& a lesson in manhood: we’re past this already

I got into doing this bloggy thing for a couple reasons, as I mentioned in my first post. Chief among them was to potentially help the guys who came behind me and had hit the my-wife-is-pregnant-so-what’s-my-job-in-all-this point. Mostly because a lot of the stuff I’d been told had been trite and stupid. More on this in a bit.

Second, I wanted to have the opportunity to interact with people who had gone through, or were currently going through, the same stuff. I thought it would be cool to talk to other dads and get some real tips so I don’t screw Squatch up too bad. What I’ve found, however, is that while the dad blogs aren’t lacking in quality (there’s a list of some good ones on the right side there), the mommy blogs definitely get the W when it comes to quantity. Not even close. Some of my favorites are over to the side there, as well.

One of the coolest moms-in-process on the internet is Emily over at The Waiting. I delve into the bloggy-verse and it delivers my Sister from Another Mister. (Go ahead and read her site. I’ll be here when you get back.) And a recent post of hers delivered this gem from a free magazine the doctor gave her:

Click the picture to read the table and lose a few IQ points.

My first thought was that Jonathan Whitbourne a) never had a kid, or b) if he has, then he’s a character from a sitcom (you know—the goofy-caveman-with-a-hot-wife type). Whitbourne apparently thinks we’re all man-children with a laugh track, which is exactly why I took to the internet to find other competent people capable of polysyllabic thinking in order to get better advice. And if you’ve read Emily’s post (which you have, because you wouldn’t be insulting me by reading this far without it), then you saw her say:

It makes me sad that Whitbourne is going to be able to add this gem to his CV when there are a number of legitimately funny, original pregnancy posts written by male bloggers I follow that could just as easily be formatted to fit on that last page.

Challenge accepted. Well—I’m not going to reformat a previous post. I’m just going to fix this idiot’s list. And to do that I’ll need:

Lessons in Manhood

Lesson 5: What He’s Really Thinking—For Real

Squatch, there’s no reason to buy any of that “clueless man” garbage. Yes, some people do actually live like stereotypes. But you don’t need to pay attention to them. Honestly, we’ve moved on from this. The remainder of the Manhood diaspora has a wide range of reactions to their pregnant significant others. There’s no one way to fix that idiotic and insulting list, but a general rule is that a Man actually means what he says (more on that in a later lesson). But I suppose that wouldn’t be so fun to read. The next best thing is to just insert what I—a non-caveman—would be thinking. So let’s fix Mr. Whitbourne’s worldview a little bit, shall we?

WHAT HE’S REALLY THINKING

He says: “You’re pregnant? That’s awesome!”

He means: “Not that the trying part wasn’t incredibly fun, but I’m not that young anymore and a dude’s gotta rehydrate every once in a while. That’s awesome! And how about…oh, you want McDonalds? Right now? Sure.”

He says: “Sure, if it’s a boy, we can think of naming him after your Uncle Eggbert.”

This is stupid. Nobody’s named Eggbert. And anybody who would name their kid Eggbert deserves a punch in the taint. Not because it wouldn’t make a good football player name (if Dick Butkus can turn out to be a good football player, any name can), but because kids are mean and cruel and anyone named Eggbert wouldn’t make it out of the third grade. NEXT!

He says: “I guess you’re right. A minivan is the most practical option.”

He means: “I’m confident with the size and functionality of my penis. What’s the MPG on the Honda Odyssey?”

He says: “It’s never too early to start saving for college, so let’s look into a 529 plan.”

He means: “This is kid is either going to college or getting a job after high school. It’ll be about time we got our office back.”

He says: “Yes, I’ll be in the delivery room the whole time holding your hand and looking into your beautiful eyes.”

He means: “I know you told me that if you can’t eat anything in the delivery room, then I can’t eat anything the whole time either. But if I slip away to ‘hit the little boys room,’ I’m really scarfing a hamburger. Please don’t hate me.”

He says: “It’s a girl! I can’t wait to start spoiling my little princess.”

He means: “I can’t conceive of girls as anything other than gender stereotypes, so I’m going to do everything I can to perpetuate them. I hope she grows up to be a stripper with daddy issues.”

He says: “I love our baby so much it hurts.”

He means: “I can’t speak in anything but meaningless clichés, so my feelings for this child come out in drivel that fourteen-year-old girls scribble on their bedroom mirrors.”

Now, let’s cover some that Whitbourne missed.

He says: “This little [insert baby thing] is pretty cool.”

He means: “I could totally make that. With your permission. And a new scroll saw.”

He says: “You can feel it kicking? That’s pretty awesome.”

He means: “I’m glad you’re going through this and not me, because I freak out when Chipotle gives me indigestion. I can only imagine what I’d do if the burrito started working my ribs like Tom Hanks and Robert Loggia on a floor piano.”

He says: “Look at that woman over there. Do you think she has to wear one of those ‘Oversize Load’ signs when she walks down the hallway?”

He means: “I love you.”

He says: “I started a blog about this whole pregnancy and baby thing. You should read it.”

He means: “This whole thing still almost doesn’t feel real, and I want to feel like I’m actually doing something in this process, so I’m going to make the whole internet think I’m more involved than I am. But mostly it’ll be crude jokes and making fun at your expense. You should read it.”

He says: “I can’t wait till this is over and the baby is here.”

He means: “I’m really looking forward to eating Mexican food around you again.”

He says: “You’ve gained how much weight since your last doctor’s appointment?”

He means: “Remember ten years ago when I taught you how to throw a punch? Worst mistake of my life. Not in the face, not in the face!”

He says: “This pregnancy stuff seems a lot easier than everyone makes it out to be.”

He means: “I have no clue. Oh, and this pregnancy magazine asked me to write a filler fluff piece for the back of their little ad rag. Pretty cool, huh? I’m going to go scour Hulu for sitcom reruns to get ideas while you put this crib together, okay?”

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& some quickies

Some quick things since it’s been a hectic week. Plus, my dad and stepmom are in town visiting, so I don’t have a bunch of time. Plus-plus, I haven’t really come up with a full-length post for any of these.


Things you start to miss in a crappy apartment in the middle of nowhere:

  1. Washer and dryer
  2. Dishwasher
  3. Garbage disposal
  4. Chipotle
  5. An actual yard
  6. Storage space
  7. The stuff you had to get rid of because of a lack of storage space
  8. Real, non-linoleum flooring
  9. Real, non-fluorescent lighting
  10. Not feeling like you live in a mental hospital because of the lighting and flooring

These things kind of struck me this week as we cleaned the place for my parents’ arrival. Well, they strike me all the time, but they seemed especially glaring this week. Of course, it’s not all bad. There are some benefits to it:

  1. Cheap

Okay, so I’m still trying to come up with more, but at least I’m starting that list. I’m a glass-half-full kinda guy.


While my dad and stepmom are in town, we’re planning to go out and buy a crib. That means the Squatch Den is starting to come together more. We rented a storage unit and cleared the room out last week. Now it’s just a matter of filling it back up with some SquatchGear™. Still, I think it seems a lot more real to Karli at this point than it does to me. She’s starting to feel it move around a little (she says it feels like pop rocks in her stomach), but to me it still seems like this theoretical baby. I’m pretty sure that’ll change though. I have a feeling I’ll consider it a lot more than theoretical when it’s producing biological weapons out its ass.


Despite venting yesterday, Karli’s student still pisses me off. We’ll see how her class goes today. Especially after he got a 3% on their test Wednesday. I wasn’t lying about that idiot thing. Who fails a graphic design class?


Earlier this week, we did some 16-week “Bump pictures.” Yeah, I know. She just had me go snap some in the photo studio here at school before work in front of the crappy backdrop. I just had to share one of the test shots we did when we were setting up the lighting.

And just to be fair to Karli, since I put a picture of her up on the internet, here’s one of me from when she was testing lighting on a different day.

& a lesson in manhood: shut your facehole

I know I just did a Lesson in Manhood post, but I just had to get this one out. Sorry.


Lessons in Manhood

Lesson 4: Think before you speak, especially if you’re an idiot

Squatch, this one’s not for you. Dad just needs to vent on this one, and noticed a particular young man who could use a Lesson in Manhood. So—earmuffs.

To the student athlete who, yesterday, called my wife a bitch:

First of all, my wife is your teacher; you are her student. There was no need to get personal. But you want to make it personal, fine—we’ll get personal. You and your teammate/friend were caught trying to cheat by putting your names on other students’ work when it was painfully obvious that you didn’t do it. Why is it obvious? Well, student athlete, it’s because you’re an idiot.

So you were caught. You should’ve expected it. But you didn’t because, as mentioned before, you’re an idiot. And now, as you walk out the door after being told you’re not getting credit for the assignment (which is generous because, technically, that being plagiarism, you could’ve just failed the course), you call your teacher a bitch. So not only are you an idiot, you’re a coward, too.

I understand. You think you’re the man. You’re the king around here. The star of the team. BMOC. So if you say someone’s a bitch, then it should only logically follow that they are, in fact, a bitch. Right?

Well, let’s lay aside the fact that calling a woman a bitch is misogynistic and chauvinistic (big words, I know—look ’em up). I wish your mom would’ve taught you better than that. We’ll just put that whole issue to the side and focus on you for a second, student athlete.

It’s easy to call her that now. But let’s wait a few years. Then I’ll come on down to the Chili’s where you work, where you’re two years into your thriving busboy career because you flunked out of college and were too stupid to get a job anywhere else. Then we’ll see exactly who in this situation is the bitch, when nobody gives a purple shit about how much of a basketball star you were at community college in the middle of nowhere, Oklahoma. You know the college—the one you’re going to flunk out of.

Think I’m wrong, student athlete? Then I welcome you to prove me wrong. Till that point, I’ll continue with my assumption, and you should probably shut your fucking idiot facehole.

Hugs and kisses,
Mr. Sasquatch

P.S.—I’m letting it slide this time, but do it again and you’ll be gumming your cafeteria food.

& a step toward the modern world

For the past few weeks, we’d be lying in bed and Karli would say something along the lines of “I wish you would get on this.” I—being the red-blooded man that I am—wouldn’t want to pass up on an invitation like that. Except I’d soon realize she was talking about Pinterest.

Pictures of stuff. And I do what, exactly?

You thought it was going to be that kind of blog post, didn’t you. Don’t be creepy.

So I caved. I’m on the Pinterest now, at the behest of the carrier of my Sasquatch seed. Only, I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m here, now what?

This is where I need the help of my handful of readers. Come find me on Pinterest if you’re there already and show me the way. Because otherwise I’m just drooling over pictures of food.

 

& a lesson in manhood: the greater good

Lessons in Manhood

Lesson 3: Acting in the Name of Manhood

There's not a whole lot of room in here. How'd you miss me, Doc? Did you think I was a hat rack?

Ok, Squatch, I want to talk to you about these doctor visits you keep making us go to. I’m not going to gripe about all the money you’re costing us (or will cost us) going to these leeches—that’s a post for another time. This isn’t really even about doctors, per se. The lesson comes later; just stick with me. You know how much of a blowhard your dad is.

See, the last time your mom and I went to see your maternity doctor, I got a little bent out of shape afterward. First of all, the waiting room of that place is a zoo. At one point, Karli leaned over and whispered, “I feel like I landed right in the middle of an episode of Teen Mom.” Yeah—you owe us, Squatch.

But the waiting room wasn’t what I got my panties in a twist about. It was the doctor. Your mom managed to rescue me from the zoo by getting them to let me back in the exam room. I guess they don’t get a lot of that. And when the doctor came in, he was very helpful in answering Karli’s questions, and he made the whole thing as quick and painless as possible.

Only thing was, he didn’t even acknowledge my presence. Not a “hi,” not a “Good morning, Mr. Sasquatch,” not even a terse nod in my direction as he walked in. Barely even looked at me. I got the feeling he must’ve thought I was the cab driver or something.

Now I understand that I wasn’t the center of attention there. We were there for you and your mom. But you can at least recognize the other person in the room, right? And I was actually warned about this by some of those parenthood/fatherhood books—that a lot of doctors don’t acknowledge dads in the room. It’s just common courtesy, y’know?

That’s not the lesson we’re here for today, however. The lesson today is that fathers—as a group, as a class, as a societal unit—have earned that exam room snub. Because a great many fathers throughout our culture’s history, and in present day America, have not acted like Men.

Of course, it doesn’t take much to be a father—just a working weiner (see Lesson 1). Which means there are a lot of irresponsible asshats making babies. It absolutely isn’t just men who are asshats making babies—it’s just as easy for a woman to be a baby-making asshat—but this is Lessons in Manhood here, so that’s who we’re focusing on. And asshats, whether making babies or not, can do a whole lot of damage.

I’m not a business expert by any means, but I do know this: bad word-of-mouth is exponentially more influential than good word-of-mouth. A bad experience will get spread further an faster than any good experience will. Which means any negative will need to be countered by about a thousand positives. Same thing goes for Men. For every douchebag who abandons his family or beats his wife or buys a Kings of Leon album or molests a child, there needs to be at least 1000 good Men to counteract that. And simply looking around that waiting room at the doctor’s office, that ain’t happening.

"Honor: If you need it defined, you don't have it." -Ron Swanson

The terrible people aren’t in the majority, Squatch. But they’re still winning. It’s just a sheer numbers game, and there’s simply no way for the good Men to keep up. It doesn’t mean that they stop trying.

Wanting to be a good Man is a step in the right direction. Good intentions play a big role in being a good Man. These are the people to associate with, Squatch*. Find good Men who know what it means to do the right thing. Learn from them—not just practical skills, but also how to fight the good fight. They’re doing it for all good Men, everywhere.

*And if you’re into dudes, then find yourself a good Man. It’s not as hard as some people make it out to be. There are more of them than there are douchebags. And they tend to congregate.

This probably should have been the first lesson, but it’s better late than never. With any luck, by the time you’re ready to have your own Squatchlet, maybe manhood will have taken a leap forward and the doctor will begin to recognize the Man in the room.