5 Signs My Wife’s OBGYN is into Her and 5 Reasons Why I’m Good With It

Oh my. What a warm, soft tummy you have.

I may look dumb. But that’s just because I’m often confused. And confusion, my friends, should never be mistaken for stupidity. Unless, of course, the confusion is over something easily understandable. Like simple math. But if the confusion stems from something genuinely befuddling? Like, say, the contemplation of the obvious crush my wife’s OBGYN has on her? Now, that’s a different story.

I know what you’re thinking. I’m overreacting, right? Surely my wife’s OBGYN views her just like any other patient. Nope. I’m quite certain that he’s got a little somethin’-somethin’ for my wife. And here 5 reasons why I’m so sure.

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Valentine Poems to Avoid Sending Your Pregnant Wife

If you wanna stay together at least until junior is born, better not send her these poems for Valentine's Day.

I’m pretty smooth, y’all. And that’s just a little heads up for your convenience. If you doubt me? So be it, but you need do little more than meet my wife to figure out that there must be some truth to my assertion.

Okay, no there’s not. I’m a complete oaf. And that’s the only reason why I got as lucky as I did in landing such a lovely bride. Because my wife feels sorry for me. Are you happy? I’m constantly calling people by the wrong name (like 5 times in a row with game-show-host confidence, to boot), confusing things and forgetting birthdays. But even I’m not clumsy enough to send the following Valentine poems to my pregnant wife.

The first one is a little gem I like to call Hammer Time.

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Coming Up With Baby Names Would Be Easier If My Wife Weren’t Pregnant

So, seriously, Casper's not an option?

So last night it happened. The moment I’ve been dreading. And it came outta nowhere. Alli was at her dad’s and Caroline and I had just finished bathing our three little monsters. As the tumultuous trio rummaged through our collection of books, my beautiful wife turned to me and, without warning, uttered three words that nearly brought me to my knees.

“What about names?”

Oh boy.

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5 Things I’ve Learned About My Wife’s Pregnancy

Put the ice cream down, raise your hands in the air and slowly back away from the table.

When Babble invited me to blog for Being Pregnant, I wasted no time in accepting. That said, I did wrestle with one tiny logistical concern. I’m not pregnant — a fact my pregnant wife has delighted in pointing out on numerous occasions. This helpful observation is offered as irrefutable proof that I can’t possibly imagine what it’s like to be her. At least that’s what I’ve gathered when she follows “you’re not pregnant” with “so you can’t possibly imagine what it’s like to be me.”

Touché. But two can play that game, my friends. For there’s something that my wife cannot possibly imagine — what it’s like to be married to someone who often holds biological impossibilities against me during hormone-fueled attacks.


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Your Wife’s Pregnancy Is What You Watch

Caroline's surprise pregnancy is starting to resemble something...

Have you ever heard the phrase you are what you eat? Certain amount of truth to it, right? Well I’ve got another one for you. Your wife’s pregnancy is what you watch. Because that’s what seems to be happening to us.

Let me make something very clear. I’m NOT afraid to watch sports. Nor, for that matter, am I afraid to watch the NFL playoffs. In fact, I’ve been doing so with my typical abandon this year despite the fact that it often feels like I have more kids than the Walton’s.

Plus the Brady’s.

And the more I watch these NFL playoffs, the more my wife’s pregnancy seems to resemble them.

Let’s start with the esthetically obvious. At 13 weeks, my lovely and petite wife is starting to show — just a slight hump between her breasts and hips. About the size of, well, a football.

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What to Expect When You’re NOT Expecting: Old, Tired, Pregnant and Surprised

Hard to believe we're adding one more to this posse.

When my wife and I first got married, there was no question that we wanted to have a child. However, that’s exactly what I wanted—a child. Caroline? She wanted two.

Turned out she was carrying the number we both wanted. Combined. Which, of course, tabled our debate. Thanks to my stepdaughter, the triplets meant a second, third and fourth child. And the only fifth we were interested in was in our liquor cabinet. You know, to occasionally calm the nerves which four kids were sure to rattle.

But you know what?

Read the rest at Man of the House (You kinda have to b/c it’s my birthday. Please?!)

The Million Dollar Question

The million-dollar question.

Yesterday was a big day. It was our first ultrasound. Technically, it’s still a little early. Lovie’s only six weeks along. But the nurse tech was nice enough to make an exception for us given how anxious she knew we were.

The last time Lovie was pregnant, I still owned the countertop business. And we were particularly busy at the time.  That’s why my wife suggested that I stay at work. After all, she knew that if I were to take a couple of hours in the middle of my day to accompany her, I’d be home that much later that night. And in those days, I was already coming home late enough as it was. So I skipped it.

When Lovie asked me if I wanted to come this time, I was quick to answer. “You’re damn right I do,” I began. “The last ultrasound I missed yielded triplets. Missing this one is a chance I’m just not willing to take.”

Since the moment we found out that Lovie was pregnant, the million dollar question on both of our minds has been How many? All our friends told us to relax. The odds were overwhelming that there was just one.

But when it comes to odds, Lovie and I have proven that we’re not afraid to land on the slim ones. In fact, for Lovie to even get pregnant without any help was extremely unlikely. It was that unlikelihood which served as the answer to yet another million-dollar question often asked to us by our close friends — If y’all didn’t want any more children, why didn’t you ever do anything about it?

It’s not like we never discussed it. A few days before her C-section for the triplets, I encouraged Lovie to get her tubes tied. “You know. Since the hood’ll be up, and all. May as well let the mechanic multi-task.”

“You’re a jackass. You know that?” she asked. “I don’t want to get my tubes tied. Why don’t you just get snipped?”

Simple. This jackass is scared of the knife. Plus, I hate frozen peas. The last thing I’d wanna do is sit on ’em. Various incarnations of this stalemate manifested itself over the past three years. And after each one, Lovie and I were left to take solace in the aforementioned unlikelihood turned million-dollar-question answer. Why didn’t we ever do anything about it?

Because we thought it was all but impossible for Lovie to get pregnant.

Of course, that notion failed to take into account one undeniable fact. Since the day I was born, I’ve been flat-out getting shit done, y’all. PERIOD. It’s how I operate. So in that respect, I suppose it should have come as no surprise.

But it was a surprise, and though we had gotten our hands around it to a certain extent, I was still completely and totally freaked out as I sat in the waiting room alongside Caroline yesterday, nervously tweeting a rhetorical question to my tweeps. Surely there’s just one, right?

I, in fact, was not so sure. My gut told me that there were two in hers. Possibly even three.

“I think I’d actually almost be happy if there were only two,” I said to Lovie while we waited.

“You talk like there’s a litter inside me,” she uttered while casually flipping through a magazine. “I’ve gotten good with it. No matter how many,” she said.

“Even if there’s three?” I asked.

“Well, yeah, even if there’s three. I mean, what are we gonna do, you know?”

“Honey,” I started, “I don’t know what you’re gonna do if there’s three. But I know what I’m gonna do. But before I tell you, I want you to know that this was an incredibly difficult decision. That said, if you’re pregnant with triplets, I’d have no choice but to leave your ass.”

She handled it rather well, responding to my shocking announcement with a simple question. “Oh yeah? What if there’s just one?”

“One? You’re good. One and I’m stayin’.”

“Oooh. Lucky me. What about two?”

I looked out the window and pondered that one. Funny I didn’t have an answer, given that my gut had us pegged for twins.”Two would be a game-time decision,” I finally concluded.

And as fate would have it, a game-time decision that I won’t have to make. Because the ultrasound revealed just one gestational sac. (Praise the Lord.) Of course, there could always be two babies inside one sac via identical multiples, but there was only one yolk and, most importantly, only one heartbeat detected.

And as I saw the pitter-patter of our little baby’s heart via the grayscale image on the GE monitor, mine grew warm with love. For the first time since I went into shock shortly after pulling out of the Dunkin’ Donut’s parking lot, the reality of the situation finally dawned on me. I could tell from the look on Caroline’s face that it had dawned on her, too.

After the ultrasound, we raced like kids into the parking lot, both wearing a grin from ear to ear, one that only got bigger as we squeezed each other tight right next to our car. You know what I think now? I think that on some level, Caroline and I were way more open to having another baby than either of us ever realized.

God willing, in about 34 weeks from now, we’ll be doing just that. And I wish I could somehow convey  just how fired up we are about it.

Happy Thanksgiving, y’all. This will be one of our most special ones, yet.

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It’s the Holidays — What Were You Expecting?

Wait, what?

It was Sunday, November 7, the first day of daylight savings time, and I was fired up about the extra hour. In fact, I stretched it to two by sleeping til 8 as opposed to my regular 7. True to form, Lovie did no such thing. By the time I stumbled into the kitchen, the tiny trio were already finished with their breakfast and out of their highchairs, roaming about like diminutive tyrants as my industrious wife cleaned their royal carnage. The sweet scent of syrup told me it was pancakes the monarchs had devoured.

I felt like such a deadbeat for not being a part of the culinary efforts that I offered to assume full responsibility for two-thirds of our toddlers. With Pookie at her dad’s house, that would leave my wife just one child with which to contend. And one child? That’s a flat-out layup.

Biggs wanted to stay with Mommy, so I corralled Monster and Peanut and took them upstairs to the playroom where, by complete coincidence, there happened to be a television tuned to ESPN, thereby allowing me to preview all the day’s upcoming football contests. In front of said TV sits a blue couch — an extremely comfortable blue couch.

The table was set for some good ol’ fashioned multi-tasking via a controversial but effective supervisory technique known as sleep-parenting. I, um, read about it. In a book. Or magazine. Somewhere.

Anyway, there I was, minding my own business, sleep-parenting on the comfy blue couch in the bonus room with Monster and Peanut playing contently nearby (and quietly—which is critical for sleep-parenting), when Biggs stumbled in with the phone.

“Call Mommy.”

I quickly dialed her cell, concerned that my often misinterpreted sleep-parenting was about to be called under attack (yet again).

“Hello,” she said from the kitchen.

“What’s up, babe? You need something?” I asked, in my best wide-awake voice.

“I’ve been obsessing over something that I have to tell you about.”

“What’s that, honey?”

“I think I’m pregnant.”

Holy shit.


“I think I’m pregnant.”

Holy, holy, holy shit. As in the very most holy of shits — I’m talking Mahatma-Gandhi-type fecal matter, here. Okay, stay cool. Obviously a false alarm.

“What? Why do you think that? Are you late or something?” I asked, suddenly no longer worried about my voice. I was confident that it was far from sleepy-sounding.

“No. I’m not supposed to start until next week.”


“Stop worrying, then. I’m sure we’re good.”

“I don’t know,” she countered before continuing with my boobs, this and my body, that.

“Well what do you wanna do about it?” I asked.

“Take a pregnancy test,” she answered.

“HELL no,” I replied. “That’s WAY too much drama for a Sunday. I am NOT signing up for that.”

Twenty minutes later, my candy-ass was double parked in a blue handicapped zone outside of Walgreens while Lovie was busily be-bopping along the family-planning aisle. Only the three screaming toddlers in the backseat reminded me that we were planning no such thing. Neither one of us wanted to have another child.

“Sorry,” Lovie said as she got back in the car. “Couldn’t find it right away.”

“Did you take it?” I asked.

“Are you crazy?” she answered. “I’m not taking a pregnancy test inside of a drug store. I’ll wait til we get home.”

“No you won’t,” I answered. “You’re taking it now!”

“What? You’re the one who didn’t even wanna do it today to begin with.”

“True,” I began. “But since you overruled me, I’m all about finding out as soon as possible. So, chop-chop, Pooh Bear. Where do you wanna take your test?”

“You’re getting coffee, right?” she said.

“You’re gonna rock a pregnancy test at Dunkin Donuts?” I asked.

“What’s wrong with Dunkin Donuts? There’s usually a line for the drive-through. I can take care of business while you’re waiting.”

Which is exactly what my beautiful wife did. And it timed out perfectly. Just as we were pulling away from the pick-up window, she was walking out the door. And by the time the dust settled, I wound up with a large coffee (cream and sugar), a bagful of glazed donut holes, and…

and a fifth child.

In what can best be described as complete role reversal, for once, the triplets were quiet as church mice, kindly leaving the crying to Lovie and me, which we did as quietly as we could, stealing quick glances at one another and holding hands above the center consul, our soft sobs occasionally interrupting the sing-songy banter of Dora and Diego.

Another baby.

Onesies. Baby gates. Johnny Jump-Ups. Bodreaux’s Butt Paste. Those velcro things that attach to and dangle from the car seat handle.

Another baby.

Boppy pillows. Blankets. Diapers. Bottles. Burp cloths.

Another baby.

Gliders. Bouncy seats. Vaseline. Baby Bjorns. Rattles. Exersaucers. Those plastic, squeezy bugger-extracting dealies I’ve never seen anyone use.

Another baby.

Holy shit.

Eventually we pulled it together and went to a different Walgreens, one where we had understood we could get an actual blood test. But the pharmacist said we were misinformed. They had no such test there. She did, however, look at our pregnancy test and confirmed what we had suspected. It appeared as if Lovie was, indeed, pregnant. False negatives, she explained, happen from time to time, but false positives were exceedingly rare.

Three hours earlier I had walked into the kitchen feeling guilty for oversleeping. That moment, I was stumbling through a drugstore in a literal state of shock, watching silently as Lovie compared two different brands of prenatal vitamins.

Unplanned child number five. The one we thought was impossible to have. The one we thought could have only come about with the assistance of fertility treatments. The one our calendars say will arrive just in time for our 42nd birthdays. The one that…

Holy shit. What if there’s more than one?

The first ultrasound’s next Tuesday. I’ll make sure to provide y’all with regular updates as this is sure to be a wild ride. But I can promise you one thing. Lovie, Pookie, Monster, Biggs, Peanut, Briggs (our dog), and me? We’re up for it.

We’re good like that.


Photo: MorgueFile

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