The Cynical Optimist

To say that Jamie and I have had a difficult time as of late would be an understatement.

In fact, given the relative ease with which we have shot through our first 22 months of marriage, this would be the understatement of the year.  Luckily, the year is only 11 weeks old.

Be it the stress of putting our condominium on the market and praying it sells before our one bedroom turns into a nursery / love shack (okay, maybe not love shack, but at least a room where we can actually get legitimate sleep), or the stress of a systems conversion at work, or the stress of trying to figure out what to wear to church in the morning, everything seems to draw a negative emotion from one or both of us recently.  Neither of us has seemed able to slowly emerge out of the funk we’ve been in lately, and when we’ve been able to rise out of it for a short amount of time, we’ve emerged a la the Creature From The Blue Lagoon….cranky and a little ugly to the outside world. 

For Jamie, this is entirely abnormal.  Normally happy-go-lucky, to the point where old softball teammates have actually nicknamed her “Happy”, Jamie’s world has been turned around by not quite baby related but still baby related weight gain and the constant pressure of technology conversion she doesn’t entirely understand.  Or want to.  I don’t blame her.  Lately, Jamie has masked her contempt for weight gain by going on an entirely pizza and fast food diet, with the occasional cupcake thrown in.  Thumbing her nose at her rapidly slowing metabolism, she has decided to align herself with the more sinister part of her body, the part controlling pregnancy cravings.  I have, as would any loving husband, encouraged this by gleefully ordering super-sized double Quarter Pounders with cheese and agreeing to the cheese dip on our night out with church friends on Friday night’s Acapulco excursion.  So much for our initial “Jamie, you can’t eat that, it has TRANS FAT” trip to the grocery store.  In the past 2 weeks alone, we’ve introduced enough fast food related toxins and trans fat to our bodies, I believe our arteries have started to revolt.  She has also masked her contempt for forced technology changes at work by, in her words, “putting on a happy face and making the whole thing go the f*&# away.”  Of course, I am the lucky soul who sees the mask hung up on the key ring when I walk in the door. 

I certainly don’t blame her for feeling this way.  I’m sure that being an expectant mother is a magical experience, but worrying about purchasing new pants with 16 inch elastic for waste bands that cover an expanding stomach would probably piss me off to a degree as well.  Add on top of that dealing with Mr. Cynical for a husband, and you have a recipe for disaster (or for fast food and cupcakes).

Speaking of Mr. Cynical, yours truly has reacted as anyone who knows me would expect.  Lately, the stress of selling a piece of property out of necessity has weighed on my mind, especially in this market.  One showing in over two weeks has only added weight.  This led me to make an ill-advised comment on “how we didn’t think this through very clearly.”  Now, to whoever may read this, be more clear when you posit “thinking this through clearly.”  This will elicit the kind of response you would expect from a pregnant woman who believes you are questioning the conceiving of a child.  This is a mistake I have learned from, through experience, and believe me, learn from my mistake.  I of course meant selling the condo, buying a house and having that secure well before now.  Unfortunately, this was as I said ill advised.  This, however, has been indicative of how I have felt lately.  The normal giddiness of soon being a daddy has given way to the real world trials of actually being a daddy.  And there’s no baby here yet. 

This could just be a function of the company we have kept lately.  The first trimester was filled with friends who gushed over parenthood and detailed all of the wonderful things (save all the puking) of having a child.  Trimester two began with a well-meaning couple slightly raining on our parade by explaining how much life will change once the baby comes.  As if I expected life to continue to exist in a one-bedroom condo with a fully stocked wine cabinet from a $200 liquor store trip.  This put a damper on prenatal life for me.  I have always expected life to “change,” but the empathetic way this was explained to us struck a nerve.  Maybe having a baby isn’t going to be all laugh inducing belly kisses and airplane rides.  Maybe there is something a little more sinister at hand…

Often being simple minded, I have allowed this type of negative thinking to seep into my prenatal bliss.  In addition to worrying about the condo and buying a place large enough for our expanding family, I have also begun worrying about parenting.  To be honest, I haven’t thought too terribly much about actual parenting.  Most of what I have concerned myself with over the past 3 months has been superficial at best, and greedy at worst.  I haven’t allowed myself to think beyond the joy of Baby Sink’s arrival and actually think about Baby Sink.  As I tend to do, I’m likely getting WAY ahead of myself here, and should just enjoy prenatal life.  Unfortunately, lately I have insisted on weighing the true cost of a convenience store purchase against Baby Sink’s college fund.  I guess this is what happens when I insist on getting ahead of myself.

Jamie posed the not so rhetorical question:  “Why can’t you just trust in God?”  And she’s entirely correct.  Why can’t I?  I guess that my sin rears its ugly head, even in the most joyful of experiences.  This certainly doesn’t justify my cynicism as of late.  If anything, it’s more sinful than normal (although, likely equally sinful). 

I have many responsibilities.  For instance, one of my present responsibilities is to cut out all the pathetic cynicism and sympathize with my wife, either with a gentle hug when a pair of pants no longer fits or scarfing down faux hamburgers from McDonalds.  One of my present and future responsibilities is to enjoy and thank God for what He has blessed me with, and not insist on agonizing over each little trial I am put through.  And one of my future responsibilities is to raise my child to the best of my ability with God’s help. 

None of my responsibilities involve constant worry over selling a condo. 

Much like there are stages in other life events, there seem to be three stages in proof of pregnancy:

Stage 1:  Plastic Proof – This is the stage where husbands receive phone calls during a guy’s weekend alerting him to the positive pee test.  It is in this stage where both parents are in prenatal heaven.  They are aware that God has blessed both with the conceiving of a child, but nothing truly feels real.  There may be a number of physical signs that the pregnancy is in fact real, like headaches, nausea and/or vomiting, and general crankiness towards the husband on his guy’s weekend.  However, the pregnancy is at a stage where both parents are firmly rooted in la-la land, and while real, the pregnancy just doesn’t seem quite real. 

Stage 2:  Audio Proof – There is something growing inside of mommy, and the first proof outside of the uncomfortable at-home pregnancy test in stage 1 occurs here.  Stage 2 offers the opportunity to actually hear baby’s heart beating, proving not only that he or she exists, but that it takes some work for baby to grow.  Audio proof is a present for mommy following an uncomfortable exam which daddy is not allowed to be within 500 yards of while mommy is undergoing.  Daddies are very thankful they are daddies and not mommies in this stage.

Stage 3:  Visual Proof – Including the physical changes in mommy proving that something just isn’t right, like the balloon growing in mommy’s stomach, thanks to modern technology, actual visual proof of baby’s existence can be witnessed through an ultrasound.  In this stage, the sex of the baby can often be determined as well as whether daddy needs a second job to support the multiple babies found growing inside of mommy. 

So if the impending arrival of Baby Sink didn’t feel real prior to yesterday afternoon’s first true doctor’s appointment, it certainly did after.  We have officially arrived at stage 2.  As we were checking in for our appointment, Jamie reminded me that we are (amazingly) at 12 weeks.  For those counting, that means more than 25% there.  For those not mathematically inclined, that means I freak out a little more now than I did last week.

After checking in (with me sidling up close to Jamie so as not to give the other women in the room the wrong idea….I’ll get over my fear of OB/GYN offices soon enough, I’m sure), we took our seats in the waiting room.  Neither Jamie nor I are comfortable with being in doctors’ offices or doctors’ appointments, let alone excessive waiting in doctors’ offices for doctors’ appointments.  So hopefully Baby Sink will one day forgive us for incessantly complaining about how long we were waiting to see the “stupid doctor”.  We entertained ourselves by debating whether Baby Sink was a boy or a girl, whether Baby Sink will look more like Jamie or me, and exactly why someone would bring their newborn baby into an OB/GYN office without an appointment.  We’re still a little perplexed by the latter.

After waiting over half an hour for an appointment which we arrived 5 minutes late for, we were finally called to the back.  Being the supportive husband I am, I fulfilled my promise to not peek while Jamie was being weighed by the nurse.  Following the pre-fight weigh in, we were ushered to a room the size of my office cubicle for our appointment.  Nothing was unusual up to this point…weigh-in, blood pressure, a few basic questions….and then it was right into “okay Jamie, go ahead and take everything off.” 

Wow.  This was quite the appointment! 

Jamie took her place on the table in the corner of the room. In the opposite corner, much like a trainer for the opposing fighter, I was told to have a seat on a green vinyl covered bench providing just enough room for my rapidly expanding backside (Quick side note:  there is actually an official term for the phenomenon of soon-to-be fathers having typical symptoms of pregnancy.  Couvade Syndrome.  It is an actual syndrome!  Couvade being derived from the French word ‘couver’ which means ‘hatching.’  I have Hatching Syndrome.  Imagine that.)  As an example of the sue-happy country we live in, the nurse reminded us for the fifteenth time that we have the opportunity to complete a series of medical tests to determine if Baby Sink possibly has a variety of physical impairments. We have now declined fifteen times. 

After the initial questions and legal disclosures, the nurse left us in our cramped office waiting for the “stupid doctor” to attend to us.  I have to admit, while this was not officially my appointment, I was as nervous as I would have been had this actually been my appointment.  So I fidgeted and mildly cursed for another 10 minutes waiting for an appointment that was already 50 minutes behind (again, hopefully Baby Sink will forgive me for my impatience). 

Dr. Mattson, a pleasant doctor who Jamie has repeatedly assured me was the best doctor for “that type of appointment” joined us and promptly apologized for being late.  She sat down and gave us a similar spiel as our nurse did five weeks prior.  Following the sixteenth legal disclaimer, Dr. Mattson was ready to begin.  She informed Jamie that she would have to go through some “ickyness” before the real treat; hearing Baby Sink’s heart beat.  Being the impatient soon-to-be parents we are, we chose to attempt to find Baby’s Sink’s little beat first (and then kicking me out of the closet sized room for Jamie’s “ickyness”….luckily Dr. Mattson is of the female persuasion, thus saving Jamie from any male doctors seeing her goodies, making this part of the appointment marginally less unappealing). 

We were warned at our first meeting and yesterday that doctors are not always successful at finding baby’s heartbeat.  Thus, we were prepared for a minor disappointment should Baby Sink decide he or she didn’t want to cooperate.  But, being Jamie’s kid, Baby Sink was fully cooperative.  Within 5 seconds of the goo covered microphone being placed on Jamie’s belly, there it was…Baby Sink.  And man, is Baby Sink working hard.  I should note that we were also informed about how fast a 12 week old baby’s heartbeat was.  This was a train-like sound I’ve never heard before.  Baby Sink was kicking some serious ass in there.  Doc Mattson assured us that 160 beats per minute was not only normal, but it was great for a baby at this stage of the pregnancy.  Jamie and I are both confident that this will parlay into years of being in the 95^th percentile of just about everything; first the heartbeat at 12 weeks, next the SATs.  Harvard, here Baby Sink comes…..

This sound was more beautiful and more intoxicating than just about anything I have ever heard in my entire life.  After the first beat and Jamie’s first “ohhhhh”, my face was beaming, and I know this despite the doctor blocking the mirror on the opposite side of the room.  This was the most unbelievable experience I have ever had the blessing to be a part of.  My child, working overtime in Jamie’s belly.  I felt the tears welling up in my eyes more and more with each “thwump.”  Doc Mattson even seemed genuinely moved by the moment, despite the likelihood of this being her 3,000^th time hearing an unborn baby’s heartbeat.   Nothing could have been finer.

Baby Sink is actually there.  We have stage 2 proof of this.  As with stage 1, life has changed just a little bit.  Yes, I’m a little more panicky, but not about Baby Sink.  We were informed that fully 95% of babies are delivered when the heartbeat is found at 12 weeks.  I’m reassured.  But, with my severe case of Couvade Syndrome, I am less reassured about being a good father.  And I’ll likely continue driving myself nuts with worry until the child is 22 and has graduated cum laude from Harvard. 

All morning, each conversation with whomever I encountered went something like this:

Them:  Good Morning Brian.  How’s it going today?
Me: I heard my baby’s heartbeat!

Poor people.  Not only do I insist on turning every conversation to Baby Sink, but I can’t even give a proper hello anymore. 

We celebrated last night’s achievement with McDonalds.  I also celebrated with a really crappy Merlot.

We’re saving the good stuff for September 12^th……

Kitchy kitchy koo…goo…..goo goo ga ga….this is every single adult conversation I have with every single adult I encounter.

Alright, maybe it’s not that type of baby talk.  But it’s baby talk, nonetheless.  Yes, we have reached the stage in pregnancy known as the “everything discussed must in some way involve the baby”.  It’s that period that nobody talks about between week two of pregnancy and roughly a child’s 3^rd birthday.  Nobody talks about this period because they’re too busy talking about the baby.

Very honestly, over the previous four weeks (give or take what feels like a year), roughly 99.83% of all conversations have revolved around babies.  And this has not been confined to weekday, sitting around the house, with nothing on television chatter.  No, this type of talk has invaded weekend, sitting around trying to have a nice dinner at your friend’s house or trying to play a rousing game of Boxers or Briefs while finishing your third glass of wine time. 

Everything, yes, EVERYTHING must involve the baby.  

This is not a recent phenomenon.  This began shortly after Jamie made the early morning phone call from two time zones to the east informing me that she was with child.  I found that most people who were aware of my impending fatherhood wanted to discuss only one thing:  my impending fatherhood. 

Originally I thought this was simply shock that would soon wear off, returning conversation to its originally scheduled programming, like television, movies, politics, religion, etc.  Alas, it has not.  Continuing since that wonderful day in January, each discussion has found a way to turn from its current topic (if not already about babies) to babies. 

I was caught off guard the first time I found this happening.  It was Jamie’s and my first night out with friends as pre-natal parents (we thought about getting a sitter, but that would have been a little weird for a 12 year old, oh I’m kidding…geez).  Game night over at the Nelson’s typically turn from board games into “let’s chat until our voices hurt and it’s 2 a.m. and holy cow, we’ve got church in the morning.” So the fact that this game night resulted in four sore throats and eight tired eyes the next morning was no surprise.  What was a little surprising to me was the topic of the conversation.  For nearly 5 straight hours, all discussion involved babies.  Most involved baby puke.  Given that the Nelson’s have had three children (and have one on the way) and that Jamie and I are brand new to this, I shouldn’t have been too surprised.  But I was.  Five hours of baby talk.  There must be some sort of record that we broke. 

I blamed it all on Jamie.  See, if Jamie hadn’t been there, then the discussion wouldn’t have been all baby talk.  And besides, maybe that was a one time event.  Maybe the shock of becoming pregnant wears off. 

The real test would be two weekends later and a visit from my parents.  An ‘F’ was given for that test.  As we sat down for Chinese food, wine and board games, it became evident that focusing either Jamie or my mother on anything other than how much Grandbaby Sink will be spoiled and who will have the opportunity to babysit more, Uncle Eric or Grandma, was going to be incredibly difficult.  The record set at the Nelson’s just a few short weeks ago was close to being broken.  I’m proud to say that record remains. 

I blamed that one all on my mother.  See if my mother hadn’t been there, then the discussion wouldn’t have been all baby talk.  And besides, maybe this was only an aftershock, like after a major earthquake.  You know, there has to be some residual baby talk after the initial shock.  Maybe the shock of becoming a grandparent wears off.

The REAL test would be work.  Work has to be a sanctuary against all things baby.  This is work, and we’re being paid to talk about things that help PAY for baby.  Yet, baby talk has invaded even the pale cubicle walls of my office.  Case in point:  a discussion at work the other day.

Co-worker:  So, what’s for lunch today?

Me:  Oh you know, one of those fake “good-for-you” microwave meals.

Co-worker:  Sounds delicious.  So how’s the baby?

Alright.  Maybe I made that conversation up.  But it’s not far from reality.  Even at work baby talk has seeped into most conversations.  While it may not be as dramatic as the faux-conversation above, it’s not that far off.

I blamed all this on my co-workers.  This is their fault.  If it weren’t for them, baby talk wouldn’t have invaded work, and I’d be back to discussing net income before taxes, real estate deals and financial consultant recruiting.  Instead, I’m trying to decipher for others how the volatile stock market will effect Baby Sink’s college fund.  Maybe the shock of your co-worker and sometimes happy hour compadre become a father wears off.

It’s only human nature to place blame on everyone else.

Baby talk, all of it, rests squarely on my shoulders.  If there has been one constant in each of the above, it’s yours truly.  Nobody would talk about Baby Sink if it wasn’t propagated by Daddy Sink.  Truly, this week-by-week view of my prenatal paranoia wouldn’t exist if not for my need to discuss, ad nauseam, my little peanut.  No disgusting puke stories would be told if not for a little prodding from me.  No Grandma Sink vs Uncle Eric babysitting bouts would be instigated if not for me.  No five hour baby talk marathons if not for my stamina. 

Somehow, I’ve found ways to direct everybody else’s conversations with me towards my child.  It’s no surprise that in each of the events described earlier, the conversation was pointed towards Baby Sink.  I have some how become stealthy in turning each conversation towards my child.  Like the incident with the poor woman in the hall of my condominium complex who said hi to me while I was taking down the trash.  She was hit with “Hi!  I’m good.  Yep, just taking down the trash so my pregnant wife can get some sleep.  Oh, you know didn’t know?  Yeah, we’re having a baby….”  Poor woman.

Truthfully, I think that this will wear off.  I love my child more than I could describe, yet I’m becoming a little sick of myself.  Constantly bombarding my friends, co-workers and family with this type of baby talk is going to turn them off.  And besides, this constant baby talk is starting to cut into bombarding my friends, co-workers and family with talk of my hypochondria. 

Or is my hypochondria talk turning them off already?

So my co-worker threw up at work today…..

Anybody that knows me well knows that this is totally unacceptable.  Vomiting is not my thing, whatsoever.  Just the word vomit makes me, well, want to throw up.  Right here.  The television show Jackass was always humorous to me, until Steve O would attempt to eat 50 hard boiled eggs in 50 minutes.  It has always been something that, while a normal function in every person’s life, I avoid like the plague.  (Incidentally, I avoid the plague because I’m afraid it will make me puke)   I’m like Seinfeld; I’ve got an 11 year streak going…that’s right, 11 years.  Twelve years in June….that’s right, I even know I last threw up in June, 12 years ago.  In fact, I can probably recite each of the times I’ve thrown up, in detail, throughout my life.  THAT’S how traumatic that simply momentary, yet involuntary act is for me.  Believe me, there have been the close calls.  There was the Busch Light Classic of 1997.  There was the Flu of 2004 that struck while at work.  And there have been several other false alarms that have been too numerous to count over the past 12 years. 

I guess that this could be considered something of a phobia.  It’s an unfortunate phobia at any rate.  It would be much easier to be deathly afraid of heights.  Seriously, it’s far easier to stay on the ground than it is to avoid each and every miniscule flu causing thing.  Conversely, it’s probably pretty difficult to be a germaphobe….but I digress.

So, while I have been incredibly excited about Baby Sink, one should forgive me if this has sat at the back of my mind.  See, babies throw up.  Some of them I imagine throw up a lot.  This has not been exactly comforting for me.  It must be discomforting for others as well, as every parent I have spoken with has insisted on describing in some detail their favorite child puking story.  There was the catching it in the hands story.  There was the “I was just playing with him and he threw up all over my shirt” story.  And there was the spaghetti story.  All of which eased my mind tremendously. 

Each parent has assured me that this isn’t anything to worry about.  Apparently when it’s your own child expelling their dinner across the living room, it’s delightful.  I guess there is hope then.

One friend of mine with a phobia nearly as dramatic as mine explained it much better (after giving me the “it came right out of her nose” story).  When your child is sick in any way, you stop worrying about how it affects you, and start worrying about your child being okay.  Now THIS makes sense, and I know this will be exactly how it will be for me once Baby Sink is old enough to puke his or her strained peas all over our couch.  And I know this will be okay (because Mommy Sink will clean it up…well, maybe not all the time).  The love of your own child supersedes any stupid fears you may have.  And I can’t wait. 

Already I can tell that my friend is right.  I’m less concerned about my own stupid fears and have instead replaced them with the fear that I’m going to pass along stupid fears to Baby Sink.  Like, is the fear of puking genetic?  There are so many other quirky things that I could pass along to my child, but this I hope is not one of them.  I’ll be prepared though for the nightly “dad, do you think I’ll get sick tonight?” question that I insisted on my own parents answering nightly when I was 8 or 9.  I just hope it doesn’t come to that. 

I’m really hoping Jamie’s genes are dominating in the child forming process.  There are plenty of benign idiosyncrasies that she can pass along.  Like holding conversations with me by shouting from the opposite end of the house.  Or needing some confirmation that you heard her, even when she’s commenting on how ugly some woman’s dress is on TLC’s ‘What Not to Wear.’  Or how she would rather die than let someone else touch her dirty laundry. 

Honestly, I’m sure there are plenty of things that Baby Sink could inherit from me that would be perfectly acceptable.  If child making were only like making dinner, where you had a recipe and could pick the best ingredients, and toss them in the pot, how easy would that be?  A dash of Sink, and a pinch of Jamie, and voila!  Baby Sink!

But it’s not that way, and that’s perfectly okay with me.  I will love Baby Sink regardless of any eccentricity that may be passed along to him or her, or any new ones that come along by themselves.  My child can grow up terrified that they will wake up projectile vomiting in the middle of the night, and that will be just fine.  My child can even wake up projectile vomiting in the middle of the night, and that will be just fine too.  In fact, my child can projectile vomit in the opposite end of the house while shouting at me about how I shouldn’t touch the ugly dress in the dirty laundry that looked like the one on TLC’s ‘What Not To Wear”, and I will be just fine with that as well. 

Well, we’ll set some rules, like no ‘What Not to Wear’ before age 10. 

Well, I guess that if it wasn’t official before, now it’s really official.

Friday, Jamie and I braved morning rush hour traffic to have our first doctor’s appointment.  As we sat on the highway at 7:30 in the morning for close to an hour, I couldn’t help but think what a mistake this was.  No…not having the baby, but choosing a hospital to deliver the little one that could potentially result in wall-to-wall rush hour traffic, just as my wife is ready to have a person expelled from her body.  I worried about several things;  having to deliver my child in the car while typical Minnesota gawkers slowed down even further to sneak a peak of me, sleeves rolled up, and…well, you get the point;  what I’m going to be more upset about, delivering my child in the backseat of our Toyota Camry or being late to the hospital because idiots in Minnesota don’t know how to drive;  what sort of “delivery music” we’ll have in the car should we find ourselves stuck in rush hour on that day…all sorts of random thoughts can go through the prenatal father’s mind on the way to his first doctor’s appointment.

Luckily, my wife wasn’t doing her breathing exercises in the back seat.  Nor was it a real doctor’s appointment.  This was more of a “get-to-know-you” meeting with us and a registered nurse.  A “how do you do,” if you will.  Unfortunately, this cordial meeting with our nurse still took place in the Fridley OB/GYN.  See, this was my first trip in my 30 years of God-given life to the OB/GYN, and I wasn’t quite sure what to expect.  As I took my seat in the waiting room while Jamie signed herself in, I quickly realized that the testosterone level in the room was noticeably skewed toward the low end of the scale.  I guess this I should have expected. But, there is definitely something unsettling about being the only male in the OB/GYN office.  Worried that the other patients waiting in the room might get the wrong idea, I decided to join my wife at the front desk while she checked in.  The relief that rushed over me as I sidled up next to her was intoxicating.

Jamie was also quite relieved, finding out that the stereotypical “woman’s doctor” visit she thought it was going to be was being postponed.  Originally we both thought this was the day.  The first official doctor’s visit that would include all sort of metal objects and me hiding in the waiting room, surrounded by women, my face buried in a book.  Instead, this was a question and answer session that included very little in the way of actual medical procedures, although a pregnancy test was given to Jamie following check-in.   

As we sat down with our nurse, she congratulated us and asked if this was our first child.  Upon finding out this was in fact our first, she dubbed Baby Sink (as we now refer to the little one) “a test baby.”  I wondered how many years of these meetings she’d been using that gem.  Her humor quickly subsided and she proceeded to bombard Jamie with a series of personal and medical history questions.  I suppose I am relieved to know our doctors are worried about whether my wife has been exposed to lead based paint rather than actually painting the walls of the delivery room with lead based paint.  Our nurse asked Jamie, “how have you been feeling lately?”  I took this opportunity to answer for my wife with a humorous “Jamie’s doing fine, but I feel like crap.”  This didn’t elicit the kind of response I would have expected from our comedienne nurse.  The questions continued for the next 45 minutes; from what has Jamie’s diet been like, to what sorts of medical problems Jamie’s grandparents have had, to whether Jamie wears her seat belt.   There was even a concern that Jamie may have been craving or even eating dirt, mud or rocks...or sniffing gasoline.  I wisely decided against a funny retort to this bizarre question.There was even a concern that Jamie may have been craving or even eating dirt, mud or rocks...or sniffing gasoline.  I wisely decided against a funny retort to this bizarre question.  It was only 27 minutes into our trial-like questioning that the nurse actually informed us that we were in fact having a baby.  Well, duh…..

While our nurse was more concerned with any history of heart problems, diabetes, cancer, etc, in our family backgrounds, Jamie was more concerned that none of the three male doctors see her goodies.  I guess I don’t blame her. 

As the hot lamp was turned off of poor Jamie, the answer part of the meeting began.  Luckily, for our interrogator, we didn’t have any questions other than “will any of the male doctor’s see my wife’s goodies?”  Our nurse got off very easily.  Since Jamie and I were starter parents having a test baby, our nurse took the final 15 minutes of our meeting to show us what to expect.  If the meeting was any indicator, what I can expect is a lot of paperwork being thrown at us.  We received books, calendars, phone numbers….and this was all prior to my wife’s hoarding of the free magazines in the lounge.  As expected, this valuable information has found a place on the floor next to the coffee table. 

As our interrogation wound down, Jamie was informed that she would have to give “a little blood” for a series of tests.  For anybody who knows my wife, this is not “a little” thing to ask of her.  Jamie abhors needles.  I glanced over at her just in time to see the momentary look of absolute horror on her face.  We left the room and waited approximately 5 minutes for another nurse to call Jamie to the back for her “little” test.  Giving blood only took about 2 minutes, but enough blood was taken from pregnant wife to officially classify this as something Jamie did that Jamie did not want to do.  Here’s the rule:  whenever Jamie is required to do something that she really does not want to do, she receives a treat.  On this day, it was McDonald’s breakfast, which made sense as Jamie was awfully woozy from giving four vials of blood.  Although, if four vials of blood required McDonald’s, I can only imagine giving birth will require an automobile.

Our next appointment will actually include a real doctor and will also include hopefully hearing the heartbeat of Baby Sink.  Until then, we’re being careful, both wearing our seatbelts and staying away from the walls of buildings built prior to 1972.

When I signed up for this handy dandy live journal thing, I had every intention of keeping my every thought on this wonderful website for the masses to read. Ultimately, I haven't keep this promise to myself, which is fine, because I realized I didn't as much enjoy reading what I was thinking. For some reason, it's much more interesting to think than it is to write. Actually, I'd rather sit around and talk to myself. At least then nobody else is reading what I'm thinking.

Okay, that's presumptuous. Nobody's reading this. Nobody.

So I'll admit to a few things here that I just have to get off my chest:

1.  I'm actually sitting here watching Armageddon.  By myself.  On a Saturday afternoon.  It's at the part right now where they dock with the Russian space station, Mir, and the crazy guy on the space station who has gone crazy due to month after month of solitary confinement in space is badgering the Bruce Willis mafia.  This is what qualifies as a blockbuster in the United States.

2. I'm real tired of people getting on the bus before me.  Every day, even in the bitter cold, I stand outside, right by the bus stop, waiting patiently, reading my book, while a mass of idiots who have sheltered themselves by standing inside race to get in front of me.  This is no simple feat.  I'm actually standing, waiting right next to the curb, while they work their way in front of me.  One of these class acts is a guy who insists on talking while listening to music on his headphones.  If you've never attempted this before, let me tell you, it must be nearly impossible to hear yourself talking because he shouts at whoever he's speaking too, no matter how close or far away he is from said person.  This is a man I want to punch.

3. Ever since the closing of the finest bar in St. Paul, The Buttery, life just hasn't been the same.  Friday's have lost their lustre and the weekend just doesn't start off with that bang that it used to.  So I have resorted to going to Alary's and drinking with the dirty old men there to ogle the busty bartenders.  I need a new Friday afternoon activity.

4. The wedding is a mere 60 days away.  Come to find out that the former Mrs. Sinkula's wedding may just be as close.  How odd.  

5. I have been spending an enormous amount of money on CDs lately.  Actually, that's not entirely true.  I've bought a lot of CDs lately...but I've mostly just been adding ones I want to my Amazon.com wishlist.  Eventually I'll end up buying some of them.  But I have this weird trait about me when it comes to buying CDs.  I have to find the absolute cheapest price possible.  Case in point:  I recently purchased five discs from a retailer off Half.com.  Because he was so cheap (after shipping, even cheaper than Amazon.com), it took FOREVER to ship, presumably because he just doesn't really care all that much.  But to save 3 bucks, I'll go to any lengths apparently.  I don't know why I had to get that off of my chest.

6. I'm really getting tired of hearing about Daunte Culpepper.  

7. I'm still watching Armageddon.   

8. I sometimes wish that I had a high threshhold for pain.  I often wish that I had gone into professional wrestling...like as a kid, just started really packing on the weight so I could kick someone's ass for a living.  Why I didn't do this?  Because I'm a huge wuss.

9.  I used to work with this girl, Jen, at Goldsmith about six years ago.  She was not the most well liked girl because she was a backstabbing little bitch.  I, too, thought very little of her.  One time, I apparently made a derogatory comment about her behind her back.  This was not unusual, for me, or anybody for that matter.  One Friday morning, she asked me to come into her office, shut her door, and began to grill me on "talking behind her back."  I didn't inquire as to what derogatory remark had gotten back to her, because it was so common that a derogatory remark was being made about her that it would be impossible for me to verify one way or the other whether it was actually truly said.  I just simply took her word for it.  She lectured me for a good 15 minutes, to which my reply was simply, "people are going to talk about you behind your back....welcome to corporate America."  So it must have been fate that after I was laid off from Goldsmith, she would be the only former co-worker I would see out in public.  At Target.  In the skyways.  And as of last Sunday...at Caribou Coffee in Roseville.  I saw her walk in, and hoped that I wouldn't make any eye contact with her.  I succeeded.  However, she DELIBERATELY walks in front of me, completely out of her way, to get to the condiment table.  She stops, looks down, and says "hi."  To make her understand how completely forgettable she is, I said "Hi?  I know you?"  She says, "Yeah, from Goldsmith."  "Okay...and what's your name again?"  Classic.  She married the son of Mike Ciresi and has two children.  Good for her.  Back to my coffee....nice to see you.

So I guess that's all for getting stuff off of my chest.  I really would like to update this more often.  Maybe not novels like this, but brief little reminders to myself so I can stop having conversations when I'm the only one around.

On a normal Sunday morning, I am inundated with stories about movies my Sunday School kids have recently seen, or stories trips taken, or things completed at home, or games played, etc, etc, etc.  I love my Sunday School kids and I am blessed by God to have been called to teach His children.  But sometimes they can get really annoying.  Seriously.

This past Sunday wasn't one of those days.  Only two children showed up, as has been the case for much of the Sunday School year.  One was Martha, who is head and shoulders above most of the other students that have come this year in intelligence, knowledge, and faith.  She's amazing.  She's smart and fun, and only in 5th grade.  The fact that she is only 11 years old makes this story so amazing.

This week's lesson was about the gift that God has given us in Jesus Christ, and how this is what the Christmas season is truly about.  I had the kids (all two of them) shouting "HAPPY BIRTHDAY JESUS" everytime I exclaimed the main point of the week, that "because Jesus is our Lord and Savior, we celebrate His birthday."  We talked about how gift giving and receiving during Christmas is okay, but that God wants us to remember that the TRUE gift was the one He gave us in Jesus Christ, and that we must remember that above all and spread that message throughout Christmas...not expensive gifts.  I wrote the word "JESUS" in big brown letters on the white board so throughout the class the kids would remember this message the entire class, even when we the topic seemed to go somewhere else.  Which at the beginning of the class did when I asked both of them to create a Christmas Gift Wish List for themselves, and then one other person.  The people that I chose were Jessie McCartney (who I don't even have any idea who this is.  He happened to be the favorite musician of the other kid in the class), and Big Bird, because, well....how often does the opportunity rise to use Big Bird? 

During the "assignment," Martha raises her hand and says, "During Chrismas, my family and I have this thing we do."  Thinking that this story was going to go nowhere, I started to cut her off, before she just kept going.  And I'm happy she did.  She went on to tell me how her and every member of her family that gather for Christmas go around and come up with all of the blessings they can think of that start with each of the letters, C - H - R - I - S - T.  I was absolutely floored.  I have never heard of anything so genuine and wrapped in the Christmas spirit.  I thanked her for sharing, and then asked her to tell me again and wrote it down as she was telling me again how she and her family celebrate Jesus' birthday.  After telling her how amazing I thought her family tradition was, I promised her that I would do the same thing (using J-E-S-U-S instead, don't want to totally rip her off), and put it in my on-line live journal.  So here it is:

J - Jamie

E - Eric

S - Salvation

U - US Bank (place that employs me)

S - See there are so many things that I am thankful for that God has blessed me with that don't begin with the letters J-E-S-U-S, like my entire family, the fellowship of everybody at King of Kings, my friends, food, my home, the ability to walk, talk, see, etc, and everything that I know I take for granted...I will throw them all in here

My prayer, tonight, is that I always remember the true meaning of Christmas, and being a Christian.  It's celebrating Jesus.  It's praising God for the forgiveness of our sins in Jesus Christ.  Lord, I pray that you would continue to use me, sanctifying me for Your work, for Your kingdom here on earth.  In His name....AMEN.

I will admit that I am not the most well read person on the planet.  Most of the books I read come from Amazon.com suggestions based on the books I have recently read, the subject material inevitably about corporate wrongdoing, Martin Luther or the Reformation, or baseball.  So needless to say, much of what Amazon.com suggests to me has something to do with a 16th century German screwing someone out of a paycheck. 

A couple of months ago, I purchased Anatomy of Greed by Brian Cruver.  Anatomy of Greed: The Unshredded Truth from an Enron Insider is the TRUE STORY(!) of a former Vice President in one of the new divisions Enron was known for starting during the 1990's.  The entrepreneurial Cruver was reluctantly hired to help create a product designed, of all things, to provide bankruptcy risk protection to companies around the world.  Hired in April 2001, he only worked at Enron for roughly 8 months, had no access to high level executives (except through the company-wide emails sent by COO Jeff Skilling or Chairman/CEO Kenneth Lay), and was simply an overpaid corporate ass kisser.  Cruver's days at Enron were extremely non-eventful, though his attempts to make his 8 month tenure with the bankruptcy risk protection group shouldn't go without some commendation - Like the time when nearly every employee on the trading floor (all 500 of them) had finally accepted their fates and threw a massive kegger.  Throughout the book, Cruver subjects the reader to stories of he and a fellow coworker going out for coffee, updates on the Enron stock price, and "confidential" emails and memos - mostly of the Corporate propaganda kind. 

Normally a slow reader, Anatomy took me all of four days to fly through the 354 pages (throughout the book, Cruver's New York equity analyst buddy tells him on at least two occasions "You should write a book about this!"  He couldn't have been more off track).  Despite the absence of any access to the real Enron story of corporate greed, deceipt, and fraud, Cruver somehow managed to keep me entertained and interested, but only because it brought up memories of my days as a laid-off corporate whore.  Around the same time the Enron scandal was unforlding on CNBC and in the Wall Street Journal, I was getting laid off from my crappy job as an investment banking analyst.  Both Cruver and I both thought we had found our dream jobs, only to find ourselves both collecting unemployment.  Throughout the 75 or so pages of Cruver's unemployment, I kept "reminiscing" about the endless hours on the internet - searching for jobs (20% of the time) and killing time (the other 80%) - the endless parade of cheap cigarettes (the idea being that I couldn't afford the good ones), and how good I got at Grand Tourismo II for Playstation.  I kept thinking about the goatee I tried to grow, the infatuation with Family Feud and Days of Our Lives, the Busch Light I started drinking at around 3 in the afternoon, and the interviews that would result in the goatee, Family Feud and drinking at 3 in the afternoon.  I remembered feeling like a disgrace, but almost being proud of the fact that a company I hated fired me from a job that I hated even more, and actually wore it as a badge of honor for the whole time I was laid off.  I can still taste the lunches of ramen noodles and carrots.  I can still remember the showers (at about 1 in the afternoon).  I remember working with the dipsh!t headhunters and recruiters who set me up for job interviews for jobs I had no business interviewing for...or not setting me up for interviews at all.  I may even still have the business cards from the worthless interviews I had at companies like Travelers/Money Gram, American Express and Anchor Bank.  I remember being turned down for a job who's main function was answering the phones.  I remember the catering jobs in the evening to make a little extra cash above and beyond unemployment income. 

I suppose it sounds like a weird thing to "reminisce" about, but it was actually a pretty nice time in my life.  I would never want to go through it again, but if for only a few months, I didn't have to get up every morning and sit in rush hour traffic.  I set my own hours.  I watched A LOT of tv.  But like I said, that's the only time I ever want to go through that again. 

Oh, and the book.  I guess I recommend it if you're interested in sophmoric humor from an M.B.A.