Lucky Fatheritis

Receding hairline? - CHECK

In a former life I was a drug dealer.

Carrie likes to use the term “pharmaceutical representative”, but I think “drug dealer” sounds cooler than “I used to promote women’s healthcare products”. Oh, by the way, it’s required that you read that last quote in a “nerd” voice. Now what’s funny about slanging (prescription) drugs is that marketing and management brainwash the heck out of their sales reps. I remember when we launched the product, Femring, and we were flown out to Orlando to learn about the drug and disease state. It was the third day of training when I realized that I had just drunk the kool-aide. We were studying symptoms and they were running down the list:

Anxiety? – Um yeah. The rumor is you’re fired if you don’t pass the exit exam. (CHECK)
Fatigue? – I’ve been studying my ass off for 3 days straight for fear of being fired. (CHECK)
Sore Joints? – Sitting in a classroom for 10 hours straight. (CHECK)
Irritability? – Irritability? Man, eff you. (CHECK)
Mood Swings? – I can’t stay mad at you. Let’s hug. (CHECK)
Difficulty Concentrating? – I like turtles. (CHECK)
Thinning Hair? – [feels top of head] Oh f-ck. (CHECK)
Flatulence? – All you can eat continental breakfast. (CHECK)

I put down my pen.

I turn to my neighbor and in all seriousness say, “Holy crap, Tom….I‘m going through menopause.”

And for a split second I actually did think, “Call the coroner Tom, cause Aunt Flo is dead”. But the thought quickly passed when Tom said “Dude, if you have hot flashes then the least of your problems is your imaginary inkwell drying up”. And it was true. The joke was on me. I don’t even have an ink well.

I’m telling this story because Carrie never had the luxury of diagnosing herself with an impractical disease. (That’s my polite way of saying that she’s self-diagnosing the heck out of our kid).

It’s not uncommon for Carrie to be reading a book and look up at me and say something like, “Dan, come read this. I think Daphne has [fill in the blank with whatever chapter she’s on]”.

And as a parent you always have to do your due diligence. And we do. It’s just there’s a fine line between being crazy in love with your kid, and just being plain ol’ crazy.

Like the other day Carrie asks me to feel the back of Daphne’s head to determine if it’s flat. After running my hand on the back of her head, I’m like, “it does feel a little flat” (mind you I have no clue how round or flat a baby’s noggin should be). But nevertheless, the thought kind of freaked me out. So I did what any responsible parent would do in this situation: I googled it.

Now I started off by googling “baby flat head”. I was directed to a site and learned that the medical term (i.e. the scarier sounding term) for “baby flat head” is “plagiocephaly”. So when I googled that, I was lead to an article explaining how kids with plagiocephaly can have learning problems later on (do not tell Carrie this). This also leads me to articles about Craniosynostosis and Torticollis. I learned that craniosynostosis can be caused by a genetic defect of the FGFR3 gene, and I learned that Tortiocollis can be caused by a tumor in the base of the skull.

Holy effing sh-t.

So down the rabbit hole I go. If you were viewing just my facial expressions as I searched for “every possible bad thing associated with a flat head”, it must have looked like I was watching clips of the movie “Faces of Death” interspersed with video of historic tragedies like the Hindenburg crashing. In other words, I kinda looked like Carrie while she’s reading her parenting books.

The farther down I go, I’m slowly realizing in absolute horror how fragile our little girl is. I’m thinking that I’m going to have to wrap this kid in bubble wrap until she’s at least seven. But crap, it needs to be BPA free bubble wrap!

I now understand why Carrie is a nervous wreck. And I feel a little guilty cause I’ve only really worried about the good things. Like how cute her smile is, what college she’s going to (Stanford), and what I’m going to wear in the green room as she’s being interviewed on the Tonight Show. All the while Carrie’s over here worrying about what diseases Daphne can catch, if she’s reaching her developmental milestones, and if her poop has the right color, texture, and taste. In other word’s Carrie’s the one doing all the heavy lifting and actually “parenting”. I’m more like “cool uncle-ing”.

As I reach the far regions of the internet and my “disease edition” of six degrees of Kevin Bacon is winding down, I see a particular hyperlink and click it. For a second I get startled. Then I smile.

I then turn to Carrie and say, “according to this, our 3 month year old daughter is going through menopause”.

Carrie frantically scans her book as she replies in all seriousness, “Oh no! Really?” She reaches for her phone as she says, “I need to call the advice nurse.”

Mom willing to do everything in her power to protect her daughter? – (CHECK)

Step 4 of my 57 step plan to meet News 10's Cristina Mendonsa is complete

For those playing along, you owe:

8 sips for "umm..."
2 sips for "um yeah"
1 sip for "yeah"
4 sips for Laughs nervously
5 sips for "Carrie"
6 sips for "my wife"
3 sips for "Daphne"
4 sips for referring to Daphne as "the kid"
24 "milks" for Dan's corny jokes bombing
1 "milk" and a shot of "soda" for the announcers allowing Dan to say "We'll be back after these important messages"
1 "milk" for Daphne pooping

And you just have to take an extra shot cause Daphne f-ing pooped on live TV!

Also you have to take an extra shot cause Guy and Jodie (and yes, I am on a first name basis with the hosts) totally knew that we were using their show as a drinking game.

Don't know what I'm talking about? Check out this post: These Important Messages and watch this video Sacramento & Company Video

These Important Messages

So Daphne and I are totally excited about being interviewed on the morning TV show Sacramento & Company on Monday October 17th. Carrie is all freaking out and trying to find the perfect outfit for Daphne. She’s also trying to calculate the perfect time to feed her so our cute little baby girl won’t be taking loud gaseous dumps on live TV. I on the other hand have more important things to worry about like what to say, how we can use this TV appearance to get Daphne early registration into Stanford, and how to create the WMID game.

Oh wait..."what’s that?" you say.

I’m sorry I can’t hear you over the sound of all the excitement surrounding the WMID game.

Oh…you’re asking what the WMID game is. How cute. Well WMID stands for "World’s Most Inappropriate Drinking Game".

I know what your next question is: “Wait Dan, you aren’t going to drink before the interview, are you?”

Of course not. And I’m offended that you’re even asking. No, the person who will be doing all the drinking is YOU.

Why “World’s Most Inappropriate”? Well let’s run down the list:

Monday: check
9AM: check
Family Friendly Morning Talk Show: check
Subject is a baby blog: double check

Since this is most likely the first and last time I’ll ever be on TV, I need to fulfill one of my life long dreams: to be the subject of a TV based drinking game. I know what you’re thinking, “Dan, I’m not cool enough to drink on a Monday morning”. Well, that’s OK poindexter, cause you can drink and watch it Monday night when they upload the segment on the internet.

Here’s what I’ve come up with so far. You guys have to help me with the final rules.

Take a sip of milk if Dan:
Says “totally”
Says “umm..”
Says "um yeah"
Says "yeah"
Laughs nervously
Says “Carrie”
Says “my wife”
Says “Daphne”
Refers to Daphne as “the kid”

Drink a full milk if:
Daphne poops
Daphne passes gas
The person next to you says “wait, that’s Dan? How’d he get so fat?”
Dan says the name of someone you know
One of Dan's corny jokes bombs
Dan mentions how great the City of Stockton is
Dan mentions the Miracle Mile

Drink a milk and a shot of soda if:
Dan mentions your company
Dan says your name
The announcers allow Dan to say “We’ll be back after these important messages”

Got any cool rules? Leave them in the comments.

Sleepless in Stockton

The plane! The plane!

I was at a cocktail party the other day on a cloud floating around the Disneyland Castle when I ran into an old friend. I hadn’t seen her in a while and I thought that the transcript of the conversation was interesting enough to post on the blog. I saw her from across the room and I immediately walked towards her.

DAN: (jokingly) So are you going to take the blue pill or the red pill?

SLEEP: Wha? Oh (smiles)
DAN: Hey Sleep. How’s it going?
SLEEP: Hi Dan………been a while.
DAN: yeah, how long has it been?
SLEEP: (coldly) Three months.

DAN: I miss you.
SLEEP: I miss you too.
DAN: I feel so refreshed after we hang out. I truly miss our time together.

SLEEP: Well, I’m free after this party. Let’s hang out for 8 hours like we used to.
DAN: I can’t. I’m busy. You know I can’t because of…well, because of…
SLEEP: Because of her.

DAN: Don’t say it like that.
SLEEP: Well, it’s because of her I can only see you for three hour increments.
DAN: Hey, she’s important to me.
SLEEP: And I’m not?

DAN: No. you’re great. I literally can’t live without you. But now I have responsibilities. I’m just not the same person I was three months ago….
SLEEP: No. You’re not.

DAN: Well, we got to hang out at Mark’s bachelor party two weeks ago. The guys made fun of me cause all I did was drink for a little bit and then hang out with you until 3 in the afternoon. You have to admit that was some quality time….
SLEEP: No, I think you have me confused with Passed Out.
DAN: Darn. You’re right. We were only together from noon to 3. I was with Passed Out from 2AM to noon…. I’m sorry. I feel like such an ass right….

SLEEP: Well you should.

DAN: Hey, I wasn’t the one who came to visit me at work! I mean, I was meeting with some big clients. And then you come barging in.
SLEEP: You know better than to have a big lunch before a 2PM meeting with a video presentation. How could I resist visiting you?
DAN: Well I don’t want you at my work. And don’t you ever bob my head down like that again.

SLEEP: You know you can’t resist me. And don’t think that your new friends, Red Bull and Sugar Free Rockstar, are any substitute for what I can do for you.
DAN: Don’t flatter yourself.
SLEEP: Whatever.

DAN: Whatever?! Whatever?! Ok….Does this sound familiar, (gently)hooonnnnkkkk……shhhhooooooo, hooonnnkk…….shhhhooooooo...

SLEEP: What are you doing?

DAN: (progressively getting louder) hoonnkkk....shhhooooo.....hhhoooonnnkkkk….shhooooooo,

SLEEP: Stop it!

DAN: (loud) HOONNNKKKKKKK…….SHHHHOOOOOOO!!!

SLEEP: Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! How dare you. (almost in tears) You didn’t…..

DAN: (coldly) More than half the time. Why do you think I own a Sham-wow and a Ronco Showtime Rotisserie? I can’t be with you and buy those things.

SLEEP: You bastard.

DAN: Wait….I’m sorry. I just get so cranky when I haven’t seen you in awhile.
SLEEP: Well, then ditch everything else and hang out with me.

DAN: I can’t. Don’t get me wrong. I love being with you. You get me. I mean, remember when me, you, and Dreams were flying around Seattle on top of unicorns eating rain drops with Abraham Lincoln, News 10’s Cristina Mendonsa, and Chewbacca?
SLEEP: Yeah, and you kept saying, “I can taste the rainbow!” Yeah. Those were great times.
DAN: The best. But I can’t do that anymore. Well at least at this point in my life. I have other priorities now.

SLEEP: Why can’t I be a priority? Why not me?

DAN: It’s not YOU. It’s ME. You just caught me at a bad time in my life. Any other time and I would be with you every day of my life. You shouldn’t be hanging out with me anyways. You have more important things to do like helping little kids grow, calming tired eyes, and repairing the muscles of my fantasy football players.

SLEEP: But what about us?

DAN: Us? Well...we’ll always have eye boogers.

[A PLANE ENGINE starts in the background: Nyet……Nyet….Nyet………….Wwwaaaaahhhhh…..Wwwwaaaahhhhh]

PLANE CAPTAIN: Mr. Dan, you’re plane sir. Your three hours is up.

SLEEP: I’ll wait for you.
(The couple is speaking loudly now to overcome the plane engine sound)
DAN: What?
SLEEP: I’ll wait for you. I’ll always be here for you. When can we meet again?
DAN: 18 years.
SLEEP: Ok. Where should we meet? The Empire State Building?
DAN: Are you trying to “Sleepless in Seattle” me?
SLEEP: I prefer “An Affair to Remember” but sure, why not?
DAN: The exact place in 18 years where we can meet once again? How about either the Super 8 motel in Palo Alto or the Vagabond Inn in Pasadena?
SLEEP: Palo Alto?! Pasadena?!
DAN: Stanford or Cal-Tech
SLEEP: Ok. Now who’s dreaming….

[DAN gets on the plane and it heads out into the mist]

[ABRAHAM LINCOLN steps in and puts his arm over SLEEP’s shoulders. Both of them are now walking out into the distance]

SLEEP: Zombie Abraham Lincoln, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship…..

ABRAHAM LINCOLN: (in zombie voice) BRRAAAAAINNNNS!!!!

[Heart wipe to black]
End Scene.

Timbuctoo

Hello Comrade. Tell me where the microfilm is.

Raising the kid is like moving in with a beautiful high maintenance super model who can’t speak English, is way out of your league, and isn’t afraid to make a scene in a fancy restaurant. I’m all running around on egg shells all insecure trying to find out what she wants by slowly and softly asking, “do you want something to eat?”, “can I get you a blanket?”, “would you like to sleep?”, “I’m sorry, you can’t smoke in the house”. All the while she’s yelling at me in some eastern European language that I can’t understand. Even when Daphne’s slowly revving up the cry engine it sounds like she’s gently saying “no” in Russian (“nyet”) over and over. She stays up all night and sleeps all day and doesn’t care that I have a regular 8 to 5 job. My home décor is slowly and unconsciously shifting to meet her style palate as I’m constantly buying new gadgets, furniture and gifts to appease her. When we do go out to dinner, I feel like I have to apologize to the other patrons for her behavior. I’m constantly thinking, am I going to screw up this relationship? I should have just named our kid “Nadia” to complete the circle.

But when Carrie left for San Francisco for Faith’s Bachelorette dinner, and she leaves me with five bottles of breast milk (that’s about 15 hours worth), I’m ok with it. I think I’m prepared cause I’ve spent several hours alone with the kid the weekend before. I even say the whole, “Go ahead, have fun, we’ll be fine”, which, unbeknown to me, is the required piece of dialogue in all horror movies that signifies the start of the horror.

So as soon as Mommy drives off, I hear our little Nadia slowly starting the cry engine:

Nyet……………………….nyet…………………………………nyet…………………………….nyet.

15 hours later and the house is a mess. My hair’s askew, I’m exhausted and hungry cause I’ve been consoling the girl the whole time. I make up some random errand that involves me just getting out of the house so when Carrie gets home I hand her the kid and say, “Don’t ask any questions. I love you, but you deal with her”.

And I just drive. And the thought occurs to me that I can just…keep...driving……

I need to clear my head. I turn on my favorite self created Pandora station, “Dan’s kick azz showtunes”. But it’s not working. And it doesn’t help that the first song in the queue is the Miss Saigon song that goes “song played on a solo saxophone”. So basically the world’s saddest song that highlights the world’s saddest musical instrument is playing in the background. The thought of hopelessness floods my body. Without thinking of any subject in particular I ask myself, “what the heck am I going to do”. Gradually the thought creeps in that I’m in way over my head with this baby thing.

I take two deep breaths.

I decide to take an extra breath for good measure and turn up the volume on the radio (Miss Saigon and Chris are done singing the saxophone song).

As I stare out into nothing through my windshield, the Artful Dodger with his Cockney British accent is singing “I’d do anything” from the musical Oliver.



I’m listening to ol’ Dodge and my frown is slowly turning upside down. So when Oliver’s verse comes up I decide to sing along. And mind you, I already know all the words to this friggen song (don’t ask me why) so I’m actually singing and not humming as the words hit my ears.

In the song one of the ladies asks “Would you lace my shoe?, to which I emphatically answer, “Anything”.

She’s not done testing Oliver so she asks, “Paint your face bright blue?”

I say, “Anything!”

“Catch a kangaroo?”

“Anything!!”

“Go to Timbuctoo?”

And this is where I lose it.

I know what the next line is. And I don’t know if it’s the words, the cadence that they’re sung in, that I’m just thinking of the kid, or that I’m just bone-ass tired but when the lady says “Timbuctoo” my eyes are already shrink wrapped in tears. So as I sing the line:

“Annnndddd……..back….again”.

The tear gates open.

Fast forward 30 minutes and 2/5ths a tank of gas later, and I’m belting out Train’s “Hey Soul Sister” with tears streaming down and with the biggest sh-t eating grin on my face.

And after I gently sang the last “toooniiiiiiiiiight” in the song, I turn down the volume and recap the least masculine 30 minutes of my life.

And I’m screwed because of one simple fact:

I’m going to have to apologize to Carrie because our daughter has officially replaced her as the default subject of every love song I hear.

So I make a u-turn at Timbuctoo and head home.
And I realize everything is going to be alright cause I love that little obnoxious muther f-er. And because of that, I’d go anywhere. I’d risk ev’reything. Yes, I’d do anything.

Anything?

Yes, anything for her.

Parents and the Internet: what can go wrong?

I’m now back at work so that means I’m spending less time with the baby and more time with my other baby: the internet.

And I’m on the internet more, not because I have more time on my hands when I’m at work, but rather I now have the use of both hands to log-on to my computer. You try hitting Ctrl-Alt-Delete while holding a baby.

To be honest, if it weren’t for the internet, I would be the worst parent ever; which ironically is something a bad parent would say. I totally have Adult ADHD so reading a baby book is like, well, reading a text book about babies. But for me, searching for baby advice on the internet is akin to solving a puzzle or playing a video game. So when Carrie asks, “why can’t we feed our newborn red meat?” I’m like, “I’m on it!”

What’s funny is I imagine this visual that I look like Hugh Jackman in Swordfish, drinking wine, dancing to cool techno jazz music while “hacking” into the internet for Carrie’s answer. I’m all typing fast on my keyboard, getting red blinking “ACCESS DENIED” screens and yelling out random words like “cypher” and “hydra”. When I finally get the answer I hump the air and pump my fists and slowly turn to Carrie and calmly say, “you can’t feed her a steak sandwich because {insert random answer that contradicts everything else you have ever heard}”, I follow up by saying, “you can thank the ‘hydra’ for that one. Oh, by the way, I'm out of the hacking game"

But seriously, one of my new favorite pastimes is lurking on mommy message boards like babycenter.com and mothering.com.

Although, one question about the mommy-baby internet message boards: how many f-ing initialisms can a group of sheltering suburban mothers come up with? Every other word is an acronym. I mean, reading the forums is like trying to decode a pre-teen’s text messages. Like last time I check the forums on mothering.com, the title of one of the posts, I sh-t you not, was

“I completely AP my DD (16 m/o). MIL let LO CIO!!! What do I do now?!!”

Translation: I raise my 16 month old daughter under the Attached Parenting philosophy. My mother in law lets my baby “Cry it Out” (which is totally counter to the AP). I know exactly what your advice will be and I am looking to a faceless message board for moral support so I can drum up the courage to confront my mother in law. (or something like that)

But to be fair, the majority of people on the boards (including myself) are truly just looking for advice and most of the time they get some good support. For example a good portion of folks on the forums fall into the category of:

Reasonable concerned parents
“Does anyone use a Boppy to prop a baby up while napping? A lot of my friends do it, even though the packaging says not to. We tried it (under close supervision) and it worked wonders in getting our LO (little one) to relax. Just wanted to hear some additional opinions”.

A well thought out, concise post. Thank you Reasonable Concerned Parent. I award you 10 imaginary internet karma points.

But what I actually love is reading through the bad advice. The other half of the forums fall under the next three categories:

Cheerleaders
“Babies love the Boppy!!!!! We use it to prop the LO while my DS takes a nap!! It allows my SO and I to go shopping, watch a movie, and, more importantly, SNUGGLE!!!!! All my GFs do it, so don’t for one second feel any doubt in using the B!!!! You are a strong hard working momma and I applauded you!!! You go, life giver!!!!”

I guess this is what sleep deprivation, microwavable food, and limited adult interaction does to people.

Buzzkills
“I have three friends who know babies that have died using the Boppy in that way. If you and your SO care for your child, then you will burn it. It’s the least that any loving parent would do”.

The Buzzkill’s message history: posts about the “right way” to parent, pleas for others to be decent parents, and product recalls. The world needs buzzkills; just not so many of them.

Braggers (aka: liars)
“regarding the Boppy, does anyone else have the problem of their little one perfectly latching onto the breast, eating without interruption, and then sleeping through the night? I’m just afraid that my child is eating too easily and getting waayy to much sleep”.

I like to imagine that in some alternate universe you can punch people in the face through your laptop screen.

Mint Condition

Check out our cool announcements:
If you don't get the reference, then you must not remember a post I made 4 months ago. And if that's the case, then I don't know if we can be friends: Topps or Upper Deck.


If you think that's cool you should check out our save the dates.

The New Normal

Imagine if you will: a simpler time.

For me that was this past May.

You have a pregnant Carrie on the couch, fully rested and carefully filling out “our” birth plan, ever so forcing me to have an opinion on whether or not I want the “lights lowered when labor begins” or if I want to “touch my baby’s head when it crowns” or if we “want a mirror to view the birth”. But then in the end I was like, “damn lady, it’s not like we’re arguing over the Netflix queue. You’re passing a human being through your vagina; I’m willing to compromise on the mirror thing”.

In the same way Carrie’s nether-regions are still recovering from my daughter’s huge noggin, my brain is still recovering from witnessing the grossest miracle I have observed in my whole life. Because of it, I now have a 4th degree tear of my soul, and there are no amount of stitches that can repair my torn psyche. And if you don’t get the 4th degree tear reference, then consider yourself lucky. Let’s put it this way, with a 4th degree tear you can basically perform “the shocker” with one finger. Luckily, Carrie only has a minor tear, but that’s kinda like saying “we’re going to hit your nut sack with this book rather than with a crowbar”.

And we tried to prepare for the birth. We read books. We watched videos. We did the birth plan thing. All the while, I kept looking at Carrie with a forced smile saying “um, good luck with that”. But really, nothing can prepare a father for childbirth. I felt like I was preparing a boxer to fight Mike Tyson in his prime. You try to be supportive, but in the back of your mind you’re like “I wish I could get in the ring with you, but....um, good luck with that”.

The only way I can describe childbirth (from my perspective) is to try and imagine taking the most constipated, hard, dry, hurtful poop. Take that feeling and now imagine that, rather than passing out a regular size poop, you are pooping out an 7 pound burrito, fully intact.

Part of our preparation for the miracle was taking a birthing class. For my future reference, I’ve marked down some of the differences between the birthing class and what actually happened during the birth of Daphne.



A couple hours after the kid is born Carrie is passed out and I’m holding the baby. I decide to put little Daphne in the clear plastic bassinet at the edge of the room, but suddenly the stupidest question pours over my head:

How the heck do babies sleep?

Do I put her on her back? On her side? Do I keep her wrapped up in a swaddle? Do I hang her upside down like a vampire?

So I’m sitting there in the dark, holding my two hour old baby, thinking that my best option is to just hold her the whole night; totally oblivious to the fact that there’s a registered nurse just outside the door. I’m so sleep deprived yet so determined to stay awake; kicking myself for not knowing the simplest of parenting details. Within three hours of my kid’s life I’ve already f-ked up.

I’m so screwed.

It slowly comes to me that from now on this might be the new normal. That no matter how many books I read or how many mommy-message-boards I peruse, there's going to be a crap load of instances in this kid’s life where I have no idea what the heck I am doing.

And that in these instances sometimes the only recourse is to just stay awake, simply hold my little girl in my arms, and make sure that everything will be alright (even if I have no idea what the heck I'm doing).

As I’m looking at her tiny little face with her mother all passed out in the bed next to us, I realize that I’m alright with that.

I'm going hold this little girl in my arms forever.

And Daphne Makes Three

After waiting over 10 years, I can finally hang this on my wall at work:


And if you don't get the reference then I think you should get off the internet and watch more tv.

I'm serious.....GO!
click here

plusbaby: 7-11-2011

For Carrie and I,
in terms of time, the past 9 months equaled 2.2% of our lives.
In terms of our lives, the product of those 9 months now equals everything
Thanks for reading the blog.
Its been fun.

Guest Post: Married with Children

Two posts in two days? Dang, Dan, you're on fire. Well, not really. Today we have guest writer Maria Precissi on danpluscarrieplusbaby.blogspot.com . Maria is twenty something, carefree, and single so I am forced to hate her. She's funny as heck though, so I asked her to jot down her observations during Carrie and my "couples" baby shower. Thank you to Maria in advance for the large influx of internet traffic due to guys Googleing the search term "racy photos of Maria Precessi" and finding our blog. Also thank you to Kristen-D, Alexis-T, and KC-B for the party.

Married With Children
(an "outsiders" perspective)

Over the weekend I attended a baby-shower bbq for parents-to-be Dan and Carrie. I have attended many a shower for my friends over the past few years. Whether it be wedding or baby, I am no stranger to the party circuit deemed "shower." The couples shower version is always an interesting event, with parents (mothers) chasing young children around, trying to keep them off chairs, tables, out of bushes, and generally out of danger. All while the fathers hang around drinking beer much like in their high school, college, and post college days. It is an interesting thing to watch as an almost 30-something year old woman who is not married and doesn't have said children to run around and chase. So I will outline for you some of the hilarious events that I witnessed on the night of June 18, 2011.

As the party began it was a laid back family atmosphere in the back yard of Mr. and Mrs. Dyke. (And yes, that is their real name. As a matter of fact, when the Mrs. bakes her delicious cupcakes we affectionately call them “Dyke Muffins”). The party was your typical Dockers Commercial: Children excited to see their friends and run around and play, adults equally excited to see friends, have a few cocktails and celebrate the upcoming birth of little miss Natividad.

As dinner was served parents began a strategy of "man-to-man" coverage with their children. Each parent taking a child to sit them down to eat. Only a few had success and most just gave up and let their kids play figuring they'd eat when they're hungry. After dinner the women gathered around the gift table to watch Carrie open all of the adorable goodies she and Dan received. The men retreated to the garage to play typical baby shower games like beer-pong and modified scooter riding. As 8 o'clock drew near the wheels began to slowly loosen for many of the kids. The mom's made their way towards the garage and front yard, their sandals and heels tapping in a couples-only Morse code a message to the dad's: "hey, it's time to go home!". You could actually see the wives struggling to telepathically send messages to their husbands. But alas, Message not received!

Host G-Dyke to the other party goers: "hey, we need a pregnant woman to go on a beer run for us.” As if the only people sober enough to drive were pregnant women. He’d then ask each husband, “are you in for the long haul?” (I think right now is a good time to mention that G-Dyke does not have children.) A few of the brave gathered their children and made that slow and steady walk through the garage and down the driveway. The men, sensing that “last call” was approaching, huddled like football players in a Super Bowl game ready to score with 0:05 seconds left on the clock; desperate to use any points that had accrued to stay just a little bit longer! While the definition of “score” 10 years ago for these guys meant actually leaving a party with a beautiful woman, tonight “score” meant prolonging going home with them. As for the well designed plan that the husbands came up with, I can only compare it to children begging their parents to "stay just a little bit longer pppaaaallllleeeaaasseee!!!" So throughout the night Husbands could be heard whining to their wives:

“But can I just play one more game of beer pong with my friends? I promise I’ll be quick”

All that was missing from the husbands’ part was heavy breathing and grass stains on their clothes. Some men were granted a reprieve, others dragged home, and a select few just continued their partying while disgruntled wives/mothers watched their very tired children wrestle on the grass. One man was even bold enough to walk his wife and child home and then use the excuse of "babe, we forgot her FAVORITE purple sippy cup, I have to go back!" Creative, I must admit.

But the fun didn’t stop there.

One lucky boy was granted permission for the husband equivalent of a sleep over: another couple would drive him home later.

In the classic moment of the night, as his wife and daughters were driving away, and as he waved “good-night”, his wife slowed the car down in front of the house in the same way a south central LA gang member slows down for a drive-by. She rolled down the back window, and the cruelest of all weapons was unleashed. All you could hear was the tiniest, cutest girl voice saying “where’s Daddy? Where’s Daddy? I want Daddy to come home”.

A drive-by to the heart.

I looked at Daddy’s face and it silently screamed, “I’ll be home in an hour, baby. Daddy loves you”.

As the night drew to a close I found myself sitting on the floor of a garage playing caps with 5 grown men and a 4 year old. Caps, a game I never really understood the point of, seemed like a last ditch effort to keep the party going. It didn't last long. I was surprised however, that so many actually did stay for “the long haul”; or what some might call the wee hour of 9:30PM.

My observations, while entertaining, have taught me several things...most of all, parenting is hard! And if/when I am invited to a party similar when I am a parent myself, I am getting a baby-sitter!

Dan's Belly

We just got back from our babymoon to Kauai. It was a lot of fun. The sun was out, the water was warm, but more importantly, I was drinking for two.

We never had a chance to go on a trip after our wedding, so Kauai doubled as our honeymoon and babymoon. As such, all our travel paperwork said “reason for vacation: honeymoon and babymoon”. I might as well have written “shotgun wedding”. So it was kinda awkward when the front desk hands the “newlywed” Carrie a complementary bottle of champagne and she rests it on her belly. Every time we checked-in to pre-booked activities, you could see the questions swimming around in the heads of our Kauai hosts: “should I acknowledge the wedding AND the pregnancy?”, “should I just ignore the fact that this newlywed is 26 weeks preggers”, “should I ask if her father’s shot gun matched the wedding colors?”.

The only unfortunate (although super funny) development was that Carrie’s grand prego-upgrade schemes were constantly getting denied. She got the idea when we went to Cabo and some lady got bumped to 1^st class cause her tank top said “lucky bride”. All throughout the trip Carrie’d try to wear clothes that extenuated her pregnant belly in order to get free stuff and upgrades. Like, when we checked at the airline ticket counter, she pointed to her belly with her eyes as the ticket agent checked her ID. Thank goodness maternity stores don’t have a newlywed section otherwise I would have been sitting on the plane next to a “lucky bride” tank top wearing preggo periodically commenting on how she didn’t know alcohol was free in first class.

What ultimately thwarted my bride’s prego-upgrade scheme was that Kauai is full of prego travelers, or what I like to call Kauai’s official floppy hat wearing designated driver.

I’d say about one third of all couples in Kauai are expecting. Because of this we saw all kinds of bellies.

And then I noticed that Carrie was just as fascinated at checking out the different pregnant bumps as I was. Which I initially thought was awesome because it gave me free rein to gawk at women (which of course I did not do).

And with anything that is awesome while you are married, there was a soul draining downside: Carrie would constantly complain that everyone had a bigger bump than she had. She had bump envy. And she wanted me to suffer though the pain with her.

I’m totally fine with the size of her bump. And as an Asian male, I know that size isn’t everything. So to reassure her, I would point to huge bumps and say, “that one’s waay to big, that one would definitely hurt”. I would also tell Carrie that her bump was “just the perfect size for me. Not too big, not too small”.

Needless to say she wasn’t buying it.

I knew I was getting desperate when I suggested that we should start shopping for an expensive sports car.

And then one morning we were in front of the bathroom mirror getting ready to go to the beach. As I put my hand on Carrie’s stomach, I was reminded that in that small little belly, a little girl who I have never met before is waiting to come out into this huge, big world; and that Carrie and I would have a responsibility to ensure that this tiny girl in Carrie’s little belly would grow up to be a strong, successful, beautiful woman.

A little girl that we would care for, love, and cherish with all our hearts for the rest of our lives.

I then realized that there's nothing small about Carrie’s little belly.

The waiting game 2

I'm going to be honest. I can't wait for it to come out. With its wrinkly little body and soft skin. Skin that has never seen the light of day. So pure, so delicate, so innocent.

I'm of course talking about Carrie's belly button.

I have this unhealthy facination with Carrie's belly. I've heard so much about how a woman's body changes during pregnancy but the only thing that truly mesmerizes me is the fact that her belly button will go from an innie to an outtie.

It is so ready to pop out....and I want to witness it.

I'll sit there for 30 minutes trying to gently pop it out like a zit.

Under her skin

Carrie's boobs are super itchy.

Because of this she's constantly applying moisturizer to them. What's funny is her application technique. I giggle cause it looks exactly how 6th grade Me would describe the best way to pleasure a woman.

Which, for those of you who are imagination-deficient, would focus solely on the boobs and involve rough, un-sexy wax-on/wax-off hand motions.

When Carrie asked me why I was giggling, I told her 11 year old Danny Natividad would totally be turned on right now. After I further explained myself, the conversation morphs into how she thinks I don't find her attractive anymore. After an hour of trying to explain that XX year old Carrie Natividad is the most beautiful women in the world, I come to the realization that either 1) my wife thinks I should be turned on by her wax-on/wax-off boob massaging or 2) mood swings do come back in the 3rd trimester.

Either way, I'm in trouble.

Danny Issues

Ask me anything.

That's what AMA stands for. A few weeks ago Ken Jennings (that guy who won $3 million on Jeopardy) did an AMA on Reddit. He answered questions about Jeopardy, his religion (Mormon), his car (1998 Corolla), and the TV show Perfect Strangers, amongst other random things.

A day later I couldn't deny my throbbing man crush on the 74-time Jeopardy winner. I couldn't get him out of my mind. If there was a Ken Jennings equivalent of Tiger Beat, I would have bought it. I caught myself thinking, "I want to have Ken Jennings baby". No wait....what I meant was:

"I hope my kid grows up to be like that guy".

And with those words still hanging in my brain, I realized my barometer of cool had changed. I might as well start shopping for Bermuda shorts, black socks and Birkenstocks.

If I had been introduced to smart and sassy Ken 6 months ago, instead of thinking "WE MUST BUILD A FILIPINO GIRL VERSION OF KEN JENNINGS", I would have thought, "I'd like to have a beer with that guy" (and yes i realize that he doesn't drink alcohol). Everyone has their internal cool barometer. Carrie's version is what I call "best friends". For example, least year she said, "If Penelope Cruz lived in Stockton, we would totally be best friends".

When I was a kid my barometer of cool was "I wanna grow up to be like him"; from 18 to 30 it was the beer thing; and now when I meet a cool person for the first time, or I'm stalking old friends on facebook, my barometer of cool is undeniably, "I hope my kid grows up to be like that guy/gal".

I guess it just points to my eagerness to meet my daughter and figure out what the little chick is all about. The anticipation is definitely changing the way I view the world. When I hear a feel good story on the news about a teenager I think, "way to go parents!". Six months ago I would have thought, "so when does she turn 18?". Even when I gawk at women, my outlook has changed. Instead of starting at their huge books and senses of humor, I now think things like "whoa, I hope my kid has her complexion". It's like playing this huge game of "Mystery Date" but instead of appropriate outfits to pick out for a possible "Smart" date, "Jock" date, or "the Dud" date; I'm trying to pick out human traits and parenting techniques for my "Mystery" daughter.

I'm constantly trying to figure out what she'll look like and what type of person she'll be. I've combed Wikipedia's list of famous Half Filipinos for images of what she'll look like. I frequently think things like: Will she have Carrie's nose? Will she have my winning personality? Will she have Ken Jennings's wit and trivia knowledge? Carrie has even gotten in on the act. The other day she forced my to shop with her at the Asian supermarket to hunt for mixed raced babies in the hopes of finding one that looks like our future daughter.

But you know what? That's the fun part.

The hard part is trying to find out how to raise a kid. There are so many different opinions. Have you ever considered a co-sleeper? How long you gonna breast feed? Disposable diapers or cloth? Are you gonna eat the placenta? People say it will come naturally, but I'm scared as heck about messing up on the parenting thing. Cause lets face it, the father is the root cause of all women's problems. It sure as shit ain't called "Mommy Issues". I'm just afraid that one well intentioned but misinformed decision will adversely affect her for the rest of her life. "Just keep her off the pole", Chris Rock says. That joke was a whole lot funnier before my wife got knocked up.

One decision that will affect her for the rest of her life, that we need to make soon, is what to name her. With girls it's hard. Do you want something cute and spunky? Or do you want something dignified and strong. Originally I was pulling for the latter. When Carrie suggests a name, i automatically put the word "President" in front. If it sounds intuitive, it makes it to the next round. Think about it, what sounds more natural: "Please rise for President Vanilla Natividad" or "Hey guys get your dollars out cause coming next on the stage, put your hands together for Vanilla Natividad"? Needless to say, "Vanilla" is not on our list of baby names.

When Carrie suggested "Daphne" I decided to google "President Daphne".

First link: "Vice President Daphne named President-Elect" +1 point

Second link: "President Obama appoints Daphne to Advisory Commission on Asian Americans and Pacific Islanders" + 3 points

Third link: "Health care consulting firm names Dahpne to some cool position" +2 points

With such a good google record, I decided to take my chance on Daphne and roll the dice. I then proceeded to google "Stripper Daphne". I closed my eyes and pressed "Search".

Google said "do you mean president Daphne"

My eyes widened.

+100 points

Congratulations the name "Daphne", you've moved on to the next round.

Traits I hope Carrie passes on to the baby #1

Her awesome power of observation.

"All this time I thought the lead character was named 'Neal'.
That changes the whole movie for me."

- Carrie's actual words after I spend an hour explaining why I like the movie "the Matrix".

Baby's first restraining order

Wanna see what has been giving me nightmares the past three nights?

My bachelor buddy, Mr. Harrison Parker gave our yet to be born little girl this present. I'm using "mister" because it'll just look more official when I go to the courthouse and apply for an "in utero" restraining order.

As a public service, I'm releasing his picture to make sure your children stay as far away as possible from "the dude who gives bikinis to infants".

Beware of this smiling asshole:

He's constantly drinking, he doesn't even have a job, and he still lives with his parents. There's no way he's dating my daughter.

"awesome.....just what I wanted"

Sonogram says.....

HAMBURGER

(During the "potty shot" instead of a "turtle head" they found a "hamburger")

In other words, we're having a girl!

So it's settled: Carrie will be the disciplinarian and I'll be the push over. Although I'm preparing myself to resist our little girl's charms and lay down the law. I periodically whisper "you're grounded" into Carrie's belly. So far she's listening.

Upper Deck or Topps

My brother tried to convince me to wait until after the kid was born to find out the gender. He said It would be the "greatest surprise of my life". And he's right. It would have been. But to be honest, I need to find out as soon as possible whether our kid's turkey timer pops up or stays in forever.

You see I have a horrible poker face.

And I'll let you in on a little secret: 9 times out to 10 if you tell me something and in response I raise my eyebrows and softly yell "awesome", whatever you're talking about is in fact "not awesome". You'll know cause I'll have the same look on my face as a 4 year when told to smile for the camera.

I'm generally a nice guy, but if I'm the slightest bit disappointed, you'll know it. I can't hide it. When I was eleven I begged my Mom for a 1989 "Upper Deck" Complete Baseball Card Set. Anyways, a few days before Christmas, I noticed a present underneath the tree that looked eerily like a baseball card set and my excitement grew. So you can imagine my disappointment when I tear open the wrapping paper and f-ing Jose Canseco is staring straight into my face. And he's mocking me from the box of a 1989 "Topps" Baseball Card Set. Muther F-ing TOPPS? Not Donruss. Not Fleer. Certainly not Upper Deck. But Muther F-ing Topps? For a split second I thought there were only two logical explanations for this: 1) my Mom has no idea who the f-ck she gave birth to in 1977; or 2) my Mom knowingly wanted to break my little heart, she in fact knows me better than I know myself, so she hatches a plan using the ol' Upper Deck Trojan Horse and releases the Topps soldiers in order to break my spirits forever. Which is funny cause my Mom's super nice. Anyways, eventually I realize that my Mom made an honest mistake out of love, and that my spoiled ass should be happy regardless (at least she got "baseball card complete set" right), so I tried to play down my displeasure. I raised my eyebrows and fake yelled, "awesome.....baseball cards.....just what I wanted". Unfortunately, my poker face said "Dad's my favorite parent now, lady". What's worse is I could actually see the air deflate from my Mom's face. At the time, that was the worst I had ever felt in my whole life.

But there's a silver lining: after a few months of saving and doing extra chores, I was able to purchase the magical 1989 Upper Deck set. Hoorraayyy!

Its funny cause when Carrie and I first started dating in college, I was so broke but I wanted to impress her by taking her out to a fancy weekend getaway. I saved up some money from my job but I needed a little extra to make sure I could cover the cost of the "jacket required" restaurant that I booked. Looking for some fast cash I went to a baseball card convention and sold the magical 1989 Upper Deck set as well as the rest of my childhood baseball cards and sets I brought that day.

So why am I telling you about my inability to hide my 1989 Christmas disappointment from my Mom?

Because I know (if I don't know the sex of our kid going in) when the baby pops out and the Doc asks me to announce the gender, I'm going to raise my eyebrows and I'm going to fake yell, "awesome.....a girl.....just what I wanted", while the rest of my poker face shows absolute terror. And everyone will know at that moment that my wife gave birth to a bubbly, bouncing 1989 Topps Baseball Card Set.

I know I'm a horrible person for thinking that. But it's true.

While I'm scared shitless about having a baby, I'm more scared shitless about the possibility of raising a girl. Now don't get me wrong, whatever gender our kid turns out to be I'll be happy. It's just yelling "it's a boy" feels more natural to me then yelling "it's a girl".

First of all, if we have a girl, that little chick is going to have me wrapped around her chubby little fingers.

Carrie already jokes that she's going to have to be the disciplinarian if she pops out a chick. Cause let's face it, if we have a girl, she's going to be pretty darn cute. I can say "no" to a little boy. I don't know if I have the willpower to say "no" to a cute little girl.

If we have a girl, I know that I'll be a walking ATM for the next 30 years. Her ATM code will be a voice activated "I love you Dad". What's horrible is that I know it's going to happen, but there is nothing I can do to stop it. I already see it with my friends who have little girls. Those little rugrats are so manipulative. They'll purposely walk around their mothers to get a hug from their fathers. They'll say shit like "daddy....will you marry me?" How can you resist that?

And it's not because I think boys are better or some sexist BS. Its just that for my whole life when I imagined playing with my kid, it always involved doing dude stuff. Not just playing catch and lighting shit on fire, but things like prepping the kid for their first dance or helping the kid get over their first real heartbreak. Cause let's face it, for girls, that's Mommy Territory. If we have a girl, Carrie will be the one who shops with her for her prom dress. Carrie will be the one who helps her plan her wedding. I guess I'd be jealous that our kid and Carrie will have this natural secret society that I can't (and probably shouldn't) be a part of.

Like the first time our kid "reboots her ovarian operating system", Carrie will be the one who takes her to Gunne Sax in San Francisco on a school day to talk about cute boys, traveling pants, and monthly visits from Aunt Flo. I'll be the dude eating top ramen in front of my laptop as my two girls bond over the wonders of woman hood while sharing an ice cream. Let's face it, shit would get real awkward when "Dad" butts in to a conversation about panty shields and tampons with the phrase, "so I hear its game time for the Crimson Tide".

So long story short, I want to learn the gender of our kid early so I can process everything in my own time, boy or girl. This whole post might be about girls but believe me, I could write a whole post dedicated to being scared shitless about having a boy. Cause I do like having nice things. And boys are definitely nature's wrecking ball for nice things. Regardless of gender, at least I know what I'm giving the kid for their eleventh birthday: my most cherished childhood possession, my 1989 Topps Baseball Card Set.

Disclaimer: I started writing this post before we went in for Carrie's ultrasound. I finished this post knowing the gender of out kid. Wanna know what we're having? What type or "scared shitless" am I right now? Stay tuned.

Swings

The other night I slept on the couch. Carrie and I got into a fight and she couldn’t stand to be in the same room as me.

I really don’t blame her. You see, I did the most messed up thing a husband can do.

I kissed another woman.

In Las Vegas.

At Richie’s Bachelor Party.

Which is interesting because the bachelor party is three months in the future.

If you’re doing the math that means I slept on the sofa the other night for something she IMAGINED might happen in three months. And for the record I actually traveled to the future to make sure Future Dan didn’t make a mistake and to warn him of the consequences that his actions will have on his past (I know, it didn’t make sense to him either). Anyways, he just spent the whole weekend playing blackjack and drunkenly repeating, “Roads, Marty? Where we’re going we don’t need roads”.

So I’m slowly learning that to a pregnant woman on the downslope of a mood swing, the “guy who gave her morning sickness” should be held accountable for shit he does in her imagination, for shit he does in her dreams, and for shit that his friends do both real and imagined. And frankly, after what I’ve been through, I’m in no position to disagree.

Now, I’ve been through the swings before. We’ve been together for 10 years and I’ve never slept on the sofa. So this was no premenstrual swing. This was a different breed. It was wearing a cape, had a trusty side kick, and when it wasn’t kicking my ass, it had a secret identity.

But you know, they call them mood swings for a reason.

On the good side of the swings Carrie is like super gay for me.

She’s way clingy and it’s kinda scary. I’ll be on the laptop and get startled cause I suddenly notice that she’s one foot away just staring at me. And she’s smiling. Or I’ll be taking a shower and notice she’s waving “hi” to me from the other side of the glass door.

She’ll constantly call me on the phone to ask how I’m doing or when I’m coming home. And it’s not the, “I want to keep track of your whereabouts” type of call, but rather it’s the, “I genuinely miss you” type of call. That’s pretty scary. If we’re driving in the car she’ll randomly say stuff like “I love you so much”. What’s funny is it sounds like she REALLY means it. Again, scary. She’s a love struck thirteen year old without the self-conscious filter that comes with being thirteen.

But at the end of the day I know not to take anything too personally. Commander Carrie’s forced me to read enough prenatal books for me to realize that. I have to admit that being borderline stalked by your wife is pretty nice. As such, I’ve learned to keep my Clingy Carrie memories in my Swing-bank for retrieval in case she gets upset at me for “sweeping the floor wrong”. However I have to be careful. Having a smile on my face while she’s yelling at me will most likely piss her off.

Bang, Zoom.....Straight to the Moon

“This is probably our last chance for romance”

These were the words Carrie used when she tried to convince me to have a “babymoon”. I use the quotation marks on “babymoon” to emphasize how lame it is. For the uninformed, a “babymoon” is an excuse for pregnant ladies to bother their husbands to spend money on a vacation before popping out the miracle. Basically you’re saying “this little bundle of joy is going be more expensive on a per pound basis then Jay-Z. Let’s spend some of our precious savings on a trip to the Maldives”. Some say that the “babymoon” is when the soft spot is formed.

Originally I thought this was just the travel industry’s way to exploit the guilt of fathers to be. I’m surprised there aren’t advertisements at the doc’s office with somber headlines that read “this chick’s demolishing her lady parts for you. The least you can do is buy a plane ticket and a few non-alcoholic mai tais. It’s uterUS not uterYOU, jackass”. Maybe it’s just the name that makes me think it’s all a marketing gimmick. You can’t just add the word “moon” to something and make it a legit excuse to take a vacation. Although “Opening Round of the NCAA Tournament….Moon” has a nice ring to it.

But then I really started thinking about it. Maybe she’s right. She’s not gonna wanna have “romance” after the baby’s born. We can’t go out for dinner and a movie just the two of us until the kid’s at least twelve. I know for a fact that the baby bjorn isn’t part of the dress code at The AVE on the Mile. Can you take an infant to rock concerts?

Holy shit! This COULD be our last chance for (not only romance but) “EVERYTHING-mance”?

I mean, the closest I’ve ever been to raising a kid is creating a player named Haywood Jablowme on Madden 2010 and that took up a shit-ton of time. I’m assuming raising a kid is at least twice as hard as guiding the Stockton Seaman to the Madden Bowl. But a kid, man? You can’t pause the game on his or her development to play in a beer pong tourney.

But to be honest, I did kinda tear up watching little Haywood lift up the Madden Bowl trophy for the first time. And you know, I did turn down a few opportunities to represent my Beer Pong team, “2 Guys, 1 Cup”, in order to take part in Haywood’s ups and downs. After the little dude’s fourth NFL MVP I caught myself thinking, “They grow up so fast”. I even remember beaming with pride when reciting his stats.

I guess having a kid won’t be that bad. I’ll just have different Bowls to win, other MVP awards to gather, new warp zones to explore, and different achievements to unlock. The adventures Carrie and I had before the kid will just be replaced with new and uncharted adventures. Only this time I won’t be the one vomiting and talking incoherently. And even though I wouldn’t be able to step foot in a movie theater for the next three years, I’ll finally have a subject worthy enough to make home movies about.

So I guess in a roundabout way I’m saying I’m warming up to the whole babymoon idea, but not because it’s going to be “our last chance for romance”. I’m willing to admit that our definition of “romance” will change (shoot, our definition of “life” will change). But I’m hoping the actual presence of romance won’t. Going off on a week-long romantic vacation most likely will not be in our vernacular for the next two years. However, that doesn’t mean that we can’t have a little bit of “romance” while the baby’s napping. And instead of wine glasses we’ll just be drinking out of juice boxes.