Happy Halloween!

Good morning and Happy Halloween to all.

Essentially, this will be our first Halloween in two years. Last year's holiday was unofficially canceled because of Hurricane Wilma. Although we've now been in our neighborhood for a year-and-a-half, this will be the first time that we actually get to see how Halloween works in our neck of the woods.

Our 9-year-old neighbor has been hanging out at our house quite a bit in recent days. Apparently, having a baby means that your house is now open to children who like to just show up and watch us be parents. While helping us scoop out the junk from inside of our pumpkin last night, she warned us about a neighborhood scam that happens every year at this time. We've been told to look out for teenagers who get candy from us, then go to the end of the street, change into another costume and return for a second helping. Personally, I admire the creativity of these mini-entrepreneurs and I may reward them with a third piece of candy just for the effort. If it gets out of hand, I'm prepared to set up a little CSI lab and fingerprint each child as they receive their first Almond Joy. When they come back, we'll give them a can of tuna so they know we're on to them.

On the other side of the street, our neighbors have asked us to join them at the end of the driveway for chili.

Yes, that's right... chili. This is their Halloween tradition. As an adult, I actually prefer slow-cooked meat and beans to Butterfinger bars. However, I would have to guess that the kids in the neighborhood will be more than a little annoyed when somebody plops a ladel-full of chili into their pillowcase. We'll just play along and avoid making waves. After all, we're still the "new people" in the neighborhood. Maybe we'll bring some Saltines out there as an extra treat for the kids.

I'm told it might be illegal for us to give shots of Jagermeister so we might wait a year before we figure out what our inappropriate tradition will be.

I guess the chili thing works for them, because they seem very excited about it. Maybe I'll tell them that I still curse the old lady who used to give out nickels in my neighborhood. I wonder what ever happened to that horrible old woman. Maybe she's giving kids dimes now.

Wanted: Evil Spider Monkey

I am Purel's customer of the year. I wash my hands with a frequency that would make any OCD patient proud of me. Since October 1, I've turned into a bonafide germaphobe in an effort to protect the 7 pound creature who has taken over our home. Somehow, this has backfired and I now have an ass-kicking cold.

I remember a simpler time, when I could cough freely and throw caution to the wind in these situations. In fact, I live by the "feed a cold" strategy and take those opportunities to eat with less guilt.

Now, everything has changed and I'm tiptoeing around the house hoping not to infect the Undaling or Mrs. Undaground. This is very difficult, considering I'm the go-to person in the household for swaddling duty. So, I will continue to administer the Vitamin C I-V drip and popping Echinacea tablets like they're Chicklets.

But mark my words, I will find the evil spider monkey who is carrying this wretched virus I've somehow contracted. Then, I will nail him with a tranquilizer dart, put him in a dunk tank/display case in my front yard and charge gullible neighborhood children their entire allowance to dunk the monkey. Stupid freaking monkey.

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens

Even though the Undaling is just 3 1/2 weeks old, it's clear that he's already figured out some of his favorite things.

I've found that he doesn't care much for doorbells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodles at this point in his life. Sadly, he's yet to experience snowflakes that stay on his nose and eyelashes. Honestly, how long could a snowflake actually survive on an eyelash in South Florida?

I'm sure some of his favorite things will soon change, once he has a chance to enjoy all the toys he has. Until then, here's what he seems to enjoy most now:

The Female Breast: I'm not just talking about his "meal ticket". The boy loves boobs. Lactation is not required. He will pull and grab and squeeze any breast within striking distance of his short little arms. I wonder if he knows that he has only about two years to live it up, because any groping he does over the next few years will be considered "adorable". From ages two to sixteen-or-so, it will probably be considered an embarassing invasion of personal space. After that, it's definitely sexual harassment.

Flourescent Lighting: Once he's older and his home decor taste develops, he'll probably appreciate more soft lighting that helps create an ambience. Now, the brighter and more profane the lighting, the better. He could sit and stare at a flourescent light for hours, or until he experiences boob withdrawal.

Showers: The boy loves water poured on his head; there is no denying this. Every two days, he gets a sink shower, and the look on his face can best be described as a zen-like trance. It probably doesn't hurt that there is flourescent lighting in our bathroom. Throw in the fact that he's usually being held by somebody with boobs at this time, and he's literally in baby paradise. How often do you get to experience your three favorite things at one time? I'm not sure I could ever achieve that myself. I do know it would involve watching TV while eating a hunk of parmesan cheese, but I'd rather not get into the rest of it.

Baby Talk

I'm not moving from this position until Daddy comes home from work.

Has anybody ever seen E.T.?

How dare you call me a bandwagon fan.

Hey, other babies... Don't hate me because I'm beautiful. I was just born this way.

Researchers Have Found

Researchers in South Florida have learned some important, little-known facts of life over the past three weeks. So far, the single biggest discovery seems to be this:

Grunting is hereditary.

This particular researcher always thought that grunting was learned and nurtured over a period of years as it builds to a crescendo in the golden years. Not so. Grunting actually begins at birth, and in some bloodlines it fills every quiet moment for one reason or another.

While an adult male may grunt when bending to pull on his socks or when trying to lift a couch, tiny newborn grunts have been recorded for many reasons. Most of the time, it means they are trying to poop for the twelfth time in a 24-hour period. Other grunts can be detected when they attempt to free their hand from a tightly-wrapped blanket, or when deciding exactly where to deposit a regurgitated dolyp of milk (Dad's upper torso is a favorite drop-point).

Somebody please notify the industry bigwigs, because I believe this discovery will lead to a few revisions in those pesky "medical journals".

A Baby Story: Part 2 (Electric Boogaloo)

The next 24 hours kind of went like this:

245am: Transferred to the labor and delivery room and hooked up to a monitor.

4am: Mrs. U starts getting very small contractions according to monitor.

430am: Mrs. U makes good use of the bedpan, then eats 4 ice chips for the nausea.

5am: Nurse 1 tells Mrs. U: “Go easy on the ice chips. Oh, and the sky is blue.”

6am: Nurse 1 starts Pitocin drip to bring on labor.

7am: Doctor makes a quick appearance to say hello, then disappears for 12 hours to coach a little league game and enjoy the rest of his Saturday.

730am: Nurse 2 begins her shift and tells Mrs. U: “You have to eat more ice chips. Oh, and the sky is green.”

8am-6pm: Social hour in the delivery room. Many visitors and little, laughable contractions, but no labor yet. In between visitors, the Undaground continually asks the nurse whether the little league game has gone into extra innings.

7pm: Doctor returns from a hard day of being on call and examines Mrs. U for the first time, then breaks the rest of her water.

701pm: Labor begins. After a day of Pitocin, it’s intense from the very beginning.

12am (Sunday, Oct 1): Epidural inserted, all is well.

12:10am: Three nurses run into the room to give Mrs. U a shot of Ephedra and an oxygen mask after a reaction to the epidural. Order and blood pressure restored.

12:30am: Nurse 3 tells Mrs. U and me to take a nap. Oh, and the sky is purple.

4:00am: Nurse 3 wakes us up. Tells Mrs. U she is progressing wonderfully (4-5 centimeters).

4:01am: Mrs. U and I do the math and figure out that we have about 5 to 6 more hours to go before pushing begins.

4:05am: Five nurses run into the room, start prepping Mrs. U for surgery with the Doctor on the cell phone. Throw me a pair of scrubs to put on and tell me to stand in the hallway until they’re ready for me. Then, they wheel Mrs. U out of the room and down to the operating room.

4:31am: The Undaling is born. We wait a split second to hear his cry, then feel the greatest rush of relief that one could ever imagine. One nurse tells me from behind the sheet:

“Dad, look over here at your son.”

I immediately look over the sheet and down at my wife’s surgery in progress. Oops. I guess she meant for me to look over there. Yes, there he is at the table. I see a gaggle of nurses surrounding a tiny little boy with a full head of rock-star hair. Two minutes later, he’s in our arms… and we are officially parents.

And life as we know it will never be the same.

A Baby Story. Part 1

The Undaground is back.

Sorry for the long layoff. I do have a good excuse, though.

I hope to get back to my normal schedule now as it pertains to this blog. I must warn you that I will be operating on less sleep than normal, so I may dangle a few modifiers or confuse “their”, “there” and “they’re” here and their.

The break from the writing was necessary, but now I’m left with a brain full of things that I never wrote about. I’ve probably forgotten a bunch of stuff, but I’ll do my best to fill in the blanks of the last few weeks. Sooner or later, I’ll have to catch up to the present day. My vast experience in using Tivo and navigating the past, present and future by taking advantage of today’s technology should help me in this effort. I guess I could start at the beginning and tell you about the birth.

Friday, Sept 29, Mrs. Undaground and I were entertaining her parents just one night after we all went to the Santana concert (seems like years ago).

Over the course of the evening, I consumed 8 to 12 beers, a bleu cheese burger, mozzarella with tomatoes, Halibut, stuffed flounder, pita chips with lobster dip, Baileys and Coffee, and about 10 other delectable items that I’ve chosen to block from my memory.

After a quick bleary-eyed Tivo session (to watch the Survivor episode that aired during the Santana show), the wife and I retired to bed.

I was just entering the deep, Heineken Premium Light-induced sleep at about 1230am when Mrs. U uttered the following phrase.

“I’ve either peed my pants, or my water broke.”

“Are you kidding? If this is the beginning of a running, nightly joke, please tell me now.”

“Let’s give it a few minutes and we’ll see.”

Because of the food, beer and Irish Crème swimming around in my belly, I guess I was hoping she had peed her pants. We’d all have a good story to tell some day and then maybe her water could break tomorrow. I could properly prepare my body for the event by eating fruits and vegetables and maybe some calisthenics. I closed my eyes again, returning to the game of catch I was having in my almost-sleep with one of the cornfield guys from Field of Dreams. I was jarred back to consciousness by my wife’s voice.

“It’s still happening. I think this is it.”

“OK. I’m awake. Whoa. Hold on.”

At this time, I did what any responsible adult would do when faced with a life-altering moment: I plodded into the bathroom like an injured Yeti, and grabbed the toilet. I wretched a couple of times. Then, I let it all go. It was disgusting. I just started writing a description of what came out of me, and then backspaced over the whole thing. There is no good that can come from those words.

As I brushed my teeth vigorously, I hollered through the toothpaste foam filling the bathroom:

“I’ll be right with you. Sorry about this. Can you hold off on having a baby for a minute until I gather myself?”

We quickly realized that although the water had broken, Mrs. U was not actually in labor. My physical symptoms were more consistent with labor than hers at that point. I was literally having contractions of my own, except my body was pushing up instead of down. I was taking sympathetic pregnancy to a whole new level.

The gruesome scene in the bathroom actually made me feel a lot better. And, voila, I was sober. Now, it was time to focus on the task at hand. Ladies, if you’re pregnant, please go pack a bag right now. Don’t wait until your water breaks. For the next few hours, we did just that. Mrs. U took a shower. I filled up the dog’s water dish and calmly explained to her that she will now be referred to as “Number 2” on our list of dependents.

We woke Mrs. U’s parents and let them know that we were going to the hospital, but go back to sleep, because it may just be some renegade urine.

We arrived at the hospital at about 230am. Once there, we entered through the emergency room. If you’ve never visited an emergency room in the wee hours of a Friday night/Saturday morning, I highly recommend it. It’ll give you a good look at what’s going on in the underbelly of the real world while you’re at home sleeping off a halibut and Heineken cocktail. We were escorted to labor and delivery by a friendly security guard. I guess he was friendly; he didn’t speak English. For all I know, he called us a couple of jackasses in his native tongue. Whatever he said, he said it in a friendly way.

Soon after, we were sitting in a room called “Triage”. As a nurse examined Mrs. U, I was considering asking what I need to do to get hooked up to an I-V. Then, she looked up at us.

“Yep. The membrane ruptured. Congratulations. You’re going to have a baby today.”

More tomorrow.

Meet the Undaling

10/1/06
4:31 am
6 lbs 1 oz
Somewhere between 18 and 19.5 inches long

Bear with me over the next week-and-a-half. I will try to post what I can, but it will be sporadic until my paternity leave is over.