That is to say, Mrs. Blackwell or myself might suggest something like, "Hey buddy, would you like strawberries?"
He will say, "No I don't want strawberries, anymore," (pronounced "any-more-eeee"). "Anymore" is the word he tacks onto most of his replies now because, like any ruthless dictator, my boy deals only in absolutes.
For our part, Mrs. Blackwell and I will say, "OK" and then proceed with life.
|This pic was taken exactly three years ago this week. It was|
a much, simpler, easier time — for me. Looks like life might
have been a bit more challenging for Mrs. Blackwell.
The boy on the other hand, will stop and cry to the heavens that he doesn't want strawberries, or toast, or milk, or a trip to the park, or whatever we've proposed.
It doesn't matter if we repeat that he doesn't have to eat anything or go anywhere, it was just a suggestion — just his parents trying to be nice.
This is to no avail.
Engaging him on this level (that would be the level of a rational human being) serves only to fuel the fire. The crying often just gets worse, as if someone is set to pry his little mouth open while another person force feeds gobs of berries down his gullet.
I'll admit that, after about 60 seconds of his blaring and wailing, the thought has crossed my mind.
Anyhoo, it was in the midst of one of these fits, as he was contorting, flailing and squealing on the floor at a Home Depot if I'm not mistaken, that I thought to myself, "You know... what we really need is another one of these things."
So, because it's easy, because I've got parenting figured out and because the physical, financial, psychological and overall existential consequences are, really, not that profound, we've decided to have another kid.
Which is to say, we made that decision a while ago — a little more than 12 weeks ago to be more accurate.
Moving forward, there's all kinds of protocol to be observed and, since I've done this exactly once before, I know it inside and out and am thoroughly prepared to provide reliable commentary.
With regard to that protocol, I'll start with the first decision a couple makes after getting pregnant: when do you tell people?
Doctors and conventional wisdom suggest the end of the first trimester, or around the 10-12 week mark, is a safe time. At least that's what I thought until walking out the door to write this blog.
It was then that Mrs. Blackwell stopped me in the doorway to tell me about feedback she got from a "mommy message board" suggesting folks wait 15 weeks. So, because some folks have anointed themselves a higher authority on this matter, this is something we should suddenly question?
|Who wouldn't want another one|
I know this.
All that other stuff I wrote above? Yeah, I don't know anything about any of that.
But I know this.
I know that last time Mrs. Blackwell was pregnant, we went through some pretty crazy stuff (have a look through the archives here for a more complete picture). Three years later, I feel comfortable saying that ours was as crazy a pregnancy as I've ever heard of.
Like then, I remain in touch with what a bumbling human being I am and that my sole saving grace in this world (outside of my incredibly durable skull) is that I know there's much I don't know.
So far this pregnancy has been typical. We've got one healthy little baby; Mrs. Blackwell says it's as big as a lime now.
Just like last time, we'll listen to and rely heavily upon the experts, the guys and gals who spent eight-plus years of their lives preparing to do their job.
With that in mind and, based upon the accumulation of years of medical evidence, including one generic Wallgreen's pregnancy test, and with the OK of doctors everywhere, I can say: "Mrs. Blackwell is pregnant."
I know this.
After that, your guess is as good as mine.