Working the Zombie Period

We are both particularly blessed in our work. The Spousal Unit works from home as an Information Technology Manager. Basically, he's like Tank from The Matrix, reading the codes, making sure his teammates can dodge bullets.

This sometimes makes me jealous when I think of how comfortable pajamas are, and how nice it would be to be able to mine for the odd nostril-clinger without restraint. There's nothing so embarrassing as flaring your nostrils at the mirror in your office, Kleenex in hand, when someone walks in to meet with you. It's so awkward. You just have to muddle through the meeting, but you both know what they saw. You both know.


I am a Senior Executive Director (sounds fancier than it is) in the largest senior healthcare company. I spend my days working with crazy people a lot like Sybil or Dorey the Bluefish. Together, these crazys and I take good care of those with Alzehimer's and related dementia. I genuinely love the work I do and the people I work with. We are truly a family - we may be the Addams family, but we're a family just the same. Somehow or another, I am their fearless leader; their Gomez Addams. How could I leave them?

Perhaps I'm conflicted by some misguided, misplaced paternal instinct. Leadership, I imagine, must not be that different from fatherhood. I teach and guide them, defend and protect them, pick them up when they fall, and help them believe in their ability to accomplish more than they expect of themselves. Occasionally, they throw up or dump their poop on me (verbally at least). They are important people in my life. Thankfully, everyone is potty-trained, or really good at hiding the fact that they aren't.

When planning for the initial portion of the transition to parenthood, the Spousal Unit and I discussed each taking a bit of time off from work. At first, I wondered how I would be away from work; how I would leave them unattended. What would people think? Is it normal? Will my bosses treat me weird?

Then I come to my senses and realize that everyone's poop will still be there, and that if need be I can help everybody get their poop in a group again upon my return. After all, I do have more sick-time than god. They'll survive, and so will I. Besides, according to my research, no amount of coffee will remedy the harrowing sleep deprivation that will undoubtedly turn us into zombies scrambling to find our brains as we inadvertently stir formula into our morning beverage, fall asleep while peeing and dream of the day child-safe sleep aides will be invented.

Being away until we get into a groove just makes sense. No. No one wants to see their fearless leader with bags under his eyes so bad that Louis Vuitton wants to brand them. To allow sufficient time for the under-eye area to return from my chin, we think 3 or so weeks away will do.


The day is fast approaching. Soon, we'll be learning to sleep for 1-2 hours at a time, make a bottle one-handed, clean vomit out of our hair without having to shower, and the difference between the "poop all the way up the front cry" and the "I'm just going to scream for no good reason until you question your sanity cry". We'll give. She'll take. Period. And we'll LOVE every gruesome, messy, poopy, cranky, puking, alarm going off 5 seconds after having fallen asleep, whining, diaper-buying minute of it!

11 Questions, 11 People

Greetings Earthlings! With a few minutes to sit and type, I thought it wise to carpet the "M". For those of you that don't know, that's Aladdin for "seize the day". So let's get this party started.

On Saturday, a bit of sunshine visited my email inbox. Really. Apparently, people actually read, or at least attempt to read, the cerebral incontinence I have made a habit of recording here. Those same people have nominated me for a "Sunshine Award". It's a bit more like a public outlet for a chain letter than an actual award, and given the rules of acceptance, it should eventually be passed to everyone that keeps a blog on the subject of adoption, much like that weird Christmas present you plan to re-gift that will no doubt be re-gifted dozens of times.

Still, I feel special just the same. Knowing that my journey has meaning for someone other than myself makes me feel ever-so-slightly less like that homeless guy we saw on the sidewalk at the gas station shouting "HEY" at himself over and over again. Poor sod. Why do crazy people have to let their hair get like that?!? If I had to fashion a cutting tool from empty tin cans, make styling product from puddles of motor oil, and wash my hair in a urinal, I would have good hair, but I digress.

The award asks a series of 11 questions to which I am to provide answers. Then, I'm supposed to pass the award on by nominating 11 other bloggers and composing 11 questions for them to answer. This places me squarely amid a presumably peculiar predicament. See, I don't read anyone else's blog. Perhaps I'll start, so long as it doesn't interfere with my hair. In the meantime, I'll track down a handful of other people's blogs that pique my interest and nominate them.

On to the questions they've asked:

1)Name a favorite memory from your childhood that you want to have with your child.

Cardboard. That's the name I would give the memory. I couldn't tell you where it came from, but I remember being very little and my mother helping us to make a house out of the cardboard box a refrigerator came in. We cut a door and windows with shutters. We drew shrubs and flowers on the front, made curtains out of paper towels, and had a smaller box inside for a table with milk crate chairs. 

What strikes me about the memory is that we had plenty of toys to play with. It wasn't that we lacked or wanted for anything, just that she wanted to play with us. Thanks to her valuable play-lessons, I am prepared to live style and comfort even if all I've got is a box.    

2)What is your favorite movie and what does it mean to you?

Until recently, this would have been a very straight-forward answer. Now, this is tied between "What Dreams May Come" and "Cloud Atlas". Both have a very similar existential message: we create ourselves through the eyes of others, and it is in the reflection of love in those eyes that we live forever. 

3)What is the parenting moment you are most looking forward to?

The parenting moment I am most looking forward to is the Spousal Unit getting shit, pee, or puke in the face. Quite honestly, I'm most looking forward to seeing him grow into Papa. We both believe the greatest give we will ever give the little miss is our love for each other and for her. It is possible to divide this kind of love and it not be lesser.

4)What is your first childhood memory?

My earliest childhood memory would be me, in tighty-whiteys and a giant over-sized t-shirt that hung to my ankles, recounting how I'd caught a fish bigger than my dad's to a living room full of my parents guests. Or, being asked by my mother after getting home from kindergarten where I'd learned the word, "fuck", and why I would tell a girl "fuck you" because she stole my dump-truck in the sandbox. 

5)How did you meet your significant other?

Significant is a strong word. I prefer Spousal Unit. It encompasses everything. Let's face it, a spouse should be EVERYTHING; and he is. Sometimes he makes me all squishy and emotive. Other times he validates my theory that under the right circumstances, anyone can have homicidal thoughts. Sometimes, he rocks my world, other times, he is my rock.

We met through friends at a movie night. He was 19, I was 21. We both smoked, because of course canary-yellow teeth were fashionable then. I was actually recovering from surgery and having difficulty reaching for the ashtray. He jumped up from across the room and grabbed it for me, put it in my hand, and then sat next to me. GAWD! How Jerry Springer does that sound nearly 14 years later?

6)What has been your favorite adoption moment so far?

Seeing her face and hearing her heartbeat on 3D/4D ultrasound.

7)What is the best advice you have gotten about adoption?

The best advice we've been given came from a 82yo woman who raised two adopted children. Both had problems, both turned out just fine and very successful. She said, "Just remember. People will tell you adopted children are different from biological children. Those people have typically never raised an adopted child. They will have problems, just like any child, and just like any child you just love them. Love them, love them, love them, and everything will be all right".

8)What makes you laugh?

I laugh hardest when someone falls, bangs their toe, or is startled or spooked. Sorry if that makes me sadistic.

9)What have you been doing to prepare for the day you adopt?

Read my blog and find out.

10) What is the last book you have read?

At present I'm about half-way through "Brain Rules for Baby" by John Medina. I'm kind of a neuroscience buff.

11) What scares you the most about raising a child?

Boys.

That's it. My 11 questions answered. Stay tuned for our next episode where we discuss telepathy and labor laws. Now I'm off to find 11 people to Sunshine (kind of sounds like the opposite of mooning someone).

The Chowning Alliance

Hello blog-nerds! It has been Monday all day. Mondays and chaos seem to share an inexorably intertwined fate akin to the bond between a tick and a fat hound. Despite the Monday doldrums, I managed to leave work at 5:25pm and decided that with all my extra time I'd update you on our journey down the bumpy road toward parental bedlam.

Apparently, children, especially of the infantile variety, do strange things like puke and poop a multitudinous pallet of colors that completely bewilders the mind when compared to the monochromatic stuff that actually went into them. Supposedly, this mystical ability to transmogrify infant formula into liquids and solids across the spectrum can, in certain situations, be indicative of, or predict health, sickness and various other conditions.

This of course begs the question: can the emesis of babies be examined and interpreted to find the winning lotto numbers? Stay tuned. I'm sure the answer will befall us.

You may wonder why one would suddenly be interested in poop health, and if you'll shut the hell up and quit interrupting, I'll tell you. According to our research, and the demands of the Maternal Birth-Nerd, it became necessary for us to find a pediatrician. Simple enough right? Not so much.

As soon as you realize you need something, and that there are numerous choices, you find yourself instantaneously plagued with the fear of choosing the wrong one! This is quite an alien feeling for me as I make decisions for a living. Aside from making decisions that sway millions of dollars and profoundly affect people's lives, I decide things like what I want for dinner, what I want to wear to work, and whether or not to take a break now, or try and hold it until I get home.

There are even lots of people that depend on me to make decisions for them or about them, like the marketer who asked what I thought about her look to which I responded, "Sweetheart, the hair, the ankle-length denim? Honestly, you look like a Pentecostal. Can we at least do something fashionable with a haircut and some accessories"? In hindsight, the decision to recommend a few changes was correct and warranted. The decision to make a comparison, probably not - seeing as how, unbeknownst to me she was a Pentecostal.

WHOOPS! Open mouth, insert politically incorrect foot.

Anywho, lots of decisions. These don't typically prove difficult, but as with any decision, the endless research ensues. A brief consultation with the all-knowing interweb as interpreted by the metatron Google, reveals a plethora of pediatric people from which to choose.

Search terms like, "how to choose a pediatrician", generated countless lists, each with their own criteria. One thing I've learned though my years in healthcare is that you want doctors that are board-certified. Nowadays it may be tougher to find someone restricting their practice to pediatrics that isn't board-certified. Nonetheless, you'll want to be sure to avoid taking your child to a doctor who just got tired of doing breast implants and Botox and swapped out the sign on their door. Besides Babies would just look weird with the Hollywood frozen face.

A board-certified pediatrician means the doctor completed high-school, four years of college, passed the MKAT (entrance exam), then four years of medical school, then 3-5 years of residency in their chosen specialty, like pediatrics. They've also passed numerous exams along the way to get their license. They're also required to complete hours of continuous education each year to keep both their license and board certification.

Damn, I should've been a doctor. Had I known where my surplus education was taking me early on, I probably would've been. Probably would still, but the Spousal Unit has forbade me from the pursuit of further education for fear that my brain will SPLODE (and probably because he misses me when I'm a bookworm).

Ok, so board-certified. Next, distance. Let's face it, no parent (maybe with the exception of my mother) who is sleeping a couple of hours a night is going to want to have to get up, get dressed, pack-up, and travel to a remote doctor at the end of a 500-mile yellow-brick road, only to find out they were dreaming the whole damn time and Auntie Em was really there all along.

So we decided to begin our search with board-certified pediatricians within a ten-mile radius of home. We found the healthgrades website which helped. The parameters help narrow search results.

Since our chosen doctor will likely be following the Progenal Unit (yes, my word) until she is much older, we didn't want a doctor who had already aged enough for their face to look like a scrotum with eyes, which would no doubt cause her to run screaming from the exam room. It wasn't all about looks, as it was also important that we be able to relate from a generational perspective with him/her.

We also hoped to find someone a little bit nerdy, like us. Nerds are good peoples. Next, we went to the Texas Medical Board's website and researched the licensure of the few that we'd narrowed it down to. We zeroed in on just a couple that we wanted to interview in person.

Next we compiled a long list of questions from the almighty interweb and our own values. We reviewed the questions and decided on the answers we wanted to hear from the doctor prior to hearing the doctors answers. The healthcare executive side of me wanted to pick apart the business of the practice to ensure fiscal responsibility and solvency. The nurse side of me wanted to delve into the standards of care and compliance. In the end, the adoptive parent side of me had me all squishy and receptive. Totally weird.

The first test was an email to the practice to inquire about a meeting with the physician of choice, Dr.
Chowning of Alliance Pediatrics. Of note, I think it would be AWSEOME TO THE MAX if he changed the 'H' to an 'L', but then I recall children on the playground calling me Byron "Pounds" instead of Bounds and wonder if he endured similar torment. Better keep that thought to myself.

The email signature, "Thanks, Byron and Jonathan Bounds", would give us a chance to say, "Hey, we're adoptive parents, and we're same-sex adoptive parents". Yes, we know the world has grown up a lot, but you never know when a doctors office or, say, a fast-food chicken sandwich chain will voice their opposition to your family. And to Chick-fil-a, learn to spell your logo, you dumb bastards - it's Chicken Fillet.

Surprisingly, the response to our email was not only immediate, but an exuberant warmth seemed to exude from Terri's words (the gal who replied). Of those emailed, Dr. Chowning's office was the only that replied. Family acceptance test: CHECK, Responsiveness test: CHECK.

We made an appointment according to Terri's directions and went by the practice after hours. It looked cute as a button, smelled clean, and I didn't notice cobwebs. Cobwebs are a sign of complacency! Also, despite having droves of children through each day, the books and magazines were surprisingly straight and organized. Appearances test: CHECK.

Then we got to visit with Dr. Chowning. Nerdiness test: CHECK.

He was awesome. Despite our preparedness, it was an experience that made me a bit nervous. This is weird, because I don't do nervous. Dr. Chowning was in no hurry. He answered all of our questions as though he had been prompted for the interview beforehand. He appeared green enough to be passionate but learned and experienced enough to handle whatever, especially since he has FOUR CHILDREN of his own! He's only a year or two older than I am which means his parenting experience will be fairly relevant to ours.

When we were satisfied with his answers and what we could glean of his character of the brief encounter, we decided to end the meeting, but had a distinct feeling he would have liked it to be longer. Again, this is weird. Most docs are in a hurry and of a mind to give little credence to your inherent lack superior knowledge. Dr. Chowning was weird. Weird is kickass!

Pediatrician found: CHECK!

On the Moon of Baby

Life goes on, and life begins.

Having recovered somewhat from the intense feelings that led to my last post, I press on to the experience of new things.

This story begins on November the 11th, 2013. Actually it begins long before that with what the Spousal Unit calls nagging, and I call friendly reminders. A while back, we decided that a last hoorah was in order. Aside from not having taken a proper vacation in about five years and having become nearly lifeless, cheese-chasing automatons, we thought it would be nice to spend some time alone.


We needed to say goodbye to it being "just the two of us".

We decided on spending a week at a lovely spa resort in Puerto Morelos. The week would touch on five areas of life including: Physical, Cognitive, Social, Spiritual, and Nutritional. Each of these areas will change and grow in the near future.

As it happened, day 1 would prove to be highly stimulating cognitively. See, the Spousal Unit is a special creature. If one doesn't make the correct noises when approaching, it may become spooked and growl or bite. So, to get anywhere, you have to hold your mouth just right. Let me give you an example:

Spousal Unit Safe: "Dear, do you think we should plan for the trip by making a checklist prior to our departure weekend?"

Spousal Unit Unsafe: "Please make a list of everything we need to pack. We don't want to be unprepared."

Get it? One is all about his ideas, the other is not. The latter of the two may be unpredictably dangerous.

I have a "big picture" perspective in life, while the spousal unit has the more detailed "pin-point perspective". Both are beneficial. The Spousal Unit will often help me avoid being overly-concerned with that which has yet to happen or to have fun in the moment, while I help him draw connections and switch focus. Despite our symbiosis, on occasion, these opposing perspectives ever so gently bump one another like sub-atomic particles in the Hadron Collider.

After a handful of "friendly reminders" I have two options: get frustrated, or let it go and trust that everything will work itself out. Day 1 of our vacay didn't turn out to be one of those instances where it all worked out. We missed our flight.

OH LAWD! You would have thought someone was murdered. "Let's just forget the whole damn thing! This is fuckin' stupid and pointless", the Spousal Unit was heard to say while his face turned an ever brighter shade of nuclear fuschia.

When one of the people of Wal-Mart, masquerading as TSA agents, began raising her voice at the crowd to "MOVE TO THE RIGHT PEOPLE", I worried briefly that I would have to restrain the Spousal Unit from slapping her nicotine-stained, gold-toothed mouth so hard that the Aqua-net shell on her bleached-blonde, beehive bangs would shatter into shards and injure the surrounding crowd. Thankfully, I was eventually able to calm the beast and we caught the next flight out.

When we finally made it I was surprised to see just how jungley Puerto Morelos is. EVERYTHING was green and lush. During our stay we enjoyed a fantastic excursion that included a tour of four cenotes (sink-holes). When the shuttle arrived to take the group from the hotel we were a little taken aback when the tour-guide said that we should move further forward in the bus because we'd be going off-road shortly!

He was SO not joking. After what seemed like an hour of driving through jungle so thick we could scarcely see the sky, and thinking at least twice that we were being kidnapped and sold into slavery, we arrived. The cenotes were beautiful. We snorkeled, zip-lined, kayaked, and rappelled through and in underground pools and rivers of electric-blue waters.

The only problem I had with the whole experience was when it was my turn to rappel from a high-platform down into a rocky hole in the earth to the waters below. We were told that a staff member would be atop the platform holding our brake line to gently lower us in. When I surmounted the structure, I noted the nice Latino gentleman charged with my brake was about 5' tall and weighed something like a young girl. I'm 6'2.5 and 225lbs.  

I questioned him for assurance that he would be able to keep me from splattering on the rocks below. Of course he said, "No, senior, is ok. You go". I went alright - damn near down my legs. When I departed the platform I heard a large grunt behind me and felt the rope jolt as I dropped suddenly about two feet before he said, "Iiiee", and managed to stop the rope. You'll be happy to know that I made it safely into the cave, although it was tempting not to relieve myself once I was in the water.

By the second day, we'd relaxed into this magical aura of forgetfulness that allowed us to focus completely on one another, and the rest of the world to melt into nothingness. We ate beautiful foods, took long walks on the beach, napped in hammocks, went horseback riding through the jungle, shopped, played in the sand and even treated ourselves to a spa day.

On the final day of our babymoon, preparatory ritual, we adopted new names. We each had the little crafts-man make us a bracelet. One said "Daddy" and one said "Papa". We wrote our names in the sand and dedicated the rest of our life to one beautiful little-girl-to-be.

The entire experience was sublime and one we can recommend emphatically.

The Hole

This will be a sad post.

It seems like people from all walks of life deal with loss whole host of ways. Professionally, we refer to the process of coping with loss "grieving". Some people deal with loss by surrounding their self with friends and loved ones. Some people turn to a bottle of some sort. Some internalize everything, dimming their light just by a little for the rest of their lives.

Elizabeth Kubler Ross  taught that there are five stages of grieving: 1. Denial, 2. Anger, 3. Bargaining, 4. Depression, and 5. Acceptance. Although for a long time this was commonly accepted wisdom, it was erroneous in its presumption that people slowly and predictably recover from loss.

In my work, I've given numerous talks on the subject to audiences from all walks of life. What we now know is that while these "stages" of grief are fairly common, how they are experienced is not. They are best viewed as common elements of grief rather than stages experienced in a linear progression. A person may not experience each of the stages. They may experience them in any order, go back and forth between them, or get stuck on one forever. Nowadays, we even recognize something called anticipatory grief - coping with a loss that hasn't even happened yet.

Carl Gustav Jung, a contemporary of Sigmund Freud, some would say outdoer, hypothesized that whatever it is that makes up the psyche exists beyond its confinements in time and space. He also fathered an archetypal dynamic known as the Wounded Healer. In his day, before the age of having a plethora of instantly gratifying information to hand, he postulated some pretty amazing shit. The mythological origins of the wounded healer stem from ancient Greece and Asclepius, a sainted physician whose own wounds gave him the power to heal the same wounds in others. The problem is that he was unable to heal his own wounds. When studied later for validity or vanity, psychologists have found that nearly 80% of people who train as healers (whether psychological or otherwise) carried wounds that bore significance on their choice of profession.  

Yup. I've read a lot. Even before nursing school, even before undergrad or graduate studies, I was fascinated with all this shit. I've even talked with neuroscientists like Paul Nussbaum, who say there is sufficient evidence to eliminate the need for belief in an after. Yet despite my myriad obsessions like the brain, and neuroscience, and psychology, and logic, and academia, and sociology, and helping people, and striving ever, quite vainly, to be the smartest person I know; despite it all, it seems nothing can make me an expert in helping myself.

It is no surprise then how bad I hurt. Yesterday, Orson, our blue british shorthair, was having a hard time breathing. I may not know much about veterinary medicine, but having worked as a hospice nurse several years, I know labored, agonal breathing when I see it. Maybe it was just a side effect of the medication he'd been taking. Maybe it wasn't the lymphoma the vet strongly suspected when his pupils quit working two weeks ago and collapsed.

My brain, in a subdued and quiet panic, vacillated between reason and insanity; selfishness and gestalt. I reasoned that it was probably nothing, but just to be sure, we'd take him in so the vet could tell us we were just being paranoid. Once there, Orson was scared. We kept trying to reassure him by petting him and calling him a good boy while nuzzling his face.

They decided an x-ray was necessary. I hated that because I know they tie their front and hind legs with rope and stretch their bodies across a table to take a clear and steady picture. Then, because he was so stressed by the experience, they put him in an oxygenated kennel after trying to aspirate some of the fluid around his lungs with a long needle while he was still restrained.

The vet then called us in to look at the x-rays. She showed us how his lung was collapsed and his heart was displaced, probably by a large tumor, she said. She advised us that in this type of situation, aspirating the rest of the fluid would be painful and very temporary. She said it might buy us a day at a time. She said it was her recommendation that he be humanely euthanized.

No words could have hurt worse in that moment. My sweet fluffy baby had to go through all that just to be surprised with an untimely end. She sent us back to the exam room to wait while she put in an I.V. Then they brought him in so we could tell him goodbye. So hard.

After a while, they entered the room. He looked so scared, but I kept scratching him under his chin in his sweet spot, locking his eye in contact with mine, telling him I loved him so much. The vet put the first syringe in the IV and depressed the plunger. He meowed like it hurt. Then his eyes no longer seemed to be looking and his pupils dilated slowly. Once he was unconscious, she gave him the two final shots, listened to his heart and told us he was gone.

I have sobbed so much. You may think my response to the loss of a cat is unwarranted or dramatic, if so, fuck you! I have lost my loyal companion, the fluff that sucked up my sadness, the soul with no agenda but loving me and food that has been by my side for nine years; without judgment, or condition, or any malice.

I will have many joys in my life, each standing on their own merits, but none will serve as substitute for Orson. None will replace him. There will always be a hole where he once was.

I love you Orson. I wish you were here.

Raw Eyes

Maybe my body is preparing to be up at 3:00am every night because that's what time Elle will demand attention. Maybe I am anxiously anticipating the commencement ceremony this weekend. My eyes have been wide open since 2:45am. Either way it is a little aggravating since neither Elle or the ceremony are actually here yet, and I just micro-needled the shit out of my face to get rid of the bags under my eyes since the University's marketing team plans to interview me on camera. It is just far more convenient to have a tight and lifted appearance when on camera to keep cheeks from hanging down over your mouth so people can see what you're saying.


Although I've been finished with the grad-school thing for a while, Western Governors University - Texas only has 2 commencement ceremonies per year. Saturday, I will dress up, walk the stage, and have the provost put on my master's hood which basically signifies that I am business administration and healthcare management NINJA-WIZARD! Mainly it should signify to all my family and friends that I really haven't been just avoiding everyone, but rather working on myself.

We're expecting about 28 people to travel to Austin. 28!!! I didn't think I knew 28 people. It's very humbling, and makes me feel a little like something special. The Birth-Nerds will be there too. Afterward, we are planning to go for a 3D / 4D ultrasound.

Today, Elle is about 11 inches from her head to her butt and weighs about 3.5 pounds. I wish I could press skip on the remote and fast-forward to the delivery room, but I know she needs more time to grow to be healthy. It's a little weird, knowing she swimming around in the belly of the maturation chamber, poking ribs, nibbling on things and already testing her limits. I surmise that I could be a very rich man if I could develop some sort of belly window for pregnant women.

There is certainly a window in my head. That is, I keep imagining her. She's become a dominant feature in my mental landscape. Sometimes in business meetings, I may zone out and picture this little floating baby (as if the womb had accent lighting). Then it gets really creepy because we start having a conversation.

She'll ask me questions about what kind of parent I'm going to be, if I think Luca, Orson, and Kisho will like her. She'll ask me what kind of person I want her to be. I tell her I want her to be herself. She'll smile and tell me she loves me. I'll tell her that she is the Sun. I'll ask her how often she plans to wake up each night so I can plan around her schedule, she starts laughing and tells me mockingly that she's not gonna tell me nana nana boo boo. I'll say, "Oh you be quiet", realizing that I've said it out loud and am still sitting in the business meeting.

In all seriousness (HAHAHA!), the reality seems to have sunk in. I WILL BE A DADDY IN 78 DAYS OR LESS! And I can't wait. Lately, I've been stuck listening to what I call baby music like  Tycho (click here for sample) and John Legend. In particular I've been stuck on "Good Morning" by John Legend.

I am a morning person, but not by choice. I'd love to sleep until 9am, but have never been able to. I'm usually up by 5:00am everyday with or without an alarm. Now I picture peering into the crib in the early morning standing there staring until she wakes up and singing, "good morning, good morning, love...", while picking her up for her first warm snuggle of the day. Of course, that's probably when she'll puke in my face, but I am no less warmed by the idea of her, even when she's stinky and gross.

I've never felt happier since the day the Spousal Unit and I said "I do".

26 and 3

Howdy Blog!

It seems ungodly early this morning, but that is because I'm so tired that I creak when I move. The Birth-Nerds are snuggled neatly in the guest room bed. The Spousal Unit is un-tucked and sprawled across ours in a mess of dog and cats (see post blog post "Paper" for example). As for me, as is usual, I have been up since before the sun was twerkin' its ass crack up over the horizon.

The Birth-Nerds came this weekend to see the nursery, which is now mostly finished. What a process! If you ever decide you want to make yourself just a little crazier, choose a loverly chevron pattern for an accent wall in a room.

First you paint a basecoat. Then, you measure to find the center of the wall where it meets the baseboards and you place a dot with a pencil. Then, you measure six inches up and place another dot. You repeat this process until you become frustrated with your spouse for disappearing into their cell-phone while you strain your eyes. To express your frustration, you unleash a "silent but deadly" which starts a brief flatulence war that ends up chasing you both out of the room temporarily.

Next, you measure 10 inches to the right of each dot and you place another dot. You do this for each original dot moving to the right across the wall. Next you do the same for the left until you realize you should be using a level because thus far you've fuct everything up and have to back way up. At this point you argue with your spouse for a few minutes over the best way to accomplish the remainder of the project since you both have the best idea. Finally, you give-in to your spouse because you realize that he makes your dinner and think, much like the dog, you don't want to piss off the person that fills to food bowl when there are much bigger squirrels to chase.


At last, you connect the dots with this magnificent blue tape that doesn't delaminate your basecoat and also doesn't work worth a shit. You paint your stripes and remove the tape and then spend several hours after correcting each line by hand anyway. When all is said and done, you have a beautiful wall like the one pictured here. You stand back from it to admire your handiwork and think (despite numerous indications of ineptitude through the process), "Damn, we're good"!



I digress. In the old days, I thought I was cursed. I'd have a vision
of whatever, and know it was a good vision. Quite independently, I'd try to bring my vision to life. Often, folks would get hung-up on the process wondering what the hell I was up to. It wasn't until later in life that I realized that these pieces of bone and meat and wriggling muscle that we flap together while blowing air through them were useful in communicating vision with other people. That's when I decided to use this feature and learned my first word, "Dada".

Since then, speaking, writing, art, music, touch and all sorts of other modalities of communication have served me well as diapers to catch and deliver my cerebral incontinence to the masses. So it is strange to find myself in a position where there is a vision, but no words. That is where I am now.

 

When I hold the Neice, Kinley, or envision holding Elle, no words seem to sufficiently articulate how retarded it makes me feel. I am a nurse, a Master of Business Administration specialized in Healthcare Management, a Senior Executive Director, a skillful artist and a spouse of 13 years. I have served on industry political roundtable's, been in press and print, and have an IQ of 139. Despite all of this, Baby makes me feel so "special" I should be taking a short-bus to work!

My vocabulary reverts to that of Luca's. I neglect communicating with other humans. I lose my "big-picture" powers of objectivity, and processing power shrinks to a sphere the size of about 2 feet or less. I just LOSE everything for a half-witted, small hairless monkey, and am happy about it! Dare I say HAPPIEST about it!! (!!!)

So, now having experienced the stupefying power of these tiny hairless monkeys, I have decided to
study it while I am not helplessly trapped in its adamantine grip! Perhaps there is a way to harness or replicate this power in the stock market. At present, our tiny hairless monkey is 26 weeks and three days developed in the maturation chamber. I notice that the calendar that Maternal Birth-Nerd sent me says, "Sun, Oct. 06 - Day 185, 26 wks 3 days: Baby has a strong grip". Indeed.

Research indicates that after 26 weeks, entering the antepartum or

perinatal period, the chances of survival outside the womb have increased exponentially to a rate of greater than 90%. As such, we have put together a flashy habitat to distract the creature which will soon include wireless camera monitoring systems. This will allow me to study and monitor her from another room of the house where hopefully, she will have less of a diabolical sway over me. It is my hope that I can uncover her secret power and find a way articulate and replicate it.

Until then, I will continue to pour over the existing research. In the meantime, you can click here to see photos of the laboratory nursery thus far.

Quick Update

I've just realized that I'm already turning into one of those parents who embarrasses their children by showing compromising photographs. The difference is, that I am particularly talented in the strategy department!

HAHAHA! Elle, one day you will read this blog and see a picture of your toochie in the previous post. Although you will probably be able to hack into any piece of technology by then, I will not give you the password so that you can delete it unless you promise NEVER to date anyone I don't approve of, never to appear on a "Girls Gone Wild" dvd, always eat your vegetables and avoid addictive substances.

Due

Dear Blog Fans,

Please accept apologies for the long over-due update. Things have been STRAIGHT-JACKET NUTS of late. So, despite disappointing twos of fans, my attention was allocated to more important things like sleeping and being regular. If the Spousal Unit and myself weren't vegan, we'd be eating that Jamie Lee Curtis yogurt and harvesting stray sheep to count. Do they even still make sheep?

When last we spoke to ourselves, we'd just been found by our Birth-nerds. Since then we've spent quite a bit of time together. For reasons I will refrain from going into, we are no longer with the Independent Adoption Center. We have opted instead to pursue the remainder of our match with an attorney who is a pretty awesome chick!

We can offer one bit of important advice. When researching an agency (should you decide to use an agency) choose CAREFULLY. No amount of online research no matter how thorough can substitute for a conversation with a sufficient sampling of existing and former clients. DO NOT just speak with people the agency puts you in touch with! Instead run your fingers through the cesspool that is social media and drag up the real dirt. I can also say, that in some strange world should we decide to have a second child, we will not be returning to IAC.

In other news, the birth-nerds (birth-parents) came to spend a weekend with us here in stock-yard country. As one does when one is facing the unknown, the imagination ran wild until their arrival. What if they weren't who they said they were? What if they were really Transexual-Nazi Eskimos on a genocidal mission to kill us in our sleep and skin our pets to line the walls of their igloo-tanks?!? As it happened, neither proved to be the case.

The Paternal Birth-nerd is quite the geek, more laid-back, and finds humor in odd places just like we do. The Maternal Birth-nerd and maturation chamber for the Progenal-Unit is a big fizzy bottle of ADD goof-juice with just a little bit of froth under the cap, much like myself. Oh, and yes, I made up the word "progenal" because I can, and it is the only thing that fits in my mind.

After a hearty vegan breakfast of 'bacon'-maple, blueberry, and banana-nut waffles, we traipsed about town for a bit of nerdy fun. After a bit of shopping, we went to the Main Event where we enjoyed tons arcade games and the Maternal Birth-nerd and I rode several virtual reality rides. This was of course prior to learning that such rides are contraindicated for pregnant women.

Apparently, much like those cheap infomercial inventions that scramble eggs while still in the shell, too many jarring movements can be harmful for the baby. While I worried initially, I eventually decided that we'd just avoid them henceforth and be understanding if the baby came out with those plastic googely eyes like those found glued on cheap stuffed animals.

After several hours of game-play and winning something in the neighborhood of 40,000 arcade tickets, we decided to trade them in for a small plastic toy like something you'd buy at the Dollar Tree. We also went to a place called Storkvision. Apparently we now have the technology to peer inside the maturation chamber and see what's growing in there prior to birth. Now while you might be tempted to think this process involves stirrups, a wetsuit and a flash light, they actually do everything from outside.

Upon our arrival we selected a package which promised to allay any fears we may have had that it was a chest-burster like the one from Spaceballs growing in there. We were escorted to a dimly-lit room with soft green walls and paintings of what looked like babies underwater. Initially, I thought this was rather morbid since they all seemed to have their eyes closed. It seemed like it would have been much more pleasant had the babies in the paintings been smiling broadly and waving from inside the womb. At the very least they could've been painted panning their hands across the amniotic sac like a mime trying to get out of an imaginary glass box.

The Spousal Unit, Paternal Birth-nerd, and myself took a seat on the sofas in the room, while the Maternal Birth-nerd climbed atop a padded table off to one side and raised her shirt to reveal a large bulging belly. The woman waiting in the room next to the table tucked a towel around the base of the belly and proceeded to squirt a big pile of hair gel on her abdomen. This seemed entirely unnecessary to me as there was barely any peach-fuzz on her stomach.

Then, the woman stuck a corded wand into the hair-gel and smeared it around. The large flat television hanging on the wall behind her lit up and I waited nervously while swirling monochromatic images slid across the screen. Suddenly, I became aware of a whooshing sound much like the Enterprise NCC-1701 makes when initiating warp-speed, only this was repetitive and rhythmic. It wasn't until I saw what resembled P-waves, QRS complexes, and T-waves ticking across the bottom of the screen that I realized I was listening to a tiny heartbeat.

I thought, "O M G! There is something alive in there! There is a baby alive in there! I MUST PROTECT IT!" It was as though I was overcome by some visceral impetus to stand over the belly with my head low, back arched, and teeth-bared while emitting a low growl and glaring at anyone who came near. Much like Luca who has done this once or twice with the cats, I quickly began wagging my tail and putting my ears back in submission to the beautiful sound.

Then I saw a foot on the screen. I knew this must've been a human foot as it had no opposable big toe. Then a leg, a spine, and what looked like butt-cheeks. There was no tail, so that was good too.

The wand-worker kept wiggling the maturation chamber and pressing in different spots. Now although I haven't practiced nursing in quite a while, I am still well-acquainted with human anatomy and could tell she was trying to hone in on either baby-balls or tiny-toochie. She kept apologizing as the baby kept hiding the business. 

Now, as a gay guy, I am normally find vajayjays quite reprehensible and think they look a good bit like tarantula faces. Ok, so I don't have that big of a problem with them, I am a nurse and have probably seen more of them than any straight man could ever dream of seeing. Still, they look like tarantula faces.

 So I was the tiniest bit surprised at the level of joy I felt when the wand-worker woman seemed to find her target and said, "Well, you know us girls can be a little shy", and the screen displayed what appeared to be the smallest vajayjay in the world! HOORAY FOR VAJAYJAY!

Who would have ever thought? Thirteen years ago a timid dorky kid handed a goofy rebellious kid an ash tray just to be nice. Who would have ever thought we'd end up our own little Borg collective. Moreover, who would have ever thought there would be another human added to that collective, much less a female of the species.

Now our love will live on. It will overflow and spill into a little girl who will one day share it with others, perhaps a child of her own. In any case, I have all I need.

HOLY SH!T

Two words: HOLY SHIT!

If you've been keeping up with the blog so far you know that we've done our research, been schooled by our adoption agency, coughed up some cash, been through the rigors of home study, created a "Dear Birth-Parent Letter", and been approved to adopt a newborn infant of the human persuasion. What you may not yet know is that on August 14th 2013, at 8:47 am, we received an email that has forever changed our lives. What follows is the story that comes after this paragraph.


Routine 
So much like any other morning, I suddenly became aware of the fact that I was awake and meandering through the kitchen in search of caffeine. I realize I am awake of course because one of the sadist, dictator-felines entangled in my path is amusing himself by attempting to trip me to a bloody-faced death on the cold tile floor. The Spousal Unit forgot to set-up the coffee gizmo to anticipate my need to keep down the blood levels in my caffeine stream. I grapple for a few moments with the idea of navigating the delicate process of coffee-making but in the end surrender to the complexity of it all; opting instead to defer to the Spousal Unit's superior brewing prowess.

As I wait, incapacitated and sprawled across the sofa, half-watching the spirited morning-doers read irrelevant minutia from teleprompters with unsavory grins of sunrise duplicity, I hear a BLESSED sound! The delicate swish of the coverlet and sheets being tossed aside as my savior casts off the shackles of sleep and is resurrected from his memory foam grave. I take a warming comfort in knowing that he will soon anoint me with a cup of the life-giving, hot, black nectar of the Colombian dark-roast gods!   

With the fire stoked, it wasn't long before I was able to drag myself toward the bathroom, stopping by the closet on the way to stare perplexedly into a sea of clothing only to be frustrated at the complete and utter lack of ANYTHING to wear. One shirt is too stiff, another too soft, another too shirty, and there is far too much color to choose from! One is charcoal, another is dark graphite, another is warm black, another is cool black, then new black and old black and after a good 15 minutes of staring, it's all just so overwhelming I opt to brush my teeth instead and try again later.

Grasping the Sonicare I discover that the pull start is a little sluggish so I clean the corrosion from the spark plug and add some starter fluid. Once running, the device turns the inside of my mouth into a frothing Whirlpool Deluxe polishing each tooth to a Cascade-like shine while blowing back my gums like Marilyn Monroe's skirt. Despite the device's herculean vibration it still seems to take a solid ten minutes for my mouth to feel clean.

On to the shower I go, grumbling to the reflection of myself as I pass by the mirror. AH! At last! Waking waters rush over my face and wash the night-glue out of my eyes so that I can see my hair disobey later in the mirror. Later, with body dressed, pants pressed, and that one weird hair that grows extra long from my right eyebrow plucked, I'm ready to face the day!   

Ready  

After wading my way through what must have been a parade for Idiot Commuters United, I arrived at the office. I prepared to attempt to motivate the department heads with my candor and charm for just long enough to get them out of my office so I could fart in private.

As our Sales and PR dude dished the daily low-down I happened to glance over and notice an email alert blinking on my phone. Thinking it was probably just another one of the incessant daily deal emails that flood my inbox on a daily basis, I reach to delete it when I noticed that it was an email to our open-adoption gmail account. Since up until that point the majority of emails to the account had been responses to questions I gave it a look.

What I read in that email, those heavy-weight words, literally knocked me out of my chair! I stood up so fast that the back of my knees knocked my chair into the credenza behind my desk. I read again with my mind racing and my whole day being thrust into one of the most vivid, technicolor moments of my life. The cat to the right seems to capture my state at the time that I read: 

"Dear Byron and Jonathon,

I would like to write to you and introduce myself. My girlfriend and I are interested in putting our baby up for adoption, and we liked your profile. [We]...are both really new to the adoption process and don't know much about it, so we wanted to write and start talking...

If you would like to know more and/or are interested, please write back."

Like with any nerdgasm, I began to hyper-ventilate. Bear in mind that I was jumping up and down, gasping like a geek in front of a room full of people who consider me their leader. My butt clenched so hard that any semblance of the aforementioned desire to fart in private had to have flown back to the recesses from whence it came. The department heads panicked worrying that their fearless leader had suddenly become the victim of some dormant extra chromosome being activated.

When finally I'd mustered the breath to speak the only words that came out were "BIRTH PEOPLE, PHONE", while pointing at the touchscreen and subsequently dropping it! I ran out of my office, through the conference room and into the lobby calling the Spousal Unit and attempting to avoid choking on my heart which had somehow found its way into my throat (probably the fart pushed it up there). Although he is normally capable of grounding me in such states, it turns out that he too was totally useless. All he could say on the other end was, "I know! I don't know!?! I KNOW"!

It is hard to describe the feelings that flew through us. Initially, panic. Then doubt. We had only been in circulation officially for 14 days and they said that kind of thing doesn't happen! They said we'd wait 8-12 months. Was this a test? Was someone playing a prank on us? SURELY this couldn't be real. Only, it is.

That night, we spoke with our birth-family for the first time. We worried they wouldn't like us for a whole host of reasons. Maybe they wouldn't like the way we looked. Maybe our values would turn them off. Would they be serious about their decision to place or would we invest our hearts and souls in a fool's endeavor?

As fears usually are, ours were baseless. To protect their privacy at this stage of the game we'll refer to our birth-family as Dick and Jane. Talking to each other put us right as ease. As it turns out there is a perfect reason why we only waited 14 days. Fate.

Dick and Jane are so much like us it's a little creepy. Jane is playful, hip, and just irreverent enough to be charming. She is a generous soul, funny, and enjoys cooking. I suspect that to say she has any one particular interest or hobby would be foolish, because like me, she has a curious heart and wants to see, try, and do new things all the time. She's down with open adoption, and confident because she's already done it. 

 

Dick is funny too, he has a dry sarcastic wit that if you're not careful he'll slip past you. He seems to have a servant heart, feeling truly gratified by helping and making a difference in people's lives. He's a gamer, a fellow-nerd, open-minded and tolerant. 

We've talked every night since our original call. The feeling they give us is sort of hard to describe. It's kind of like a cross between immense gratitude and the warm, slightly cautious excitement of bonding with someone special. They even coined a name for us which we JUST LOVE: "Nerds-to-be".
 

It almost still seems a little surreal (tearing up a bit here). How could we be so blessed? I know there will be fun times, challenges to face, emotional times, an even happier times than this, but we feel so happy, so moved, that  the doors to our hearts have truly opened to our new family.  

 

 

P.S. Look out for Bianca. She's kind of wild and crazy. LOL!  ;o)

Paper

Howdy Blog!

Today has been one of those days. It's like flying through the day in a tornado of tasks, where the world is so busy everything smushed between sitting in morning and evening traffic seems like it happened years ago. An alternative explanation for the blur could be that I am really rowing on the mother ship and life is but a dream implanted by a group of aliens hidden in the tail of an approaching comet. As this is unlikely and might make me sound as though I should be restrained by a butch, hairy-armed psychiatric nurse named Helga, I shall concur with the former. Suffice it to say, Monday.

The blur tends to creep up on occasion when I'm short on rest. As it happens I lack a lot of bed-wealth. Between the Spousal Unit, the canine, and the two tyrannical feline despots, I am limited to sleeping on a strip of mattress real estate approximately 3 millimeters wide. Now you may have occasion to think I am exaggerating, but to illustrate the sleeping habits of the Spousal Unit it may help to think of genetic experiment crossing a giant sleeping spider monkey with the flopping traits of goldfish out of water. Note the photographic evidence (left) wherein a jumbled mess of bed linens, flesh, fur and niece are sprawled across the bed like butter and syrup on pancakes.

Yes, the blur can be maddening and is usually a sign that the time for a break from the tornado is fast approaching. The blur is typically dealt with in a number of ways. You may find some of these great tips work for you.

VACATION! And while I welcome a relieving respite from my little wire wheel in the hamster cage, I also love my work. Leading a large, diverse, and amazing group of people warms my soul. They all keep me in check. When they notice that the bags under my eyes contain sufficient enough skin for Louis Vuitton to start a new luggage line they'll hound me until I take vacation. I love them like family and sometimes even want to kill them like family.

ELECTRICITY! While I've never personally utilized this tip, I can imagine that a strong jolt from a light socket would

PAPER! Paper has unique and mysterious properties. That is why the ancient Egyptians stole the technology from the aforementioned mother ship while its passengers built the pyramids. IMHOTEP, IMHOTEP (look it up, it means "We come in peace")!

Now we have experienced the magical properties of paper before. In 2000 the Jonathan became the Spousal Unit. In those days I worked as a nurses aide and we lived in the ghetto where you could scarcely make it from the apartment to your car without some seemingly desperate fellow offering to trade you a fully dubitously loaded Wal-Mart gift card worth $300 in exchange for $100 cash. While I admired the tenacity and hood-logic of these fellows, their business plan contained fundamental demographic targeting flaws; inasmuch as we probably wouldn't be living in the ghetto if we had $100.

One night we sat in the floor of our apartment with one unlit candle, two lit candles and a couple of rings. We played "Into Dust" by Mazzy Star, tied our right hands together with the drawstring out of a pair of sweats, lit the unlit candle with our two lit candles, exchanged rings, and read vows to each other. This was our REAL wedding day and it was a meaningful as anything (aside from our laughing at each other's clumsiness during the whole thing). It's interesting to note that all we needed then was each other, and the same holds true today.

In 2008, California a shift in cultural idiocy and for a LIMITED TIME ONLY we could do what everyone
else did. By then, we were making more money (imagine going from driving a hoopty with spray paint to a new ford). Since we could afford it, much like anyone buried under a mere mountain of debt at that time, we jumped on a plane to San Diego. Although Jonathan nearly fell of the wing a few times, we were able to land safely. We were married in the courthouse there and spent the days after in one of the most surreal states I've ever experienced.

What was different? Well for starters, there were a lot more people with long hair. Secondly, when people started approaching us at the courthouse we half-expected them to be carrying pitchforks and torches, but instead, with a glimmer in their eyes (this could have been from medicinal marijuana) they told us they were happy for us. So what was the difference? The PAPER.

I can't explain it. Don't care to. It is one of those things that is so sublime that nothing but direct experience will provide understanding, but that piece of paper, that so many people take for granted was like the grail to us. Much like Indiana Jones, we had to go through a number of booby traps to get it.

Paper has given rise to wars that have scarred nations because of the words written on them. Paper has ended wars because of the signatures of dignitaries scrawled across dotted lines. Paper has swept lovers off their feet, and even replaced the terribly uncomfortable corncobs that use to populate the outhouses of the south. Paper is a magical thing, indeed.

So yesterday, when I'd emerged from the blur to find an email with a digital version of a piece of paper, it's no wonder why I cried, felt so moved, and came to experience our journey to parenting as so much more REAL than before. See the last part of the paper below:

Dear Birth Mother

First, some background thoughts.

As it happens with open adoption, the birth-mother chooses the adoptive family and the adoptive family sort of chooses her. Most of the information the cerebral sponge has soaked in like documentaries, websites, blogs and so on seem permeated by this emotionally tumultuous aura of heart-twisting drama. That's understandable, but I have a habit of taking most media with a grain of skepticism. Some may say that is cynical, but can anyone really argue that any form of publication can substitute for direct personal experience?

TV and news and everything we look at is geared to a market of some kind, and the incredibly personal and subjective experience adoptive parents share with their birth-mom and child is unlikely something that can be captured in a 30-minute reality show.  Everything is sensationalized these days. Our adoption could be a tear-jerker, or it could be a romantic comedy. Only time, and not what everybody else says, will tell.

Now to the foreground thoughts.

Adoptive parents have to write a "Dear, Birth Mother Letter". Basically, this is a letter that tries to capture the essence of your family. No, that doesn't mean the letter is scratch-and-sniff, it just means that it is the primary means of conveying your personality to prospective birth-moms. Birth-moms who are interested in placing their child with an adoptive family sort through these letters (hundreds of them) and pick one. Then the relationship begins.

When we first learned about the letter we thought it would be fairly easy. After all, I can type. Then they imposed limits. Word limits, photo-requirements, structure, color, blah blah blah. The entire process can be summed up as follows:

1. Complete cerebral incontinence on the subject into a Word document.
2. Submit to the seemingly self-important Dear, Birth Mother Letter "expert" who sorts through it looking for little nuggets of personality gold like a child convinced that there is something of intrigue reachable in their nose if only they can get their finger deep enough.
3. Rinse, repeat, repeat, repeat, repeat.

After you've poured your heart out on paper and had it nit-picked apart enough times, then you can add photos and design. Now as it happens, the Spousal Unit and myself are both fairly skilled with design software and have made our share of money designing print campaigns, ads, and websites over e-commerce platforms (ie. OliviaRiegel.com). However, given the fact that I am graduating in August with my Master of Business Administration in Healthcare Management, and leading multiple healthcare facilities through the summer, we opted to hire a designer for convenience.

We went with "Our Chosen Child". Joanna was a welcome relief in the letter process. She was responsive to our preferences and choices, timely and compassionate. Her value cannot be understated! She took the text of our letter, got to know us as a family through phone conversations and a really innovative use of pinterest, and added the visual elements to our letter that will really bring our personality to the fore.

Here is a link to the results of our collaboration the letter speaks for itself. Dear, Birth-Mom