A Running Tally of Metaphysical Phenomena

Except I kind of don’t.

Our lease is up at the end of this month, and with the barley on the way, our little shoebox isn’t going to cut it anymore. I’m not into really crazy, extravagant baby preparations—best to teach the value of a life of simplicity from day one, I think—and Kirsten really isn’t either. Neither of us feel like a second bedroom is too much of an indulgence, though, so we armed ourselves with the kind of knowledge only Craigslist can provide and hit the trail a few weeks ago to find a new place with just a little more space. We were disappointed a couple of times, misled on prices, unimpressed a few times, and all in all a little discouraged. And then, right before leaving town for a couple of days with my parents, we followed up on an ad for a place that ended up being perfect, when we only expected to run by, check it out, and cross it off the list. It’s 300 square feet bigger (broke the 1000 mark!), and two stories (good for putting the baby down and then actually doing something downstairs), and an end unit, and right within our budget. The only catch is that the people living in the place now aren’t leaving until the same day we leave our current place, this Tuesday, the 30th. The management has to swoop in with a magic mop and a magic broom and a magic feather duster and a magic paint roller and a magic… ehm… carpet… brush? and then we get to move in. The way we’re managing is to put our things on a truck Tuesday, camp out at Meghan and Ryan’s place until Friday, and then go over to our new place Friday afternoon, sign the lease, and unpack everything. It’s like getting a storage unit, an engine, and four wheels, all for less than three meals at Jamba Juice daily for you and your loved one.

Right now, we’re about halfway through putting into boxes the things that belong there. As far as boxes go, we have dishes, clothes, blankets and sheets, and artwork left, and pretty much anything else will go straight onto the truck with just a pad or something to keep it from getting scratched. We’re moving about three miles away, so we don’t have to worry too much about things getting jostled about at breakneck highway speeds. I think if we can make it coast to coast last year without breaking a single thing (actually, the worst thing that happened was that our trash can got [gasp!] dented), I think we can handle this. It’s literally about 900 times shorter than our move last summer. We’ll be alright.

I’ll get some pictures of the new place as we get moved in and things start to set themselves up, which is my favorite part. It’s fantastic to watch. Stay tuned, OK? Thanks for reading!

Kent

OK, this is just a little brief one for you. I said I’d probably put some newer pictures up, so here you go:

Wow, check it out! Little foots! With bones and everything. No way to tell yet if they’re like Kirsten’s flat feet (Poor Kirsten! Those things give her trouble) or like my overly furry hobbit ones. More word on that as the situation develops.

Now this one is really cool. Kirsten’s face is, like, perfect. Mine is, I don’t know, functional? But one of my ears is enough lower than the other that I can’t wear sunglasses without rigging them with weirdness. The thing we have in common, though, is a straight nose bridge. And it looks like little Greta is sporting the same thing.

It’s just so amazing to me to be able to see this stuff months before she’s even born! Yay for technology. Really. As much as I hate it sometimes, man, this stuff is cool. We’re going in for another prenatal visit in about a week and a half, and another ultrasound a few weeks after that. I’ll make sure to post any more pictures, OK guys?

As always, thanks for reading, and thanks for taking an interest in our little girl.

Kent

If you live in the Seattle area and are insured by Group Health, make a note of this: the cool and experienced ultrasound tech we had last week, whose name I forget, is much cooler than the one we had several weeks ago, whose name I never learned in the first place.

My parents got in late last Monday night, and we stayed up obnoxiously late—especially for them, coming out here with a three-hour time difference and all—and then headed over at noon the next day to find out the big news about body parts and measurements of things. The timing was great, because they’ve gone up to the hospital for five of the first six grandchildren on the Big Day of Telling, and it would have been six of six except that Scott and Karen painted things in neutral tones and did the 40 Weeks of Suspense thing for Jonathan, who was the first grandchild. With this kind of streak going for my parents, Kirsten and I figured we could schedule the ultrasound for the time they were already planning on being here, and it worked out well.

This ultrasound tech did things the way they should actually be done, to the extent that I wondered whether it was appropriate to tip.* With real live talking and explanation and everything. “Here’s her heart,” she’d say, or “what we’re looking at here is the kidneys…” It was like night and day from the talk-to-me-and-I’ll-cut-you approach of the other girl. It was very fun and educational and exciting this time, and the last one was those things on a level that barely even registered. And that takes some doing with, you know, an actual baby.

Many of you reading this probably already know, but the big news is… It’s a girl! This puts no dent whatsoever in my assertion that there is no way to “have a feeling” what a baby will be and actually be “right.” Show me more than one isolated fluke of a person who’s 100% after more than, say, five kids, and I’ll begin thinking about the possibility of edging toward reconsidering. Because I’m not dogmatic or stubborn.

Anyway, the point is not that Kirsten and about 92 other people guessed correctly. The point is holy cows! I’m going to be the dad of a little girl! The ultrasound tech used all kinds of embarrassing terminology and told me so.** And that little girl will call me “da” and then “daddy” and then probably eventually “dad,” and I’ll tell her stories about her kicking and punching my hand over the last few weeks and how before she was born, I used to sing her songs and tell her nice things and that’s why she knows my voice. And she’ll do that awesome baby thing where she grabs my finger when I let her, and some people will tell me that it’s a scientific thing because it’s a survival-aiding reflex, and I will tell them to shut their fat mouths and take their fingers away from my little girl because she loves me more than she loves them and wants to hold my hand and will one day ask very sincerely if she can marry me before she understands that that’s weird.

I don’t have scans of the newer ultrasound pictures yet, but I might be able to put those up at some point. Right now, I’m just getting back to work, coming off of a really awesome vacation with a ton of hiking, getting ready to move, and making sure both of the little girls at my house are comfortable. Be patient with me, and I’ll have great stuff soon.

Kent

* No.
** I know this is a double standard, but man. If she’d said “balls” at some point, I’d have been like, “heh, balls…” But when you start throwing out that scary girl terminology… I don’t know man, I get the itches.