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The First Four

2007.04.02

We’re in to month 4 of our first child, giving us enough time to appreciate and absorb all those typically “new parent” experiences. There’s the initial “will I break my baby” phase, the “thanks for the baby clothes, grandma” period, the “OK, enough with the baby clothes, grandma” period, and the “ooh, (s)he’s so advanced for her age” game. Like, when your baby blurts out something at three months old, and you can swear she said “rubella”, so naturally you figure your baby will have a medical degree at age four. Then she swallows her hand, and you start to doubt her early doctor career.

I’m noticing some funny double standards along the way as a father. Like for instance, I was at the auto store picking up parts for our car while carrying our daughter in a car seat carrier. I get to the counter, and the clerk remarks humorously, “stuck babysitting the kid, hunh?” It sounded funny for a second, because I wasn’t carrying someone else’s kid – it was Elena, my daughter. I think that just classifies as being a Dad. For a second, I wanted to say to Elena, “what?! Where’d you come from?! Dammit, where’s your mother at? Well ain’t this a b-tch, I guess I’m stuck with her now, hunh?!”

It’s funny, but the expectations for Dad’s are real low. Basically, Mom’s are expected to raise a child properly, instill the right values, serve as a good role model, provide good nutrition, console all emotional pains, and make sure the house in general runs smoothly. On the other hand, Fathers are expected to keep children under their care generally alive,… and that’s about it. Looking at our parents’ generation, I can see how this standard was set. To this day, my Dad doesn’t know what to do with a washing machine. He built machines that built machines in his time, but when a washing machine is finished spinning, he considerately yells to my mom, “Jen! Your laundry’s done! Come take care of it! Jen!!” He treats it like some alien incubation box that holds technology outside of his grasp.

Seriously, when you see a commercial with a father clumsily herding a wild group of children by himself, it’s endearing and you feel sympathetic. When you see a mom who can’t control her children, the message seems more like “this woman obviously can’t handle the role her biological makeup has handed her.”

That’s why I don’t typically react to how other parents interact with their children. My only exception to this is when a parent spanks their child in public, to which I cheer emphatically. A few months back, I saw a woman at the supermarket lean down to her loud daughter and give her a good smack on the behind, along with one of those “Come to Jesus” talks face-to-face. I wanted to give her a medal right there and then, or at least pay for her produce items. Something. Nothing restores my faith in parenting like a mother or father that isn’t afraid of discipline.

Now,I’m not totally sold on spanking per say, I just think we’ve become so damned afraid of it that parents are almost too intimidated to discipline their children in general. For too long, Americans have provided too much abundance and convenience for their children, leaving us a future of vapid, privileged brats who have nothing better to do in life than conjure up creative ways for killing brain cells and their parents’ bank accounts. It’s one thing to provide a better life and a college fund for the next generation, but completely another to shower your kids with their every friggin’ desire until they have no touch with the real world. These train wrecks generally end in college, when the child has a 0.2 GPA in their Sophomore year and can’t find a employer that’s “cool” enough to hire them.

Discipline is good. You gotta treat the home like the real world: what you get is what you earn, and no one owes you anything. Period. Did you pay attention to what I just wrote there? If you did, it’s not because you owed it to me – you don’t owe me squat, and I don’t owe you (unless you’re Blockbuster – I told you I returned Steel Magnolias, dammit). Everything, from money to someone’s attention is earned, and creating an 18-year long bubble where these rules don’t apply won’t help your kids any.

…

OK, so all of this is coming from a guy who hasn’t even potty trained his first child yet. I’ve got a long way to go before I can start doling out parenting advice. Maybe I’ll crack with the first temper tantrum, or give in the first time Elena storms off to her room. But, I’m pretty sure that if I know myself so far, my bitterness and indignation toward our epidemic of spoiled children will prevail.

If not, I guess Anna and I can always hash out any issues with our children on Ricki Lake or Montel Williams.

- GK

Wow.

2006.11.19

We arrived at our now weekly obstetrician appointment to collect yet more urine from Anna. It followed the same routine, but being a day before week 39 of the pregnancy, there was a definite seriousness to the visit. The day was near.

The doctor who knocked on the door was a new face to us, which didn’t phase us at all as the clinic has a list of rotating doctors. Kim, the doctor, laid Anna down as expected, measured her stomach, and followed the expected script for these weekly visits.

Then, she asked if we’d like her to do a membrane sweep “to kick-start the process.” I heard kick-start, but the rest was blurred by my excitement. We’d been anxious to get this party started since our baby had been kicking out Anna’s stomach walls around week 35. A kick-start of any kind was a welcome idea. With a warning of the labor that may soon follow, Kim performed the sweep and we went home.

Thursday morning, 11/16, 5:00am

Anna stirs me awake. “My water broke.” I could have sworn I heard her say her water broke, so I asked what she wanted. She repeated, “I’ve been up since 2am, and I think my water burst around 4:30.” I was right. Naturally, the first reaction that came to mind was jubilation at missing another day of work.

Mind you, this wasn’t necessarily red-alert oh-sh*t time or anything; we’d gone through two false labor trips to the hospital already, so we knew this process could easily take a while. The first order of business would have to be food, since once you’re admitted to the hospital, your only food is a sucrose intravenous drip. Anna calmly cooked up some cream of wheat, and I slowly made my way out of bed. Almost everything we needed was safely packed inside the car, and a car seat was fastened securely in the backseat. I had time to meander.

Anna just got done cooking her cream of wheat when the pain really kicked in. These contractions weren’t like the other contractions – these were serious f-ing contractions. Anna was already beginning to question her objection to an epidural.

6:00am

I was really hoping to run into traffic along the way to the hospital, just so I could finally have a legitimate excuse to drive like a madman. We got on the highway, and there wasn’t any room for a Hollywood movie mad-dash to the hospital with the moaning passenger in labor. Anna was quiet, and we made it to the hospital in good time. Damnit.

10:00am

We settled into a room suited for a Raddison Hotel – but with a cache of beeping medical instruments. Nurses hook Anna up to an IV for hydration with some mild anesthetic, and another IV that induces painful contractions. While the two battled each other in Anna, our main doctor came in to greet us and explain the pros and cons of an epidural block. He begins a laundry list of benefits, but Anna’s tremendous spats of pain forces a quick vote for the spinal anesthetic. Shortly after, another doctors enters to administer a 4 inch needle into the base of Anna’s back. I’m told to sit down, but the curiosity was maddening and I had to watch the tail end of the process. Grotesquely interesting, I suppose.

Before the pain blockers were introduced, Anna was wincing in evident agony every two to five minutes. Now, the monitors followed her contractions while Anna played with her numb legs in amusement. If it were any other time, we may have tried jabbing forks and objects into her leg to test the pain blockers, but the situation made the idea seem a scoatch inappropriate.

4:00pm

Anna’s parents had arrived an hour earlier in time for some photos before the “main event”, and around four o’clock, the band was warming up. Now began the pushing.

First, the nurses show me the top of our babies head which is slightly revealed. I was ecstatic, but still I wondered how the hell this hairy patch of skin could be my daughter’s head. Anna continued pushing, and more of the crown was revealed, but still I was anxiously wondering how this could be a head. I saw hair, but where’s the face?! More pushing and now it was beginning to disturb me. Was my daughter cousin It from the Addams Family? All I saw was hair – I need more to go on! Finally, the nurse began grabbing this dome and started wrenching it out, finally revealing a complete dome covered with damp hair. But where’s the FACE?!!

Then, I watched as the midwife rotated the head to reveal a pale, chubby, scrunched up baby’s face, perfect with lips, eyes, two ears and everything. Wow. She was inside Anna all along. She was the little person kicking my wife’s bladder over the last two months. Finally, with a quick jerk, our child’s entire body was plucked into the world.

Happy Birthday Elena. You’re officially 0 today.

Elena Mary Kovats was born at 5:03pm on 11/16/2006, weighing in at 8 lbs, 11 oz.

For the next four hours, we watched the nurses run a gambit of pricks, pokes and prods at Elena, all the necessary medical routines take with a newborn child. In the end, I was handed a healthy, crying pink baby girl. I could have melted right there and then.

Now grandparents, Mr. and Mrs. Jakubowski were glowing as they each held their new granddaughter Elena, taking turns feeling her delicate features and watching all of her wild facial expressions. As for Anna and I, we spent the next day and a half feeding, burping and changing diapers for our newborn daughter as proud new parents.

When it came time for us to finally take our baby home, we were both anxious to finally be alone with our brand new daughter. Contrary to everything we were told, there wasn’t a single moment where I personally felt anxiety over caring for Elena; we were eager to hold her and bring her home from the moment she entered the world. When the time finally came, we couldn’t get her in the car fast enough.

The takeaway from all of this

I know, every parent feels like his or her own child is the center of the universe. As it turns out, they’re all wrong.

Elena is in fact the center of the Universe, as shown using a diagram from the Polish astronomer Copernicus (nice try, Nicolaus). Clearly, Elena is the pivot to all the Universe, debunking everything we’ve been taught until now. Don’t worry – most Astronomy textbook publishers will refund your purchase once they release updates for this new discovery.

In the meantime, I am now officially whipped by two women. And it’s wonderful.

Bubble Burst

2006.11.14


Can you tell she’s ready?

I can vouch for her. Anna’s ready. That last picture has less of an ethereal glow than the others for a reason: there’s a bowling ball in her stomach (named Elena).

And so, in these last weeks / days / hours, we’re sitting on pins and needles… not because we’re restless and don’t know what to do, not because we’re afraid of the world of responsibilities awaiting us, but because we want to see our baby!

Here’s one thing that isn’t immediately evident to prospective parents: your baby is kicking and moving from around month 4 or 5 through the final stages. There’s no magical unveiling of some total mystery of life – this little human has been knocking on your door the whole time. [At least, this is how I've viewed it] It’s like Elena’s already here, but she’s hiding in my wife’s belly and both of us desperately want her out.

Some of the other things I’m noticing these final days

I feel with the impending “Father act” I have to play, it’s high time I tone down my wild ways (all three of them) and start acting more serious and grumpy like a real dad. You know – tuck in my shirt, grow some facial hair, gain a few (more) pounds, wear a blazer… stuff like that. I’m not clear on what I should do specifically, but I feel there’s some kind of change I need to make to ascend to “fatherhood” level.

Another thing I’m noticing is the over abundance of people who absolutely love to cheerfully ask soon-to-be parents, “SO, are you ready?!”

Any response to this type of question elicits the same reaction: insipid laughter and the occasional “Yeah, I can see it from that look on your face! Ha!!” There doesn’t have to be a “look” on your face – they’ll find one regardless.

It’s as if you are supposed to respond, “Holy CRAP NO! I really should have been preparing these last nine months, but SOMEHOW my wife and I totally forgot she was pregnant!! Man! I wish you had asked me that sooner!!”

Some clerical business

For anyone who was aware of it, I’ve been updating a site called StraightSpin.com on the side. The idea was originally to vent any news and politics related matters on a separate site, kinda like getting up from one room to fart in another.

Well, I’m thoroughly sick of politics and news-like blogging for a variety of reasons. Chief among them is the BLOGOSPHERE.

OK, so this is technically blogging, right? I mean, no newspaper in their right mind would pay me to write crap like this, but here I am, jotting it down for anyone with a 2400 baud modem to see, right? That’s technically “blogging”.

But, in the realm of news and politics, there are legions of would-be pundits who spend large portions of their livelihoods ranting about the government and posting grade-D superimposed video clips of Bush speeches from YouTube.com (for example). Some are eloquent, but most basically regurgitate catch phrases from popular, lobotomized pundits. And they’re all part of the BLOGOSPHERE.

During the recent midterm election “madness”, CNN aired a live segment from a room of bloggers standing by, furiously writing their own little spins on the days events. The image of these odd men and women typing away, hoping to cup a feel of the punditry shrine and have their clever opinions valued by someone was a deeply disturbing scene to me. I think most of all, it frightens me that the BLOGOSPHERE has been inching toward become a recognized part of the news media, and CNN was confirming it by filming them.

So, for fear of being associated with some psuedo-journalist who gets his data from Ann Coulter books and independent films, StraightSpin is no more. The last thing the world needs is more viewpoints on world issues that already receive a scarce amount of respectful handling in today’s new media.

Of course, the dick and fart jokes will continue here at GK.com, where all my data comes from The Onion, Calvert DeForest and my diseased head.

Anna Update

2006.07.01

…but six months later she began to swell. Ah yes, Anna’s coming along nicely.

There’s a lot of funny little things that you begin to notice during a first pregancy – or at least things we’re noticing. First, Anna says women who were just casual aquaintences once before are now checking up on her maternal process. There’s some sort of badge that motherhood seems to earn between women, and those who’ve been through it have a bond. It’s kinda like Adkins dieters.

Also, the whole physiological process itself is fascinating. Every now and then, Anna rubs her belly and exclaims, “honey, look how big my belly’s getting!”

I’ll admit, when she first said this, I was amazed to fathom that life was creating inside her womb. The second week of hearing this, I thought of how someday our child would grow larger than us, and how amazing life is. During the third week of her observations, I was finishing level 9 in Spryo the Dragon, so I couldn’t fully appreciate the moment. After the fourth week of hearing this, I realized I’d be hearing about her growing stomach for another 20-something more weeks.

Just then, the baby began to move a little, which has had us both on edge. Now I figure it’ll be another three weeks before I begin acting like a jerk about this as well.

Seriously, it’s almost unfair how easy men have it in new parenthood. As soon as the new mom is told she’s pregnant, she’s immediately cut off from all her vices – smoking, drinking, caffeine and a variety of foods – and forced to spend about 5 months lugging around a 20 lb weight around her mid-section. She gains weight, is nautious for two months, stretches her belly, and forces life out of a fairly narrow passage (`nuff said).

As for the guy, he’s given nine months to clean his act up and get it together before becoming a parent. It’s like nature is saying, “Mom, it’s up to you to take care of this new life. Dad,… you’ve got nine months to stop sniffing glue and stealing road signs.”

Fortunately, I’ve thrown out my cache of Tester’s model cement, and my city stopped restocking the signs I like, so we’re all set for being the proud parents of a boy(s) and / or girl(s)?

The 20 Week Question

2006.06.04

Will it be a boy? Will it be a girl? Who knows?!One question you immediately hear as an expecting Father is, “so what are you hoping for?”

I don’t know – a human? Preferably one that’s not Asian, cause that would raise my suspicion.

Of course, every father ultimately gives it the, “gimme’ ten fingers and ten toes, and I’ll be happy” response. Who cares if it’s a boy or a girl? I’m not running a farm and I’m not looking for future dowry. Personally, I’m satisfied with whatever God’s decision is. Who the hell am I to start squibbling over, “well, blue eyes would be nice, and maybe big hands would be useful…”

Nontheless, everyone finds enough old wive’s tales to regale us with about how we can know the gender of our future baby. It’s almost gotten comical how many predictions we’ve received over the last few months, and best of all, they all split down the line 50 / 50.

  • I’ve always figured my first would be a girl, but that’s not because I want one. “Breathing” is my only real wish.
  • My father-in-law has stated it’ll be a boy, because (as I know of it) the pregnancy started with a painful apendectamy. As he puts it, “the baby’s a boxer – he’s already kicking and puching down there.”
  • My mom says it should be a girl (not that evidence leads to this probability), and so that alone means fate will give us a daughter.
  • My mother in law says the baby is sitting low, which leads her to beleive it’ll be a boy.
  • A friend of ours says it’s actually sitting high, and that Anna is having way too good of a time being pregnant, leading her to beleive it’s a girl.

I may be leaving a few predictions out. I’m respectful about hearing old wisdom, but personally I’ll just wait for the sonogram to let good ole’ science answer this 20-week question.

StraightSpin.com

Also, I’ve started a new site called StraightSpin.com. The idea is to create a place to write about current events, or rather miscellaneous crap inspired by current events, and move away from a site “all about George Kovats”. I mean, let’s face it – there’s little question about what this site is for. I could trip over political conjecture and topical philosophy for only so long before you get back to the fact this is all about me. And I’m not good about being self-centered. Seriously. Just ask me sometime, and see what I say about myself.

So, the new site is basically a forum for everything I do here, but with free run on poking fun at all things (without constricintg to all things “Kovats“). Some of you may remember the lark of “www.coffeeclotch.com“, which is still up actually. The ill fate of Coffee Clotch was brought on by a clumbsy interface and lack of initial support. The new site will just be my new blog. No lofty goals, just a place where I’ll blog more regularly.

For now, I’ll keep to writing about me. Because although I’m not self-centered (again, just ask me and I’ll prove that I’m not), people want to know what’s going on with me several states away.

It’s sort of a weird thing, and almost sad, that we’re reduced to “blogs” for friendly communications. If I had my way, a drunken barbeque would be more the format, but for now, it’s something to read at work I guess.

It's… an embryo!!

2006.04.19

Forget everything you ever knew about me. And, if you didn’t know me before (or rather, if you had somehow actually known me once long before), get to know the new “me”.

George Kovats: drawer of things, friend to the porcupines, drinker of beer, healer of the leppers,… father.

Yes, my wife Anna has produced a child; or, she is “with child”. And so, the Jakubowski / Kovats empire grows, bringing honey liquor and dry wit to all in it’s path.

I know, this is somewhat anti-climactic in light of the starring triumphs of Katie Holmes and Brooke Shields: two crazy
hollywood primadonna martyrs willing to sacrifice an eventual tummy-tuck for 9 months of Enquirer coverage. Still, it’s a joyous occasion for the whole family. But before rejoice can echo throughout, I have to first state the conditions and plans my son(s) and/or daughter(s) must follow through to earn the name Kovats, and all the non-expired Jiffy Lube coupons that entitles them to.

  1. They must find me extremely funny.
    This will be easy at first. I’m sure a dangling key chain will suffice for a couple of years, but once they can grasp complex shapes, I’ll need their full appreciation of my complex and obscure humor. If they don’t get my Oscar Wilde quips and references to Henry VIII, we’ll have issues.
  2. They must be a “man’s man”, or conversely, a “woman’s woman”
    Nothing queer or quasi-normal here – just everything the Good Lord and Jerry Fallwell intended. And no metrosexuals either. You survive like your father: on one bar of Lava soap. Nothing fruify for my children like moisturizer, exfoliating cream, hair spray, deoderant, feminine products or toilet paper.
  3. Mandatory Military Service
    My children will earn their citizenship! Through grueling, boring, and highly anecdote-worthy service to our Uncle Sam. And, not to be totally unfair, if my children are fiercely against becoming a part of our Armed Forces and captivated with the civilian lifestyle, they can join the Air Force. Either way, it will be at least 4 years of their life they can talk about in bars for endless years to come.
  4. They will not become a podiatrist. Period.
    I had a neighbor one time – the man collected pictures of hands cut out from magazines. He was a former podiatrist… or a magazine editor. I could never remember. Either way, it was friggin’ creepy, so no Podiatrists in the family.Magazine editors are negotiable.
  5. I will put the “fear of God” in them
    My father enjoyed making us scared witless when we interupted “Wheel of Fortune” during recliner time. So, in keeping with tradition, I’ve been mentally practicing the “fear of God” technique for years now. The minute my children begin to emulate a TV child star or listen to Clay Aiken, that’s when the yelling begins. It’s a lot like how you’re told to scare off black bears in the forest – stand really tall with your arms waving above your head and yell gutteral sounds. It’ll will send my children into a panicky frenzy, make them realize the error of their ways, and potentially show them how to act in a mosh pit.
  6. No Barney
    I know, more 3 year olds these days are watching The Family Guy than Barney, but that smug purple bastard is still waiting to be knocked down a peg if you ask me.
  7. No Family Guy either
    I’ve Tivo’ed almost every episode that has aired, and I gotta tell ya, they’re not missing much. Plus, I don’t think babies with british thespian accents are cute or funny, and I’ll have none of that crap in my house. At leat not anymore, now that I’ve seen every episode.

I know – I’m a fan of lists, so I’ll cut it short here. I’m thrilled about the prospect of having a baby, but like all life events, I’m going to downplay it out of respect for those who have braved these events before me.

I will say I have a lot of pent up parental hostility from watching Sally Jessie Rapheal reruns and whiny WB teen shows, and I vow to raise a grounded, respectful child that understands this world doesn’t owe them jack. I marvel at parents that let their children strut around without any sense of consequences or unforgiving reality. Of course, I jest above – my son or daughter can be a gay podiatrist that doesn’t understand my humor – but this part is real. The second goal of every parent, next to providing all life-giving necessities, is to prepare their children for the real world. And, in the real world, you don’t get toys and gifts for bad behavior.

So, to my future offspring, you’ve been warned. If you so much as smell a whippit or start considering Scientology as a viable lifestyle, be prepared for flailing arms and boisterous howling. It was good enough for me, and it’ll be good enough for you.

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