These first five come from sources worldwide. The next five are more personal:

1.

Amidst the riots and “occupations” around the world this year came this surreal Hollywood moment. A young guy kissing and comforting his girlfriend while the tension roils around them. Sadly the reason for this riot was a sporting event, but the emotional weight is the same. Mob mentality may be overwhelming, but the moment the person you love is injured… rage is replaced by the desire to comfort, cradle, and love.

2.

The President and his National Security Team watching Osama Bin Laden get killed via live Satellite link. The closest most of us will ever get to this is the film “Patriot Games”. From a nice, well-lit, and unremarkable office in DC, our country is overseeing a man getting tracked down and ended. Looking around the room… For some this is a moment of somber power. For others a realization of the importance of human life. And for a few, just another day at the office.

3.

Steve Jobs definitely lived up to his quote “put a dent in the Universe”. I write this blog on one of his computers. I use one of his phones. I work on one of his programs. But I’m most intrigued by his moments of humanity: He hired a biographer partially so his children would have a record and understanding of why he was so rarely home. And at his last Apple Keynote address, an obviously very frail man retreated backstage and laid his forehead against his wife. He was a visionary, yes… but I like that he was also human, flawed, loved, and loving.

4.

This is the funeral for Navy SEAL Jon Tumilson, who was one of 30 killed when their helicopter was shot down over Afghanistan. His dog, “Hawkeye” is laying close to his master for the last time. I realize I’m a softy dog owner, but this makes me cry. Hawkeye gets it, and yet, will never understand. Like all of us.

5.

The Egypt protests which gridlocked the country and eventually brought down President Mubarak had this surprising subplot. About 10% of the country are reportedly Christians. A suicide bombing attack at a Coptic Christian church had killed 23 Christians at the beginning of the year. And yet, during the protests, Christians encircled the praying and vulnerable Muslims to allow them to pray in peace and protection. How much would we change the world if these were the kind of actions Christians were known for? And how likely would it be for a potential bomber to blow up the same people who protected him while he prayed?

So what’s my problem? Am I just old before my time and wishing for the days of snail mail and the rotary telephone? Not at all. My issue is the feeling that facebook isn’t actually connecting us as much as it’s feeding our vanity and laziness.

The facebook “news” feed provides a platform for all kinds of inane blather. We see photos of people’s dinner, hear their plans for the next few hours, scroll past their political views, and anything else a person deems so riveting that the internet needs a record of its happening. I imagine some sociologist of the distant future uncovering the code from a day of facebook postings and concluding “no wonder their civilization collapsed, no one actually did anything but yet they considered everything important. “. If you have a facebook account, and you’ve ever posted a status, you are saying “this is important enough that everyone should know.” Sheer vanity, fed by the relentless content black hole that is the internet… a beast in need of constant feeding. So we update again. And God help us if someone actually likes what you post.

Which brings us to the lazy part of the equation, spearheaded by the “like” button. Someone else posts something for all the world to see, you read it and conclude that you are so impressed you must: call them, write something back, smile and pass it on to others… no, none of those. Instead you show your appreciation for their “news” by a single mouse click, less energy than it actually takes to scratch your own nose. Now the world knows we are a supportive audience of someone else’s vain chatter but we literally barely lifted a finger. We’re a part of the conversation! Yeah, us! Vanity and inaction in one little click.

Birthdays encourage similar lazy interaction in the supposed name of connection. As we scroll through Facebook everyday it automatically provides us with mass lists of birthdays without a need to actually keep track of important dates in the lives of others. And so our birthday passes and dozens, hundreds, thousands of people comment on our wall with some generic “have a great day” which they’ve probably copy/pasted on every birthday wall of every friend for the past year. I find it an interesting litmus test for my own quality of friendship. When a birthday reminder strikes me, I write my friends a private email. Or call them. Something where they can hear from me directly and the rest of the world has no idea. Sure, I appreciate the reminder from the facebook overlords… but if I can’t take the time to step out to personally and privately connect with that friend, then how important do I really count their friendship? And similarly, I seem to receive more facebook birthday wishes from acquaintances than folks I call real friends.

So here we are, not closer at all but on our own stage with our own megaphone screaming “look at me, I’m the greatest thing ever”. Meanwhile, all around us everyone else is doing the same thing and raising the inconsequential moments of our lives into an overwhelming din of point and click vanity.

I long for those moments of one on one time with the handful of people who know me, sharing things they wouldn’t dare put on facebook. Struggles, private victories, or even a shared experience, allowed to land with the private resonance of real connection.

But the facebook experience has grown to a strange blending of Cyberdine and big brother. We can’t unplug the beast, it knows all our secrets and has begun to shape the very culture which gave it life. We even continue to feed it with special shout outs to other members @WhoeverTheyAre. The same members who probably don’t have a picture from the last decade, or show anything but their children, or give us any real pertinent information about their lives, their truth, and their day to day. We know what TV shows they like. Where they grew up. And what day to post an ingenuine birthday wish on the home of their digital avatar. Yet we call them friends.

We’ve all been assimilated. The Matrix is real, and I’d like to unplug.

But for now you’ll have to excuse me, I need to go update my status with something car related… and I should probably tweet some inane moment of driving I just saw.

And one of you people will probably click “Like”.

I don’t remember learning English. I’m sure I was full of questions about it, but I truly have no memories of asking about a word or learning a new phrase. For me, vocabulary exercises are linked to those specially hellish memories of classes which couldn’t end fast enough. Yet, now that we’re spending time parroting things for my son I’ve gained a new perspective on the enormous mountain of learning associated with English. In fact, maybe I need to learn something else because the scale can’t be larger than the jumbled mess of rules and exceptions which make up my native tongue.

The depth of English struck me today in two separate moments of vocabulary. In one, I joked with a co-worker and my little throw-away quip fell flat because of my word choice. I didn’t miss-speak or accidentally offend, but I used a word which required a split second of “wait, what does that mean?”. Jokes that miss large sections of your audience are only funny if you’re Eddie Izzard. I. Am. Not. So this turned into a brief conversation about the differences in our vocabularies. Of course, this was also comic gold.

How is it we can grow up in the same country, with the same language, and same basic educational system, yet glean such different ways to communicate? Word choice is as unique as our fingerprints. And there’s no telling what can spark you to mine the depths of your verbal vault.

This evening my wife began reading a new book for our small group. And there on the first page was a word she hadn’t seen before. Now if we’re all honest, any book that you makes you think will probably contain a word or two you aren’t that familiar with. For my wife, it just happened to be on the first page – which means she got it out of the way, and can now go on with enjoying the read.
Anyway…

The word was: “exegeted”. Some of you are now asking google what it means, and that’s fine. Others of you may do what I did:

“Oh, from the word Exegesis,” I said, and began to offer a marginal definition.

“Exa-Jesus”, my wife says to me. As in – Used to be the Son of God and then got tired of the hassle and passed the role on to someone else. The Savior Formerly Known as Christ. (Much to my chagrin… this is not the definition)

Which made me wonder… when did I learn the word “Exegesis”? Why on earth did I retain this word? And more importantly, how could I better use the brain-space being wasted by words which will only cross my path every dusty decade or so. After all… I’ve forgotten 80% of the math I ever learned. Which really doesn’t matter because my phone can calculate the return trajectory of Apollo 13 better than a room full of 1960s rocket scientists. But, somehow my brain has decided that words need to be pulled to the core while anything dealing with numbers can be marched to the exit.

I am a superfluous confluence of vernacular.

My apologies. Apparently this line of thinking has stirred the words in my brain like kicking an ant hill.

So this is the challenge awaiting my son… learning not only enough to communicate, but also tolerate his father’s outbursts of strange syllables. He’ll have to apologize to his friends for my vocabulary tourettes. Then help me figure out how old he is by counting on my fingers.

Ultimately, I’m just marveling how we all grow into such different aptitudes. How do the same core ingredients splinter into a cornucopia of varied skills and interests? My son learned perfect rhythm months ago but can’t say Hippo. So mostly, I’m hoping that all our instant access to definitions and new information will keep my brain sharp while it hones his into a marvel. Cause I’m still learning my first language.

-Note= No thesaurus was used (or injured) in the making of this article. All these words came out of my head, but spell-check nearly exploded trying to get them right.

And the phenomenon has turned the corner from people famous for doing something we love, to people who are famous for just being famous.

Which leads me to my recent irksome line of questioning:

What is Ashton Kutcher known for? Why is this guy famous?

His Nikon commercials seem like the only thing on TV right now. But he’s not a famous photographer. And I don’t want to see another scenario of him as the handsome rule-breaking rouge who snaps amazing pictures with lingere models while using a camera the size of gum.

The role that made him famous was playing an attractive idiot on “that 70s Show”, a painful comedy about a decade which was better left in history. How is this a license to a career?

And now he’s in a new movie “Killers” where he plays a husband who forgot to tell his wife he’s actually a spy. I swear I’ve seen this movie a dozen times with different actors plus read it another ten or more as the first script from some newbie screenwriter. Personally, I liked this film best when it was called “True Lies”.

Arnold Schwarzenegger’s celebrity is the topic of a different post…

Somewhere along the way he starts the show, “Punk’d” which is essentially him getting paid to bully and embarrass others. Cause after high school what you really want to watch is the attractive guy still picking on everyone else… right?

Then he marries Demi Moore, creating the first account of two strange phenomenons: 1) He marries the only woman in Hollywood who somehow becomes more attractive with age. 2) He married a woman whose daughter’s dreamed of dating him until mom stole him away.

Oh… and he decides his life is interesting enough to should challenge CNN to a duel. Who can get the first 1million followers on Twitter? Let me restate that… He essentially said “Hey massive news provider – I bet you more people will want to know what I’m doing than hear what’s going on in the entire world.”

And he won.

What does that Twitter feed read like:

Nikon brought the dump truck of cash today. Told them to put it next to last weeks pile. – 1 day ago

Played practical jokes on three more people. Made one of them cry on camera. It was awesome. – 12 hrs ago

Shot another Nikon commercial. Laughing and joking with beautiful women is so tiring. At least they pay with dump trucks. – 4 hrs ago

Had sex with Demi Moore. Took a picture with my Nikon camera. No, you can’t see it. – 1 hr ago

I just got paid to mention Nikon in my last tweet. Oh look, I mentioned them again. – 58 mins ago

Nikon. – 47 mins ago

Considering challenging Jesus to a Twitter duel. I bet I’ve got more followers than him. – 2 min ago

Now I know you’re probably shaking your head and saying “You’re just jealous”. You’re damn right I’m jealous. I can’t get a job and this guy seems to get paid for… well… I’m not even sure exactly. But every time the Nikon commercial sears my eyeballs I know I’ve been punk’d.

He’s probably a nice guy too. And a hard worker.

But he’s everywhere, for no good reason. So, that settles it, I gotta stop watching TV. Go out and do something so I don’t see his face.

Maybe I’ll buy a Nikon.

Damn you Ashton.

Here’s the short version: A 20 year old girl in Detroit has been put on probation at her job. Why? Well, she’s a waitress at Hooter’s and she’s getting a bit fat for her shiny orange shorts.

And this made the news. Redefining the “fluff piece”. Ah-hem.

As I fight back an onslaught of ever dirtier jokes I suggest you watch the CNN video for yourself. Then, I suspect you’ll see what I did:

First off, I agree with Hooter’s on this one. Their entire business and perception is based on a physical standard. The Dallas Cowboy’s cheerleaders are a good example to cite, even though the average Hooter’s girl is as likely to make the Cheerleaders as I am to become the first long haired man on the moon.

You go to Hooter’s to have your waitress bend over the table and show you things that aren’t on the menu. And for those of you giving the classic line “But, wait… the food’s awesome. My wife loves to go for their Hot Wings.” Sit down and shut up. I’m not buying it for a second. And if your wife does like to go, she’s enjoying making catty remarks at the same waitress you keep asking for a refill.

Hooter’s is not about the food. It’s more like a soft-core stripclub with an extensive menu. And if you’re going to come in for a bucket of hotwings and a cooler of beer the last thing you want to do is have a tubby waitress waddle over and cause lunch to come back up.

And the company gave her the tools to address the problem. A free gym membership. That’s a perk. It’s on the job training. Literally. Think of it this way, if you suddenly forgot how to do something vital to your job would you accept a free opportunity to relearn and keep your job? Of course you would.
I’m sure she was thinner when she was hired. If you don’t want to stay slim to keep your job… here’s a hint… don’t work at a place where the shorts double as napkins.

But this is not even the strangest part of this “news” story.

Everyone is quick to mention her height and weight. But, it’s not about the numbers, it’s about how the body carries it. And one quick look at this girl and I’m instantly thinking… please find bigger shorts.

Yet, I feel for her when she talks about losing her role “in the Hooter’s family”. Forget the fact that it must be a family petri-dish of dysfunction for a moment and ponder this: She was told all this in her two year review. That means she’s had this job since she was 18. And she’s teary-eyed at the thought of no longer sliding beer across tables while sporting polyester daisy-dukes? May I suggest you aim higher… reach for, well… reach for the sidewalk I guess cause this is a road to nowhere.

Speaking of NoWhere… how sad is your day if a Hooter’s on the outskirts of Detroit, Michigan sounds like fun?

But all of this pales in comparison to my favorite moment: If the company wants to impose a standard for its employees, fine. However, may I suggest that the manager of the restaurant not look like a planet. It’s impossible for me to take you seriously as a critic of other people’s appearance when you’ve got your own gravitational pull.

Terribly insensitive of me? Yes. Absolutely. But if we’re gonna talk standards, it should apply across the board. I don’t care how good the wings are.

I say take the gym membership, and turn yourself into a chiseled specimen. Then take your new look and boosted confidence out and find a new job.

Two Southern California Teenagers are in the news. One, a sixteen-year-old girl currently solo-sailing around the world… non-stop. The other, a thirteen-year-old boy trying to scale Mt. Everest.

They get press because their endeavors bring outrage. Shock. Calls to child protective services because their parents are clearly unfit. People whisper about how these kids are going to die and any proper parent would never support such aspirations.

Maybe that’s true. Or maybe… Just maybe…

We’re all scared alarmist chickens and these parents are doing it exactly right.

What about the fact that this 13 year old climber has already done 5 of the world’s 7 summits? (The Seven Summits refers to the highest peak on every continent…) Most climbers in the world will never do the seven summits. Nearly all the folks who’ve done Everest, including the sherpas, haven’t done all 7. And he’s climbing with his parents who happen to be hard-core adventure racers. The result is a 13 year old with goals and enough dedication to train harder than most adults. This is hardly a kid going from PS3 to Crampon boot.

Or how about the fact that the 16 year old sailor comes from a family of sailors and her brother did the trip a year ago? I’ve met this family. I worked with this boy who did the trip. I don’t agree with everything they’re doing, but I know that their daughter wanted to do this long before her older brother decided to pull up anchor.

Truth be told, I’m pondering all of this for one simple reason: I have dangerous pastimes. I was jumping my bike as soon as I could balance, and when I was a kid we weren’t wearing helmets and kneepads! I’m obsessed with performance driving. I love rock climbing. I enjoy solo trips deep into the backcountry. And my favorite kind of skiing is cutting fresh tracks through tight trees. Yet I still feel like I never really pushed the envelope enough. I’m not half as daring as I’d like to be, and yet my interests scare the hell out of a lot of people.

I know I’ll definitely introduce my son to these pastimes. And there’s a good chance he’ll like one or two of them and want to push the envelope himself. Which means… he’s going to get hurt. And it’s going to be on my watch.

Now before you start filling the comment section, know that I’m far from reckless. I’ve embraced the use of helmets, and I wouldn’t tree-ski without one. I don’t go out into the backcountry without leaving plenty of info on where I’ll be. And anyone who’s climbed with me will tell you they felt very safe.

But I hope I never embrace the growing fear that permeates our culture and is shouted through megaphones toward all parents. I stand astonished to find that everyone can tell you a horror story about everything from sleeping to vaccinations. Do not go onto the internet to see if something is bad for your child. I’ll save you the google time; yes, it’s terrible. Someone knows someone whose child died from it… Anything you can think of, no matter how innocuous, can kill your child.

Into this stupefying din I accept the fact that there will be blood: From skinned knees, and scraped palms, and probably some random headwound which will bleed like a broken damn but only leave a tiny scab on a big lump. That’s growing up.

Heck, that’s just life.

We could all die doing anything. Hanging a picture or hanging from a cliff-face. But I truly believe that taking risks and pushing yourself is the only way to stay young. And my son IS young… so hopefully I can push myself long enough to at least keep up for a while.

A part of me really hopes he ends up world-class at taking risks. I’ve accepted that I won’t be a cutting edge climber or F1 racing driver. But if that’s in his future then I’ll be on the sidelines grinning so much it hurts.

I’ll like it almost as much as doing it myself. Almost.

The real battle will be everyone else. Because now, suddenly, the tiny percentile chance of something going wrong is the only percentage we’re supposed to care about. It’s like believing you will definitely win the lottery every time… and the prize is pain and suffering. Best to not play at all!

Dream big. Take risks. Do something that scares you.

I say that for me. I need to remember. I need to hear it over the rumble of doom. And if I’m really blessed, I’ll raise a son who’ll hear it too.

But I digress.

From the rubble of one of the world’s poorest countries came a story which seemed to perfectly highlight the haves and have-nots of the tragedy. And both the absurdity, and wonder, of our national obsession with technology.

An iPhone saved a man’s life in Haiti.

No, this is not an Apple commercial. At least, not yet. THIS STORY is true.

A documentary filmmaker got trapped in the rubble of his hotel. The destruction caused a head injury and a compound fracture. He was going into shock.

But he had a First-Aid app on his iPhone, and was able to both diagnose and treat himself. Without this app, it is unlikely he would have survived the days until he was pulled from the rubble.

I’m awed by the power we now hold in our hands. The access to information once buried in libraries or found in the highest realms of expertise is now quite literally at the tip of our fingers.

And then I’m embarrassed. Because my first thought was “what app was that?”. Yet I know I’m not alone because the article spelled out the title and publisher of the exact program he used. I resist the urge to download it immediately… and then wonder how much of a purchasing spike this app received because of this news coverage.

How long before the company advertises this product as “proven to save lives”. Or will they embrace that shadiest of practices… linking a purchase to a tragedy under the guise of donation. “Send a dollar to Haiti with every purchase”.

Never mind where the rest of the purchase price goes…

So I’m stuck in a quandary. I love my iPhone. But, with all its cool apple-ness and my instant weather and tweet-ability… it is, at it’s core, a platform to help me consume. I can have just a little bit more. Know just a little bit more. Find just a little bit more.

With more than 1 Billion Apps downloaded to date, iTunes starts to seem like the smartest drug dealer in the world. We keep coming back for more because it’s helping us live better, and it might even save our lives!

But that 1 Billion represents a lot more money than has gone to Haiti, or any tragedy. Which makes me wonder… Since the iPhone is now saving lives, lets just send a big box to the next tragedy-thrashed area and wish them the best of luck!

Just picture it = iREDCROSS. iFEMA.

Never mind the people who survived 2 weeks in the rubble drinking leaking bath water and proving real miracles do happen. Thanks to our smart phones and on-line app stores, every tragedy can be repackaged as a reason to purchase something new.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go download that First-Aid app. I live in earthquake country, remember. And come to think of it, my iPhone needs to be charged.

Two men with deeply held religious beliefs illegally traveled into other countries to spread their messages. Neither succeeded, but both made news. And though the news coverage has been very different, I can’t shake the feeling that their stories are almost exactly the same.

First off we have the guy on the Northwest flight, Umar, who tried to blow up 300 fellow passengers as they landed in Detroit. A part of me thinks that some people would actually rather light their underwear on fire than land in Detroit, but I digress. His bomb failed, passengers tackled him for the chance to be on Larry King, and now he’s in a tiny cell while his picture is on every TV in the land.

This is an all too familiar story in the US news media. A Muslim extremist, an Al Qaeda plot, Presidential exclamations, and near constant news blathering about “What went wrong”. In short, be afraid, run for your life, cower under the stairs, but whatever you do… don’t turn off your 24hr news station!

Next we have the story of Robert Park, a Korean-American man who snuck into North Korea on Christmas Eve with “A letter” for Kim Jong Il. Frankly he’d be more likely to get a letter to Santa, but this reality did not deter him. He was promptly captured and imprisoned in a country where the US can’t talk you out.

On the surface, Park’s story is completely different because he’s a Christian missionary. His goal was to enter North Korea illegally and deliver a letter asking one of the craziest dictators in the world to open his borders in the name of Jesus Christ.

I read both stories the same day. And I found them equally sad.

Whatever you believe… forcing it on someone else doesn’t change hearts. No one ever got forced into changing their belief system. People have lied over and over to save their skins, but what you believe is a personal thing beyond the control of governments, laws, tortures, and killings.

Yet, somewhere along the way both these guys got convinced of the exact same thing: “If I sneak into this country and deliver this message then things will change. A difference will be made. I will get a reward in the next life and others will find the right path on earth.”

For one, the message was a bomb. For the other, a letter. But it doesn’t change the fact both are just pointless extreme actions which won’t do anything but entrench people further.

If the bomb had gone off would the US have pulled its military from Muslim nations?

If the letter got read by Kim Jong Il would he have wiped away a tear and repented from his ego-manacle ways?

Um. No.

So we’re left with extremist poster children for two different religions.

Another Muslim with so little self-worth and so much belief in a one man Jihad changing the world, that he’s willing to kill himself and others. And people can point and say “See, they all just want to kill us, women, children, everyone. Muslims are all waiting on their moment to be evil …”

Another Christian convinced that his belief is not only right, but so undeniable that if he could only be heard then change would come. And people can point and say “See, another Christian shoving their belief in our face like we’re all unthinking jungle folks rooting around in our filth until he came along. Christians aren’t loving, they’re naïve and offensive.”

And no one changes. Or grows. Or opens their minds. Or makes a new friend that isn’t just like them. With examples like this, why would they?

Which ultimately brings me to another thought.

We’re all just playground children pointing fingers to figure out who’s at fault. The security system. Al Qaeda. Kim Jong Il. The system. The West. The East. There’s no shortage of groups to blame these days. It’s us verses them, and “THEM” has become easy to find.

How different would things be if we were worrying about ourselves instead of everyone else. No keeping up with the Joneses , or staring at the neighbors through our binoculars. You do your thing. I’ll do mine.

And maybe… just maybe… we’ll have dinner together some time. Our kids will all play as a group so we can realize they are all just – kids. If things get really crazy we might become friends. Which is really better for everyone cause you’re less likely to force your beliefs or your bombing runs on your friends.

So you might be wondering how I can write another entry about pregnancy. Well, I’ve decided I’m the town crier of pregnancy truth – “Hear ye, Hear ye….” Because it’s become quite clear that a few months of holding a newborn gives women amnesia. I suspect that something in the smell of fresh skin actually wipes out bad memories.

First off, the high-points. Our son was born healthy and full term via C-Section as planned. He has all his fingers, toes, lungs and limbs. And all the parts which properly qualify him as a boy. We are blessed.

But in nearly every other way the actual birth was as problematic as the pregnancy itself.

Multiple Doctors and Nurses took one look at my wife and said “Oh, a redhead… well redhead’s bleed more and have more pain than all other folks.” Imagine the great news that was to a woman who wanted a C-Section for less pain, and a man who didn’t want to see the blood and gore from the process.

But after watching my wife get jerked and tugged like the opening scene of Jaws, my son let out a cry, turned from a crazy purple black into a normal skintone, and we were suddenly parents.

Normally at this point things get better.

While our son rested comfortably, my wife endured rising pain. It took a while to find the right combination of meds to keep her both comfortable and lucid. Meanwhile, her blood levels were way down and her blood pressure way up – the exact opposite of her normal state. Thankfully, when things turned for the better we got to take our little man home and start returning to normal.

Or so we thought.

We’d been home less than 48 hours when her pain was up, and the incision was gaining a nasty growing bruise. One look from the doctor and he knew it was internal bleeding. After a quick sonogram we were re-admitted to the hospital and planning to go back into surgery.

Apparently sometimes when cutting through multiple layers, a blood vessel can restrict from the trauma of being cut and not present itself as something that needs to be dealt with. Then, after a patient is sealed up, the vessel relaxes again and begins pumping blood once more… into no where. There was a real chance of this pooling blood eventually bursting through the remaining layers and tainting more of the torso. Luckily the problem had been found early on.

However we now found ourselves in a Groundhog Day style retread. My wife who should have been a week into recovery was back at ground zero but with twice as much surgery and anesthesia to show for it. Thankfully she is now recovering properly, albeit slowly.

Yet she’s enjoying the fruit of her labor (or surgeries in this case). Our little man is a good sleeper, most of the time, an easy picture subject, and has stolen his mom’s heart in a huge way. Holding him, she feels no pain. She forgets many of the things that got her here until she shifts the wrong way and remembers… two surgeries.

All the while I keep thinking how everyone talks about the beauty of childbirth. And I realize there’s a great confusion going on. Beauty of a child itself… sure, I can go with you there. But the process of childbirth is far from attractive or enjoyable. Just a quick scan of my wife’s experiences and it’s obvious that most anything else would have been more fun.

We never had a glow. More like a spotlight of blinding discomfort, fear, and complication. Whatever our experience is in the years to come, we won’t look back and mistake it for a glow. It was a struggle. And my wife is a trooper.

At least she got something out of it.

(If you didn’t know… well… SURPRISE… We’re 6 months pregnant!)

As my wife and I march closer to the birth of our little man, the changes are already coming fast and furious.  And anyone who knows me knows I over-think just about everything.  No starry-eyed wondering at the miracle of it all… not me, not here… I’m wired more the opposite.  Cold hard analysis. Looking at the short and long term effects of decisions.

You could argue I’m draining the wonder and glory out of the whole thing.  You might be right, but it’s who I am… and thankfully I married a woman who loves me anyway.

Except we are both quite blindsided by the most recent development.  Apparently, society has another topic which it displays in a blanket of misinformation and wrong advice from every side.  I thought the only thing fully in that category was sex and it’s true realities (don’t get me started… a whole other blog post about both the religious and secular worlds doing more damage than good).  But no-no… there is a bigger smoke and mirrors campaign.  Something like:

“Pregnancy is a beautiful wonderful thing.”

Um. No. That’s a lie.

Okay, maybe that’s too harsh.  I suppose there are women out there that have good pregnancies to perpetuate the myth.  Some must actually enjoy it.  Heck, that Duggar woman is now pregnant with her 19th kid so I guess that’s an example of good times no matter how extreme.

But in our house… any sighting or representation of “happy expectant mother” is laughable.  I truly believe that the “glow” is only something Hollywood created.  When have you ever heard a real “it was awful” pregnancy story? Morning sickness you hear about.  Maybe you know a woman put on bed-rest… but that doesn’t get discussed as anything worse than a monumentally boring hassle.

This is one of those things where looking back apparently becomes so altered by the rosy glasses of the little cuddly person that all the crap is forgotten.

So.  Here I am for the sake of history.  Or so I’ll tell myself.

Morning sickness. – Nope.  Didn’t happen.   We had evening sickness.  Not with puking, but a general dislike of all smells, food, and wafts of the airconditioner.  I had to eat in another room.

Oh… and the first trimester is supposed to be when she feels the worst.  Um.  No.  We’re on a perpetual rise of discomfort like a never-ending roller coaster crank hill.

Now, Catherine’s a trooper.  No doubt.  Wanted to go camping.  Likes to get out and do things.  But the snap-back for her boldness is horrific.

Heartburn so bad she wants to cry.  A bronchial infection.  That leads to coughing, which stirs up the acid reflux, which generally leads to puking, which empties her stomach, which makes her hungry, which leads to heartburn and the cycle continues.

But wait!  Coughing moves ribs!  That’s right, dear reader, ribs in my wife’s back are swinging out of place like they are on hinges.  And that comes with a big basket of excruciating pain, which makes her cry, which stirs the heartburn, which aggravates the cough, which hurts the rib, which often leads to puking, which makes her hungry and on and on it goes…  except now with terrible tear-stirring pain.

And… nosebleeds!  Cause when all of that’s going on what she really wants to do is lay down and let the blood trickle down her sore throat, stir her heartburn and…  yeah.  See above.

So.  Where’s the glow?  Who thought up that steaming pile of fiction?

What really breaks my heart is there’s not a thing I can do to help her.  She’s sorting through a list of medications longer than my entire medical record, trying to keep down lunch and not cough to send her rib screendoor-ing around her torso…

And I’m standing there going “I’m sorry, baby”.  I may as well just shrug and say “Sucks to be you” – that would be just as helpful.  Thus… if no one else in the history of pregnancy wants to say it… I’ve done it.

Pregnancy sucks.  It’s not wonderous.  It’s not beautiful.  There are no Angels with softly gelled spotlights making sure there’s a glow off perfect skin.

If you’re reading this – and you’ve gotten this far – I must ask one serious favor.

Do not ask my wife how she’s doing.  You’ve already read how she’s doing.  She’s somewhere in the discomfort cycle listed above and swallowing her way through her daily mountain of pills.

Don’t ask.  And don’t mention it.  That doesn’t help either.

There’s no glow.  Baby’s healthy.  Mom’s in Hell.  Dad’s hanging on.

And the truth has been recorded.