Whoops...and other musings.

A few months ago (two or three to be precise, although saying two or three doesn't really make it very precise does it? I'm not great with numbers or time management.) I had a child. Which is to say, Rachel did the actual heavy lifting, since my role in that entire episode was to stand there looking confused and occasionally yell loudly into the call button so that someone would come and stand at the foot of Rachel's bed, wondering aloud why her drugs weren't working, and then leave to find somewhere quieter, presumably somewhere with less screaming, and maybe fewer sources of profanity. I found the entire thing extremely exhausting. Not only did I have to leave my comfortable bed at 2:30 AM to drive Rachel to the hospital; not only did I have to spend the next 14 hours watching someone I care about deeply writhe in pain while attached to incessantly beeping machines; not only did I have to listen to nurses and anesthesiologists chat casually about their vacations while Rachel peed into a tube and tried to push a living creature out of her body; not only did I have to walk her down the hall towards the OR for her C-section only to be told that someone else just had their baby crown and we'd have to wait until it was delivered before they could operate on her; not only did I have wait outside the OR, dressing in maddeningly complex paper gowns with booties and paper masks; not only did my child have to be born listening to 867-5309 by Tommy Tutone at 4:20 PM so that he could be subjected to the same tired marijuana joke for the rest of his life; but I had to ask the hospital staff if they had any extra pillows so that I could sleep on an uncomfortable makeshift couch in the same room as the mother of my child. They found me one. One. In the entire hospital, they were able to come up with one extra pillow. I've stayed at Motel 6's with better customer service.

I can hear what you're thinking: she gave birth in a hospital, not a Hilton. But honestly, given the amount we had to pay the anesthesiologist for screwing up his only job, I think Women's East could spring for a couple of pillows and a comfortable cot.

Anyway.

On to the beginning of the story.

Jackson Robert DeVore was conceived, entirely by accident, sometime in October 2008. That's the "whoops" part of my story. Rachel and I aren't married. We had been dating around 8 months when it happened. We met at work. We liked each other. We fell in love. That's that. But we weren't prepared to have a child, believe me. Rachel has one already. She has Avery, her 9 year old daughter from her previous marriage, and she was convinced that she wasn't having another one.

I, on the other hand, have never even had a cat. I, on the other hand, play lots of World of Warcraft and watch reruns of South Park and still laugh uproariously at Beavis and Butthead. I, on the other hand, had never even seen a baby close up. In fact, I avoided them like the plague. I have friends in childcare. I have friends with children. But I had no interest in having one of my own. Why would anyone do this if not by accident? So far, Jack has been noisy, messy, exhausting, frustrating, worrying, and perfect. Notice that's one positive adjective to five negative. And while "perfect" probably outweighs the others, the sheer number of negatives indicate that you have to be insane to have children on purpose. And he isn't even mobile yet!

But, despite the minimal precautions Rachel and I put forward (yes, minimal. Smart people sometimes aren't that bright), Jack decided it was necessary to exist. So what were we going to do? I couldn't very well tell him no; he wasn't even aware that I was part of the equation. So, Rachel and I decided that we were going to have a kid. Or at least, it was decided that we were going to have a kid. I always find it amusing that children are frequently borne out of blatantly irresponsible behavior.

So the overall purpose of this blog will be to track the adventures of my complete ineptitude in caring for a baby.

Let's see how much fun it is.