed relief when Sarah returned and her name was called just a few minutes after. I stood to follow her into the inner realms of women’s health, feeling even more awkward. In this place, I had no place, except by my wife’s side where I dutifully stayed. We were led to a typically, tiny room. She sat on the paper sheet-covered bed. I sat on the cramped chair.
We waited.
And waited.
And waited.
The nurse doctor midwife finally came into the room. She immediately began asking fairly personal and feminine questions about my wife’s health history. I’ve had similar experiences before, but none so in-depth or complicated. Most male exams go something like this:
Doctor: “Anything wrong in the past?”
Me: “No allergies. Hernia surgery. Gallbladder surgery. Good beard.”
Doctor: “Done. You seem to have contracted awesome-itis.”
It ends with a high-five.
After the rapid question/answer period, she bade my wife to lie down and put her feet in stirrups. My chair suddenly found its way towards my wife’s head. This was not an exam I felt privy to explore. Honestly, I felt sorry for my wife. While I understand the health reasons behind the examination, it just seemed invasive.
Exam over. Blood work completed. We made our way home. I felt a rush of testosterone once I was finally behind the wheel again. It was an interesting experience, but not one we’re likely to repeat. For our child, we want something more caring and less clinical. Soon, we’re going to meet with a different midwife who works in a home-themed birthing center. Hopefully, we’ll feel more like a welcomed expecting couple and less like a pregnant woman with her intruding man.
My wife and I are careening into our 8th week of pregnancy. It seems like just yesterday our little pinto bean was the size of a sweet pea! Life changes as life grows. One of the biggest changes for this dad-to-be has been the R-word.
Responsibility.
For example: The number of pets I’ve owned since leaving home at 18 equals roughly zero. I’ve taken care of some animals for brief spurts since then, but none held any emotional spark for me or me for them. Since marriage (a whoppin’ three months ago), I’ve become the proud owner of two cats. With that in mind, I’ve had to acclimate myself to a few things.
On their own, the cats are fine, but when combined with the litter box… well, let’s just say I’ve taken to shouting, “CATS!” like it’s a four-letter word. And yes, I realize “CATS” is a four-letter word – but you get the picture.
“Cat” words have begun to take on new and disturbing definitions to me.
Catastrophe (n) an event which invokes the prophesied Catpocalypse.
Catatonic (n) an alcoholic beverage that, once imbibed, encourages meowing and purring and post-scratching. (See: Gin and Tonic)
Catagenesis (n) an allergy-free time before the dawn of cats.
Catalog (n) what a cat leaves in the litter box.
What does all this have to do with responsibility? Ever since Sarah became pregnant, her our cats have become more of my responsibility. Before the pregnancy, I’d feed them to be nice and helpful, but I rarely changed the litter box. It just wasn’t something I was in the habit of thinking about and Sarah seemed perfectly content doing the chore alone.
However, it’s a known fact that cat byproducts left behind in the litter box can create an infection known as Toxoplasmosis. Apparently, Toxoplasmosis can be contracted by eating raw meats and/or shoveling used kitty litter.
To avoid Toxoplasmosis and further endangering our unborn child to deformities (such as long whiskers, pointy ears, and a snaggle tooth) the cats and their litter have become my responsibility. And that’s fine. It really is. If cleaning the cat litter box in the morning and before bed is my greatest concern during our pregnancy, I’d say I have it pretty easy. She, on the other hand, has to cope with nausea, exhaustion, cramps, and a craving for Sonic grape slushies.
