Pregnancy Update

“I’m Done!”

That’s what my wife shouted at me as she climbed into bed after her night shift this morning.

I don’t think she intended to shout it. Her ears are all plugged because she has a nasty head cold, so she’s been shouting a lot lately.

But last night was her last shift until March of 2010.

If she hadn’t just worked a 12-hour night shift I think she’d be too excited to sleep.

I know I would be.

She was scheduled to work three more shifts next weekend. However, after a phone call to her manager and what was almost an ultimatum she got those shifts off.

If turns out working 12 hour shifts when you’re 35 weeks pregnant and sick isn’t so fun. So when I picked her up from work she announced she wasn’t going back. I don’t blame her. I’m proud of her for sticking it out as long as she has. This hasn’t been an easy pregnancy. I think three is her record for number of days vomit free. And that doesn’t mean nausea free. That just means she didn’t throw up. It’s hard to throw up when you’re too ill to take anything in. As a result she hasn’t gained all that much weight. And we’re pretty sure what she has gained is all baby.

Yesterday I was playing with our child. It was going nuts. I was playing my guitar and I’m pretty sure our kid was dancing. It’s already rebelling.

It feels strong. We joke about our child trying to claw its way out. I can’t believe the force it exerts against my hand. I made the mistake one day of putting my face against Sheena’s abdomen. I almost got a bruise.

We’re thinking it’s either a boy, or a girl who will one day captain a rugby team. I expect our child to be born with more developed muscles than I have. Maybe it will even have those crazy big neck muscles like you seen on a linebacker. I think that would be a good thing. Less chance of me being able to break it. However, I don’t know how I’ll be able to handle it if my three-year-old daughter can beat me up. Not that it would be any easier if my three-year-old son can whoop me either.

I think we’re in pretty good shape from a preparation standpoint. We’ve got the nursery all set up.

Okay, that’s pretty much all I’ve done. Sheena however, has been collecting all sorts of things. The weight of the baby clothes in our house outweighs my wardrobe. Those of you who have see in my closet know what a feat that is. Especially when you consider the average weight of a baby’s sleeper compared to a pair of jeans. That’s what I’m talking about.

Now we’re just playing the weighting game. Maybe I’ll see if I can get our child dancing again. It’s a lot of fun—probably more fun for me than Sheena though.

Baby Names

We've been working on our lists of baby names. There are a number of Biblical names we like. Not that we want a Biblical name. We're just looking for a name that's nice and not too common. Turns out the Bible is full of names like that.

Then this morning I read this over at Stuff Christians Like

I recommend giving it a read.

Deepish thoughts

Frankly had a thought today:

Franklyn's thoughts

Commitments

This morning I woke up thinking about the commitments we make.

Or maybe I should say the commitments we break.

Not that I’ve broken any commitments lately. I mean, I’d have to make a commitment before I can break one.

And maybe that’s a problem.

That’s what I’ve been thinking about this morning.

Breaking commitments stinks. I don’t like it when I let people down. I don’t like it when I make my wife cry because something I promised to do didn’t get done. I’m sure she likes it even less. I know I really don’t like it when people who make promises to me fail to keep them.

I’m sure I’m not alone in this.

It seems that my response, and the response of others, is to not make any promises. I can’t fail to bring milk home if I never said I would. I can’t fail to pick my wife up from work if I never agree to do it. I can’t fail to complete the assignment if I never commit to doing it in the first place.

So we make as few commitments as possible. We don’t commit to a church. We don’t commit to God. The only reason we commit to our employer is because we have to. We make few, if any, commitments with our spouses, if we’ve even committed to being married. We promise nothing so that we can keep all our promises.

And I can’t help but think this is all about my convenience. It is so much easier to make no promises than to work hard to keep one. It is inconvenient for me to say, “no” to one thing because I’ve said, “yes” to something else. And what if that thing I might have to say no to is something I’d much rather do over the thing I’ve said yes to out of obligation.

Commitments get in the way. So there are times when I make none.

But is that the right step to take?

Should we settle for being a people of no commitments for the sake of being people of our word?

Can I even call that keeping my word?

And I wonder how God feels about all this.

How do you think it makes Him feel when He sees His people drifting along with no commitments, no attachments, free to do whatever because they are in no way committed to anything?

I can’t help but think it makes Him sad? Especially, since He would promise great things and then do them. He made a promise to Abraham and then kept it. God didn’t have to make a promise. One day Sarai could have conceived and little probably would have changed. But God one day took Abram and made a promise with him. And then years later it was fulfilled.

God makes promises and so I think it makes him sad when we make none.

But then again I could be wrong.

Next my thoughts began to drift towards being a man. You know, a manly man. I’m sure you’ve probably heard about them. Maybe you are one, or you are related to one. I am far from being your traditional manly man. I have no idea what’s going on under the hood of my car. A roll of duct tape lasts me years. I don’t like to get dirty. And sometimes I’m too tired to stand when I pee, so I sit down.

But I’m still a man.

As men, we make a lot out of being men of our word. It goes along with all that honour stuff we see in the old movies and hear our fathers talk about. It used to be that real mean shook hands on stuff and then it happened. If they were really serious they would spit in their hands first.

However, now it’s far more convenient for me to skip all that. Thus being a man became about living for myself.

Wait, that can’t be right.

But isn’t that what we’re communicating? That a real man does whatever makes him happy? That’s our subtle message isn’t it? Real men do things such as living alone in the wilderness, or they go out as a lone ranger, or become an army of one. I mean, how much help did the “Super” Man need?

It seems the manliest men don’t make personal commitments.

But am I more of a man when I make no commitments and let no one down, or am I more of a man when I commit to things and complete as many of them as I can? It is certainly harder work

Am I a real man when I do what is easy or when I do the hard things such as commit to things and then do them?

I’d love it if we recaptured more of that honour: if being a man meant you had to commit to stuff and then do it.

However, I don’t think the solution is to simply commit to more. We need to commit to better.

So where do we start? What is the first thing I should commit to?

Wow, that was a lot of questions to have rattling around in my head before I even finished my shower.

Tales From The Ladies Room

It’s been nice peeing in the men’s room again.

Our church building is undergoing a renovation. Right now they’re at the flooring stage and for the last couple days they’ve been tiling the men’s room floor leaving the entire staff to use the ladies room.

I normally try and avoid going into the ladies room. I remember as a kid that it was the forbidden zone. If someone pushed you into the girl’s bathroom you were simultaneously grossed out to the point of death, and excited to have seen what it was like inside.

On occasion when I’m locking up the building I’ll have to reach in and turn off the lights. That’s never a comfortable moment.

So on Tuesday when we were told that the ladies washroom was going coed for a couple days I began scaling back my water intake. I’m down to about what is bare minimum to survive. And for breakfast I pretty much just eat cheese. Okay, that cheese bit isn’t true, but I do think twice about anything I eat.

Prior to Tuesday there was only one time when I used a ladies room: and it was entirely unintentional. I had stopped at a gas station to fill one tank and empty another. When I went inside looking for the restroom I looked down the hall and went into the first door I saw that had “men” on the outside.

I should say that at the time I had quite long hair. It was so long I was often referred to as the “mail lady” while out on my mail rout. And once, when out for lunch with my mom the waitress asked what us “ladies” wanted to drink. I think you’re getting the picture.

Now, when I came out of the “men’s” room, I turned and noticed that before the word “men” were the letters “wo”. And at the counter was one very confused shopkeeper.

I’ve never been back to that gas station.

It’s always good to use the men's room. I’m glad it’s back.

reasons why my hair is green

Have you ever had one of those moments where you suddenly want to stop taking credit for something? Where previously you were crazy proud, like peacock proud, of an accomplishment, decision, funny comment, or action taken, then suddenly realize you don’t want your name associated with that thing?

I do this all the time.

Maybe I shouldn’t be taking credit for that.

Here’s the most recent scenario: a couple weeks ago Sheena and I decided to paint the room that will become our child’s nursery. Now I’m not much for painting. I can paint, it’s just that I don’t like to. Painting is messy. Painting is a lot of work. Regardless of how careful I am I always get paint on the things that should never have paint on them. Painting also gets me in trouble with my wife.

However, the paint on the wall, while fine and adequate as a wall covering, was plain and boring. We wanted something more babyish. So, painting seemed like the best option especially for my wife who tells me that painting is a bad idea for pregnant ladies.

We then set to choosing a colour. This was not an easy task. We spent hours studying paint samples, and considering how the light handled each one, and if they would go with the rug we bought for the room, and whether or not they were too bright or too drab, or too something else. This was quite a process.

Then one day I was at Wall-Mart and thought, I might as well look at their paint samples. I found one called “Windsurfer.” I liked the name and took it home to show Sheena because I thought there was no way she’d believe that someone actually named a paint could “Windsurfer.”

Sheena liked the colour. She said, “This is the colour for the nursery.”

And I began saying, “I picked out the colour.”

You know, a two inch by three inch piece of coloured paper is far from adequate when it comes to figuring out if the colour is going to be good on every wall of a room.

I purchased the paint and this weekend I became a painting madman. In my head I was Michelangelo with a roller.

Then when it was done I stepped back to admire my work and had to put on sunglasses.

The room is bright: even when it is dark out – even when the lights are off.

I’m not taking credit for finding the paint colour anymore. Instead I’m saying, “Sheena and I choose…” I’m not sure I want my name associated with such things.

If you come to our house we’ll show you the baby’s room and we hand out welding masks before you go in.

I want our kids to be able to sleep through almost anything, but I’m thinking that having them learn to sleep in such an environment might not be the best way.

If anyone has suggestions for decorating in such a way as to tone down a bright paint colour feel free to leave a comment.