Pop

[February 9, 2010]

I came to what I want my kid to call me by accident. Recently, because of the economy (and the "challenged" administration here), a reorganization took place within the Seattle Public Library system. I will be transferred from my library branch, Queen Anne to someone else's library branch, Northeast. Driving home from a going away dinner (half the staff was transferred therefore half got tiny going away gifts from the remaining staff at an American Chinese restaurant...I got a Smencil, an aromatic pencil) I imagined a scenario where me and my toddler-aged kid would be at the Capitol Hill library sometime in the future and we'd run into one of these soon to be ex-coworkers. In this mundane daydream, still with social etiquette in tact, I would certainly have to introduce my offspring to one of these people. In this pretend scenario I addressed my kid and said 'Hey (fill in the blank with the kid's name). This person used to be your pop's old boss." And there is was. Pop. When I told Carey, she reminded me that her dad wants to be called poppy, so this kind of works as the father version - pop. Carey already decided to push having our kid(s) call her dad "Poppy-Sam". Has a nice ring, no? I called my father dad. I don't like daddy, though. Also, being a purveyor of indie-pop music, pop has that extra added layer of meaningfulness. Well, to me anyway...

So nothing all that new and interesting has been going on pregnancy wise. For like the entire last month. Carey's got a little tummy now. Ultrasounds and doctor visits are becoming part of the biweekly routine. Next Tuesday, a week from today, Care's folks are gonna be with us in the ultrasound room when the tech will give a full one hour anatomy scan. We'll find out the sex of the little person. Then maybe we'll start telling people the name. Maybe.

On the "bedroom sports" front, everything is still mostly the same. Once a week has become a struggle to maintain. Carey admitted that she's psychologically afraid of doing any damage to the baby besides just having a low libido. She's worried that because of her uterine anomaly that even achieving orgasm might somehow disrupt the precarious situation. She knows in reality this isn't true, but still in her mind...she's just stuck. But saying that out loud kind of freed her up a bit. Her attention focused on the naughty-lovin' task at hand worked! I must admit that her ahem, juicier, fuller, more voluptuous expanded areas are all the more enticing! I was talking to her while she was showering and I got all worked up just looking. I had to take her right there after she dried off. But she insisted she put on her new cutey thong panties with tiny pictures of scooters and ruffles. The position and angle were perfectly framed in the bathroom mirror for optimum viewing. Life is good, my friends! Life. Is. Good.