The Death of the Name E---r

All right, first I feel the need to dispute the rumor currently being circulated by US magazine. Ashley and I did not almost come to blows in the operating room regarding the baby's name. Recall (and I’ve been given permission to use the name again for this story), I wanted to name the baby Ender; Ashley was vehemently against this. Despite what you may have read in US, the name Bode was decided upon even before Ashley went into the OR. Why, you may ask, did I acquiesce so easily? Was it because I didn't want to put Ashley through any more trauma? Not really (she's tough and could handle it). The reality is the name was ruined for me by a drug dealer named Bob (the anesthesiologist). Bob is an elderly fellow, short, balding, and one of the nicest guys anyone could meet. “Just call me Bob, everybody calls me Bob,” he said when he came in to give Ashley the epidural. I was not used to a doctor being so casual, so humble. I guess I've seen too many episodes of ER, Grey's Anatomy, or watched Malice one too many times ("I am God!" says the doctor). Anyways, while Bob was sticking my wife with his eight-inch needle (don’t be perverted you sickos), he was making small talk with Ashley—'How long you lived in Kettering? Really, from Colorado? Why'd you ever come here?' and 'First baby? Really, you're 37; you certainly don't look it.' Like I said, the nicest guy you could ever meet. At one point, he asked if we had chosen a name. Ashley, who was now under the influence of some powerful drugs, told Bob that she wanted to name the baby Bode but that her husband had a different name in mind. ‘What’s the other name?’ came Bob’s soothing voice. ‘Ender,’ Ashley replied. I expected Bob to smile that fatherly smile he had done so often since he had come into the room and say something supportive. Alas, Bob, this wonderfully nice man, turns into this malicious little being (picture how Anakin changes when he kills Mace Windu and goes to the dark side). He says to me, ‘You can’t name him that,’ while menacing that same eight-inch piece of sharp metal. ‘Why not? Didn't you ever read Ender’s Game?’ I replied. ‘I don't care what book it's from. It doesn't matter. All the kids are going to call him Rear-ender.’ And there ended my fascination with the name...

There is an unwritten rule that one should never, ever, under any circumstances, ask a woman if she is pregnant no matter how obvious it may seem. There is always that one percent chance you could be wrong, and there is no known response to 'Sorry, I'm not pregnant,' that will alleviate the situation. Along this line of thought, we've learned another item on the list of 'they don’t tell you this stuff before hand' (reference the Houston, We Have a Problem post). Perhaps we simply didn’t listen to this when it was mentioned, or figured it wouldn’t apply to us. The morning after Bode was born, Ashley and I both expected her belly to be mostly gone. After all, the baby was no longer inside. Oh sure, we did expect some extra tissue, but we’d no idea she would still look 6+ months pregnant. For those that don’t know, the belly is this big because the indoor plumbing doesn’t snap back quickly. I guess I thought the return back to her normal size and shape would be along the timeline of the Hulk transforming back David Banner. Yes, her belly has gone down considerably since Bode’s birth, but it was still large enough to ruin one particular gentleman’s afternoon. We went down the street to pick up a holiday ornament holder (aka a Christmas tree for the non-PC correct). Anyways, the guy at the lot violated the unwritten rule of pregnancy comments. ‘I imagine next year’s Christmas will be a lot different after your little one arrives,’ the guy says, nodding towards Ashley’s belly. Ashley's eyes turned jet black and her hair raised up like there was a lot of static electricity in the air. I don't recall much after that, but I do know the surgeons were able to reattach both of the man's testicles. Even better, we got a great price on the tree--the guy was quite uncomfortable during the rest of the sale, and I think he simply wanted us gone...


Ok, here's the real reason you come to this blog: the Bode-man (long o, no e, rhymes with Code-man) update. Yesterday, Bode had his one-week checkup. He is now 7 pounds, 3 ounces and is doing just fine. He's eating good, sleeping better, and we think he might have smiled (or it could have been a burp aftershock, we're not sure which). First, here's me and the little guy in front of the aforementioned Christmas tree Next, we have have a picture of Bode with Auburn. He looks soooo little next to her; it's amazing how gentle the rottie is with the baby. Below we have a picture of Dudley sniffing the little man. I'm sure Dud was pissed when he realized Bode was in his sleeping area ('Who's been sleeping in my bed?' said the Dud-pug). Finally, we have a picture of Bode with Nana (Ashley's Mom). At this point, we have to give big ups to Nana, who has been with us since Bode was born and is staying until the 13th of December (although we're trying to convince her to extend her stay...until 2010). She's been awesome--changes him, rocks him, has cooked meals and cookies for us, and has been a calming influence on the whole household (we won't mention that she swipes and does the cross word before either of us has a chance to see it). We would not be as well rested nor maintained our sanity if not for the presence of this silver haired angel, and for that, we thank her with all our hearts. As a final thought: Notice in the picture of Bode and Nana all the books on the shelves on the top left. They are all Star Wars books. The little guy's future is already set: he's going to be a nerd--just like Daddy! May the force be with you, and pleasant day.