Somewhere here in the next couple years it’s going to be time for me to write a children’s book. Or rather, a series of children’s books destined to become wildly popular for both their authenticity and their unabashed look at femininityism.
We have four daughters. People ask if we were trying for a boy. My response is usually, “No, we were trying for puppies.” This masks my annoyance that somehow I could (maybe should) be disappointed by my children’s gender. It’s also just polite because, really, those folks are just making small talk and when you have four of anything in a row it does spark a certain trend in the conversation.
“You’re really going to have your hands full in a few years.” WTF? Like I don’t already? Seriously, it’s the head count that chafes not all the X chromosomes.
Anyhow, back to me writing that book. I should write a few. Maybe go Wattersonesque on you guys with four sharp as a whip, wise beyond their years, snarky, but distinct girls that each tote around a rag doll that turns into an Amazon Warrior, Queen, Muse, or Scientist as the situations warrant. Or something more Lewisian with a lion and a closet. Or I could find some LCD and try a Carolinian trip of some kind. No worries I couldn’t and wouldn’t and shouldn’t and wontn’t go Geisel.
No really, back to the book thing.
I’ve poked around at some fairy thing a few months back. Maybe I could expand that into a more substantial vehicle. Right now they are all at such disparate developmental stages that will blur quickly with age. Has anyone ever written something interesting with four kids under five? Talk about difficult voices to develop.
In case you were wondering “femininityism” is a cross between what my ignorant brain knows of femininity and feminism. Think CEO with a ponytail or “Who the hell asked you if I look fat in this, but do I?”
Word count: 325
There is very little reason for me to be tired. Aside form waking up every 20 minutes feeling like it was a year of sleep and asking my oldest if she needed to go potty, I’ve slept better than I have in a long time.
Having a nearly constantly pregnant wife over the past four and a half years is a little like boiling water. Heat keeps going in but the temperature stays the same. Now that we’re done pumping heat into this mess I figure we can cool things off and move onto to the next stage: not killing and eating our young for the next eighteen years. As clumsy or as inexplicable that metaphor is to you, I still get to go to stage two of family growth.
Lots of folks–nurses mostly–over the last 24 hours asked if we were shooting for a boy. No, we weren’t. We were just having kids and they all turned out to be girls. There’s alot of groaning about me having my hands full over the course of stage two, but frankly I don’t know what the hell everyone is worked up about. Raising four people is the harder part not that they are four girls. As for the 21st century version of a dowry–paying for a wedding–I seriously doubt that any of these four is going to look Daddy in the eye and demand cash for that. Smitten, yes; in love, sure; made of money, no.
And I just don’t see their social education going that route anyhow. Entourage of babies, Barbies, and dress up clothes that may argue to the contrary.
This will be more of a diary entry than a creative endeavor.
The anesthesiologist for my wife’s epidural today shared the last name of a man that serves or served on the Philmont Ranch Committee. It’s neither a common nor obscure last name, but you like to make small talk when a man’s jamming a needle into you wife, so I asked. No relation as far as he know. But he did share an anecdote about meeting a man with the same name I asked about at a rental car place. Turned out since they had the same last name they’d tried to get into the same car. This random guy was a CEO of a company in Illinois. I look my guy up on the web. Two pages later I uncover that my guy used to be a CEO of a company in Illinois. Same guy.
I doubt Facebook can match that kind of serendipity.
On the way in to the hospital I thought about every pregnant woman in a movie or on TV and how it’s always a frantic race. How nearly each time, some cop is involved to escort them to the hospital as if a woman even needs a hospital. It was funny to me how the reality of a birth is never what you see on the screen. From the drive in to the screaming and cursing the husband’s name to the beautiful pink child it’s not how it is. Not even close.
Our Doc got pulled over by the police for speeding on her way back. He let her off.