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