Oh Boy, Oh Beau

This is one-week-old Beau. He's already tired of my kisses.

So I had a baby boy.

I was pretty sure it was going to be a boy because I wanted to fight everyone almost my entire pregnancy. I chalked it up to testosterone coursing through my veins.

I hoped after he was born, my hormones would go back to normal. But just in case they didn't, I did what any "normal" person would do and decided to encapsulate my placenta.

About a week before the baby came, I thought I should raise the subject with my father-in-law. He and my mother-in-law were staying with us while we waited for baby to arrive.

"So, I'm planning on keeping my placenta and having it turned into pills," I casually said one day in the kitchen. David was sitting in his favorite spot at our kitchenette reading the news. He's an open-minded man, but he's also in his 70s and set in his ways. Placenta consumption was outside his realm of comfort, I think.

"Is it done by a shaman?" was his only question.

"Nope, there's no shaman," I said. "But they do need to know if we would rather them prepare the placenta here in the kitchen or do it at their lab--."

"I think the lab is best, " he said quickly. I agreed. We avoided talking about placentas for the rest of the visit.

Luckily, having a boy provided plenty of other opportunities for awkward moments. Most of them came at Beau's one-week check up. I had some questions that I wasn't exactly sure how to ask the pediatrician. So I just went for it:

"Is his scrotum supposed to look like that?" I said.

"Like what?" she said.

I searched for the right words...
"Like it's 80. Like it's 80 years old," I said for clarification. The pediatrician looked at me. I looked back at her. I think she was trying to gauge if I was serious. I was.

"It's fine," she said.

"Ok good. That's what I figured, I just wanted to make sure," I said to save face.

Then she gave me directions on how to best care for the circumcision. After the "scrotum incident" I didn't want to look like an idiot again, so I think I over compensated.

"Ok cool. I think I know what to do. I'm pretty familiar..." I trailed off. Where was I going with this? Familiar with what? Penises? That sounds creepy.

"I'm mean, not too familiar. Not more familiar than the average woman, I would guess. Moderately familiar," I stopped talking.

"Ok, let's get his diaper back on," she said. "And we'll see you at his two-week appointment."

Against my better judgement, I made one last effort to connect with the doc.

"I can't believe his diaper was off for so long and neither one of us got R. Kelly'd," I joked.

At this point she gave me what I like to call, "Kanye Face." If you don't know what that is, here's a picture of Kanye looking completely unimpressed.

Photo cred: popdust.com

She had to know the reference I was making. She and I were about the same age, so we both should remember when he was in the news. Though maybe she didn't watch the news back then. After all, she would've been preparing to be a doctor. I was just preparing for my future as an unemployed journalist; I had plenty of time to watch the news.

Or maybe the joke just wasn't funny. I'll try it again at his next appointment just to be sure.

(Note: I'm sorry Beau. I promise to delete this blog post before you start school.)