Pregnancy Update – The Final Countdown

Christina is now 9 months pregnant! Our house is filled with baby stuff, and I don’t know what to do with half of it. We have a panoply of beds for Teddy to sleep in: a crib in the main room, a portable crib in the living room, a baby rocker, a baby crawler, a play mat, and a bathtub sleeper. I’m jealous of my son’s sleep options and I wish I would have taken more advantage of my infancy. It is a cruel joke that we don’t remember the best years of our life; the years when all we had to do was eat, sleep, and poop. The last main obstacle before he comes is figuring out the cloth diapers. I am both a philosopher and a cheapskate. My budget requires reusable diapers and hence a firm relationship with poop. People give me a lot of advice in respects to cloth diapers.

  • “They’re great! I used those with my 10 babies. My sister wives love them also.”
  • “Do you not care about your son? You know I just saw on the news that studies found more poop residue in cloth diapers compared to disposable diapers!”
  • “Don’t listen to the naysayers. You’ll get used to spraying crap into the toilet.”

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Besides the obvious complexities of discarding the waste, cloth diapers have the added disadvantage of a thousand buttons. To factor in all baby sizes – from teacup chihuahua to Mississippi Bufford – the clothe diaper provides you with Transformer level adaptability. There is a row of buttons that looks like a dominatrix, and there is an endless number of insertable pads. Added to these problems is the fact that Teddy is a boy. I know from personal experience that the penis lives by its own rules. A second brain that is hard to control for a grown man is essentially a Cracken-like monster for a newborn baby. There is no doubt that Teddy’s one-eyed bandit will take advantage of my clothe diaper fumbling.

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Besides my pee anxiety, there is the anxiety of the snuggie. Human babies have the most high maintenance sleep requirements in the animal kingdom. Take a newly born crocodile. As soon as that crocodile leaves the egg, it slithers into the water and sleeps in the mud. Take a newly born ferret. As soon as that ferret comes out of its mother, it sleeps in some nasty pine needle foliage. Take my son Teddy. As soon as he is born, he requires a specialized snuggie which makes him look like a polygon from a high-school geometry textbook. The human baby cannot survive outside this modern covering, and if a blanket is put into the crib, Child Protective Services will be called. Along with the Snuggie comes the fear of overheating the baby. He must be wrapped up like a snug burrito but at the same time be cooler than a bowl of gazpacho. A cruel joke for sure and I believe a ploy by the pharmaceutical companies to increase sales of Xanax.

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Finally, I must update you on my beautiful wife. Christina glows like the sunshine, and her belly looks like a basketball. I’ve never before looked at a pregnant woman and thought – “Wow she still looks like she could go to work.” Christina tries to moan and groan, but I think she could probably carry that baby for another 9 months – the Jerome Bettis of pregnancy. Her hormones have been erratic the last week – when I told her that she was like Brett Farve, she got agitated. The final countdown is upon us, and I am genuinely ecstatic to be a father. I can’t wait to dodge little Teddy’s pee and master the cloth diaper instruction manual. I can’t wait to hold my son and place him in my wife’s arms. I can’t wait to teach Teddy about life and help him discover wisdom. Keep us in your prayers; Lord willing, the next pregnancy update will come with pictures of my son. Here’s to the final countdown!

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Pregnancy Update – Gender Reveal

I’m back and feel rejuvenated. I needed that break, and I appreciate all the support from my readers. August was a quick month because the whole family went on a vacation to Rapid City, South Dakota. I didn’t know what to expect, but the Great Plains did not disappoint. We saw Mount Rushmore, Badlands National Park, Wind Cave National Park, Custer State Park, and a whole host of wildlife: bears, bison, prairie dogs, elk, deer, snakes, and fat motorcyclists.

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The highlight of the trip was Mount Rushmore for obvious reasons – my favorite President – Theodore Roosevelt – was smiling down on me. Of course, every Oldham vacation entails a large amount of calorie consumption, and I yet again had a special moment in the ice cream aisle. The whole time on vacation, Christina was pregnant and using the baby as an excuse to eat an endless stream of junk food.

“Jon I want more cereal!”

“You just finished your second bowl.”

Her stomach throbbing in anger, “Are you trying to starve the baby!”

The Oldhams are not the type to lay idle all day, and we went hiking and biking nearly every afternoon. My back was bothering me from a previous injury, so Christina and I got into a routine of asking each other the “Two B questions” – “How is the baby?” and “How is your back.” I highly recommend checking South Dakota out and exploring one of America’s most underrated states. 

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Usually, I am sad to come home from vacation, but on this occasion, my emotions were swinging in the opposite direction. This anomaly was due to the fact we were scheduled to find out the gender of the baby. My views on the gender reveal are mixed. My Amish side tells me to wait while my millennial side tells me to take a peak. We decided to find out the gender mainly because it gets old calling the baby an “It.” The day came this past Wednesday. We were both excited to the point that Christina was unable to sleep and I was unable to control my armpit sweat. I threw on a white shirt, and Christina waddled into the doctor’s office – it should be noted that this waddle has placed her higher up the ladder of pregnancy dominance. We were beckoned into the ultrasound room by an elderly-limping nurse. Years of finding baby sex organs had worn her friendliness into a subtle light, like a dying star in a distant galaxy. I quickly got on her good side by asking a million questions about the baby and the ultrasound. The fetus came on the screen and looked much bigger than the last time. It was moving and kicking – giving the old lady a run for her money. She checked the kidneys, spine, heart, gut, brain, and overall growth – all healthy and normal. I was thanking God during this time and smiling with the revelation that my baby was blessed beyond measure.

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The final moment had arrived – the gender reveal. I was putting my money on it being a girl. I felt this way because every person told me it would be a girl – based on the logic that I would get the opposite of what I wanted – a boy. I wanted a boy because I think boys are easier to raise after puberty. Boys typically don’t care about getting cards on birthdays or arranging bridal showers or bringing up a decade-old argument – typically girls do. Hence, I wanted a boy, but I knew God would help change my mind with a little girl. The white and black blob moved on the screen, and the old sage moved her instrument towards the inguinal region. My fate as a father was only a couple of centimeters away. I tried to keep myself calm by convincing myself that my daughter would feign romance with a “Bad Boy.” One more centimeter. I tried to convince myself that my daughter would be one of those girls who didn’t give the silent treatment when mad. Half a centimeter. I tried to convince myself that my daughter would take after my easygoing personality and not the emotional typhoon of the Philippines. All of a sudden the baby moved slightly and all was clear. It was clear before the nurse even had to say anything. There before my eyes was the sign of the future. It was a protruding mass between my unborn child’s legs. A cocktail weenie instead of a taco.  A baby boy. Theodore-Wallace Reynaldo Oldham. I guess both God and Teddy were smiling down on me that day.

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PS – I’m sure God will give me three girls now…and I look forward to it 🙂

 

Pregnancy Update – Week 16

Christina is now four months pregnant; far beyond the last update concerning the journey of my sperm. I didn’t know what these first few months would hold, but I have learned a lot already. On two occasions we have gone to hear the baby’s heartbeat. These visits were my first experiences at an OBGYN office – arguably the most inhospitable place on earth for men. Going to the gynecologists’ office as a man is like going to a bridal shower with pap smear party favors. I was given dirty looks from the receptionists, the waiting patients, the nurses, and the doctor who did the ultrasound – as if I were defiling their feminine sanctuary. All the men in the building simply stared at the wall in fear; this was made difficult by the fact that all the walls were covered with posters advertising incontinence pads. Maybe one of the weirdest things about being in the OB office is the fact that all the pregnant women formed a dominance hierarchy.

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This hierarchy – like most things in the feminine world – was communicated through passive aggressiveness. While staring at the incontinence poster, I overheard a conversation between two pregnant women. The first pregnant woman was midway through her term with just a moderate amount of belly. The second pregnant woman was due at any moment and looked as if she were carrying triplets. Every time the smaller pregnant woman said something about her pregnancy, the bigger lady would one-up her…

“I have felt some movement, and I have had some cramping.”

“Ha, you think that is movement, my kid was like MC Hammer last night…I haven’t had a day without my whole body feeling like it was run over by a bus.”

It continues…

“Well, I have had difficulty sleeping, and my doctor says I need to take a medication for low thyroid.”

“Ha, I haven’t slept for three months! I have anemia, constipation, and cravings for the discontinued McRib.”

The smaller pregnant woman eventually demured and admitted defeat. This process is highlighted further by the clothes worn by pregnant women. Christina has a tiny bump now that looks like she is bloated – not something she likes to hear. In an attempt to climb the dominance ladder, Christina has started to wear tight shirts with pronounced stripes. All fat people know that striped shirts are of the devil – something I avoided like the plague when I was a plump boy shopping in the Husky Section of JcPenny. For a pregnant woman of 16 weeks, a striped shirt is like stuffing a preteen bra with toilet paper – an ideal optical illusion.

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The striped shirt is just a segway to the ultimate dominance of the pregnant woman and the reason why all pregnant women bring their men to the ultrasound. Let’s bring it back to the OB visit; I am still staring at the incontinence poster, Christina is wearing the striped shirt and has both hands on her stomach. I look around the room, and most of the women are in the same position – some wearing even tighter outfits that make stripes look like child’s play. Christina gives me a look, and she takes my hands and puts it on her belly. I start to rub her stomach, and at that moment I realize I am just a pawn in a dangerous game. All the women around me have a scorn expression on their faces and are giving their husband’s the evil eye. A husband rubbing his wife’s pregnant belly is the dominance equivalent of a young man getting on his knee during the proposal –  suffice it to say, Christina was pounding her chest in triumph. Just then, however, the large pregnant women stepped past us…

“It’s so nice that your husband is here with you and he wants to rub your belly. My husband is deployed to Iraq…he’ll miss the child’s birth.”

Around and around we go – who will win no one knows. Here’s to the next four months of dominance positioning and many more life lessons.

PS – The baby’s heart is healthy and everything seems to be going well. Please keep us in your prayers.

 

A Sperm Update

A couple months ago I wrote a blog about my exhausted sperm; at the time they were being depleted for the goal of fertilization. Christina was using an App that was the reverse of the Handmaid’s Tale – a female whip which summoned my penis like I dystopian computer program running an “insert” program. Neo couldn’t even comprehend the Matrix in which that pregnancy App put me through. By the last “blue day” – one of seven which highlighted an increased chance of pregnancy – my masculinity was stressed to limits like a desert flower on a hot day. Nevertheless, I survived the ordeal and came out of the process not only holding a bag of ice on my crouch but also a new found pride in my heart.

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I gave it my all and I left it to God to decide whether my sperm would make the arduous journey through the booby-trapped crevice. The journey of sperm is best described as an amalgamated movie; Samuel L Jackson firing a pistol, Indiana Jones running away from a boulder, and Luke Skywalker blowing up the Death Star. I honestly didn’t think my sperm could get past the opening credits; I figured I wouldn’t have enough of them or maybe their tails didn’t rotate in the right direction. These worries were based on my own physical ineptitude which still forces me to carry rash ointment and take one step at a time while descending stairs.

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Worries aside, I allowed meiosis to recharge my supplies and we patiently waited for any signs of life. This waiting period is excruciating for normal couples who are expecting – unfortunately, we are not a normal couple. Armed with her App, Christina began to experience every pregnancy symptom known to science. I need to preface this statement with a quick explanation of the Filipina body. A Filipina is always in a state of distress and can never reach homeostasis. As soon as Christina hits puberty, her Spanish, Polynesian, and Asian ethnicities ignited into one hormonal explosion. My wife’s hormones vary as much as the topography of a mountain – with the ascent there are hot flashes, cramps, cravings, moodiness, tears, etc. There is no time in my wife’s day when she is not on a carnival pirate ship; swinging between menstruation and menopause. These facts made the “Do you feel pregnant?” stage impossible to gauge – was my wife bloated because of my successful sperm or the carton of ice cream she ate.

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The day finally arrived when the almighty App told us to take the pregnancy test; I was anxious and frustrated with Christina’s refusal to pee in one of our “nice” cups. I scavenged the house for a plastic container and shoved my wife towards the bathroom. I heard the stream that was going to spare my manhood or force it back to the slavemaster App. The result finally appeared, and we both stared at the words – the words that could change our lives forever. It was final. It was absolute. The Death Star had been infiltrated. It said “Pregnant.” Another journey has begun, and I am free of the App’s whip – my sperm can finally dictate their own schedule. Stay tuned for what comes next. She is 11 weeks and due in January. I’m sure I’ll have plenty more to share.

Pregnancy Pressure – A Man’s Perspective

Christina and I are currently in the process of trying to get pregnant; yes, even while I am typing this sentence, we are working towards making a baby 🙂 Joking aside, it seems like there is a lot of pressure when it comes to getting pregnant. This pressure starts as soon as puberty occurs. As an 11-year-old sweaty, hormonal kid, I thought sex always equated to pregnancy. The stress for girls was even higher with rumors that kissing in hot tubs can lead to a baby in 9 months. For most of my life, pregnancy was equal to a death sentence and an appearance on Jerry Springer. Even after getting married, I felt like it was taboo to get pregnant – imagining whispers of “Honeymoon Baby” or “Shotgun Wedding.” I am at a point in my life where all those previous misgivings have totally reversed. The best way to describe how I feel right now is to think of using your credit card at a store. I have a credit card with a chip which requires me to insert it into a slot. When you insert the card into the slot, there is a prompt that says “Do Not Remove.” There is a lot of waiting and looking around the store during this time. The calm of the “Do Not Remove” phase suddenly changes into the most stressful experience of the whole shopping process.

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The credit card machine – as if holding a poisonous snake – starts to blink and screams at you to remove the card
. It goes from 0 to 100, and I get anxious every time this mercantile exchange occurs. There is no yellow light for a transition – only peaceful green to morbid red. For most of my life – through involuntary abstinence and careful safety precautions – my thoughts concerning pregnancy were minimal at best. Sometime in the past year, however, the light turned from green to red, and something changed in my brain. It is as if the card machine started to scream at me and now every time I see a baby or a pregnant woman my mind sounds like this…

“GET PREGNANT NOW, GET PREGNANT NOW, GET PREGNANT NOW!!!!!”

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Most of this pressure is self-imposed, but there is still a lot of real pressure when friends and relatives are getting knocked up like the contagious flu spreading through an elementary. If I feel this as a man, I can’t imagine what women feel like – even those who detest the idea of having kids. We are social creatures, and we like to fit in – especially anxious people like myself. Christina has an app which tells her when to have sex, and I have been studying it like the treasure map in The Goonies. Should we have sex every day during your fertile window or every other day? Do I even have enough bullets in the cartridge to last that many days? Is it possible to use a turkey baster if I fall ill? Should you stand on your head for a few hours afterward?

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I feel sorry for my sperm right now, and my nether regions are probably pushing production like its Christmas Eve at the North Pole. That is what I am feeling right now – pressure in both of my brains. I thought I share this because it is something we all struggle with but fail to talk about. Pregnancy is usually portrayed through gender reveal parties and cute pictures – the reality is a steaming conveyer belt of soldiers going down a booby-trapped tunnel which is accessible only a few days a month. I really think we need to expand our pregnancy scare tactics from just teenagers – let’s make a sex-ed curriculum for thirty-year-olds.