The One Where the Ultrasound Giggles
I think it was in August sometime. I know that it was a sunny day. I was sitting at my old workstation, right by the window, and it was that time of day (you know, those whole twenty minutes,) when the sun comes blaring right down the centre of Bay Street, blinding me and making it impossible for me to see my computer screen. So I drew the shades and continued working on this, that or the other, when up on my newly visible computer screen my brother, Mr. Grumpy-pants, logs on to messenger.
Brother: Hey Kid.
Me: Hey. What’s up?
Brother: Not too much. Got something for you.
(This brother is a scintillating conversationalist. And a slow typer.)
Me: What?
Brother: (Starts file transfer.)
Me: (Accepts file transfer.)
Tick, tick, tick. Blah, blah, blah. Multitasking away.
Then the file transfer completed and I clicked open.
And then I screamed. And then I jumped up and down. And then I told everyone in the trading room. But it was clear they were not nearly as excited as I was. I pity them.
On the screen was a shot of a thirteen week ultrasound. My brother and his wife were having a baby!
The conversation continued with the requisite question and answer period. Due date? Beginning of February. Boy or girl? They’re not 100% positive, but it looks like a boy. (A boy! My brother is a sports fanatic. A little boy is his dream. A boy!) How’s S_____? She’s great. Have you told Mom? No, she’s not home yet. Heh, I beat her. Sweet. They sent her an email entitled “Hi Grandma” with the ultrasound attached. Hee. What a weird age we live in. Then he had to log off and call Quebec so I said congratulations and sort of wrote, all awe-stricken, “I’m going to be an aunt.”
To which he replied, “Yeah, I’m going to be a dad.”
And then I burst into happy tears. Because the amount of awe I had in my head when I realized I was going to be an aunt is just a drop in the bucket compared to what he must have felt.
There’s a cute little anecdote that follows the pregnancy announcement. I got so excited that I left a message on my mom’s answering machine saying “Check your email and then call me second.” What I meant was check your email, call Grumpy-pants first and then call me second. But I didn’t want to give away the surprise, so I left out the part about Grumpy-pants and assumed that my mom would figure it out. She checked her email and then immediately picked up the phone to call me – as instructed. She was all over-the-top, spinny excited and asking me all these questions that I had already asked my brother. So, confused, I asked her what he had told her.
Mom: Well, I haven’t talked to him yet.
Me: What? Are you nuts? What are you doing on the phone with me??
Mom: You said check your email FIRST and then call you SECOND.
Me: Geez Mom. Hang up the phone and call you son!
Silly Mommy.
Anyway, that is not the point of this entry. Nor is the point of the entry to announce the birth of my nephew. He’s still cooking, but he’s just about done.
My brother and his wife tried really hard to get pregnant. I’m not sure how hard. They’re very private people. In fact, my brother will probably read this entry and ask me to remove it. (Too bad Grumpy, eat it.) I just know it took a while and I assume that they probably had moments where they didn’t know if it would ever happen. And they probably had moments where they were disappointed. And they felt like giving up. And they resigned themselves to perhaps looking for a new dog instead of going through all this trouble. But then it happened, and I know that it makes my brother tremendously pleased to be at this point in his life, with this woman that he loves, to be able to raise a family.
I’m not so much the most domestic woman in the world. I don’t know if I’ll ever be at the point where I’m ready for children (despite what my hips look like. No fat-ass jokes, brother.) But every time I have thought about my brother since that day in August when he announced he was going to be a father, I feel really good inside. Happy. Proud. Of him. For him. Grumpy and I have a good relationship. It’s based on a lot of sibling rivalry, a decent amount of rough-housing, and a lot of love disguised as snarky comments. I tell him he’s boring and safe. He asks me if I’m ever going to grow up. I make fun of his premature grey hair. He tells me my ass has its own weather system. (Which it DOESN’T!) I say “Ha ha. You are soooooo mature! Dork!” He says “I know you are but what am I?” Then he tries to noogie me and I try to head-butt his shoulder and we end up punching each other, and then the dog starts barking for us to stop and then mom has to yell and holler that she’s tired of us acting like children and she’s too bloody old for this. Sigh. Good times. Did I mention that he’s thirty-five and I’m twenty-eight this week?
And I love him very much. It occurs to me that Grumpy already has quite a bit of parenting experience. The eight year age difference between us meant that he was a ready-made babysitter for most of my childhood. Mr. Grumpy-Pants is the one who spent countless Sundays trying to teach me to pitch, hit and catch a flyball (wishful thinking, significant improvement, and never gonna happen, respectively.) He’s the one who supervised me the first time I got drunk. And he is the one who oh-so-generously offered to pay for my university leather jacket, when I was crying on the phone terrified that I wouldn’t be able to afford it on my own. For four years, I wore that jacket almost daily and treated it with a kind of holy reverence. And every time I put it on and got a whiff of that heavy mixed-up scent of leather, lanolin, gentian violet and beer, I said a small thanks to him internally. He saw me through break-ups and moves across the ocean and country. He protected me and stood up for me through some significant family conflict. He was there for me for every celebration along the way: each graduation, my first greasepole at Queen’s, my ring ceremony.
He’s going to be a great dad. And his son will probably be able to catch those fly balls that I never could. Good luck Grumpy!
Brother: Hey Kid.
Me: Hey. What’s up?
Brother: Not too much. Got something for you.
(This brother is a scintillating conversationalist. And a slow typer.)
Me: What?
Brother: (Starts file transfer.)
Me: (Accepts file transfer.)
Tick, tick, tick. Blah, blah, blah. Multitasking away.
Then the file transfer completed and I clicked open.
And then I screamed. And then I jumped up and down. And then I told everyone in the trading room. But it was clear they were not nearly as excited as I was. I pity them.
On the screen was a shot of a thirteen week ultrasound. My brother and his wife were having a baby!
The conversation continued with the requisite question and answer period. Due date? Beginning of February. Boy or girl? They’re not 100% positive, but it looks like a boy. (A boy! My brother is a sports fanatic. A little boy is his dream. A boy!) How’s S_____? She’s great. Have you told Mom? No, she’s not home yet. Heh, I beat her. Sweet. They sent her an email entitled “Hi Grandma” with the ultrasound attached. Hee. What a weird age we live in. Then he had to log off and call Quebec so I said congratulations and sort of wrote, all awe-stricken, “I’m going to be an aunt.”
To which he replied, “Yeah, I’m going to be a dad.”
And then I burst into happy tears. Because the amount of awe I had in my head when I realized I was going to be an aunt is just a drop in the bucket compared to what he must have felt.
There’s a cute little anecdote that follows the pregnancy announcement. I got so excited that I left a message on my mom’s answering machine saying “Check your email and then call me second.” What I meant was check your email, call Grumpy-pants first and then call me second. But I didn’t want to give away the surprise, so I left out the part about Grumpy-pants and assumed that my mom would figure it out. She checked her email and then immediately picked up the phone to call me – as instructed. She was all over-the-top, spinny excited and asking me all these questions that I had already asked my brother. So, confused, I asked her what he had told her.
Mom: Well, I haven’t talked to him yet.
Me: What? Are you nuts? What are you doing on the phone with me??
Mom: You said check your email FIRST and then call you SECOND.
Me: Geez Mom. Hang up the phone and call you son!
Silly Mommy.
Anyway, that is not the point of this entry. Nor is the point of the entry to announce the birth of my nephew. He’s still cooking, but he’s just about done.
My brother and his wife tried really hard to get pregnant. I’m not sure how hard. They’re very private people. In fact, my brother will probably read this entry and ask me to remove it. (Too bad Grumpy, eat it.) I just know it took a while and I assume that they probably had moments where they didn’t know if it would ever happen. And they probably had moments where they were disappointed. And they felt like giving up. And they resigned themselves to perhaps looking for a new dog instead of going through all this trouble. But then it happened, and I know that it makes my brother tremendously pleased to be at this point in his life, with this woman that he loves, to be able to raise a family.
I’m not so much the most domestic woman in the world. I don’t know if I’ll ever be at the point where I’m ready for children (despite what my hips look like. No fat-ass jokes, brother.) But every time I have thought about my brother since that day in August when he announced he was going to be a father, I feel really good inside. Happy. Proud. Of him. For him. Grumpy and I have a good relationship. It’s based on a lot of sibling rivalry, a decent amount of rough-housing, and a lot of love disguised as snarky comments. I tell him he’s boring and safe. He asks me if I’m ever going to grow up. I make fun of his premature grey hair. He tells me my ass has its own weather system. (Which it DOESN’T!) I say “Ha ha. You are soooooo mature! Dork!” He says “I know you are but what am I?” Then he tries to noogie me and I try to head-butt his shoulder and we end up punching each other, and then the dog starts barking for us to stop and then mom has to yell and holler that she’s tired of us acting like children and she’s too bloody old for this. Sigh. Good times. Did I mention that he’s thirty-five and I’m twenty-eight this week?
And I love him very much. It occurs to me that Grumpy already has quite a bit of parenting experience. The eight year age difference between us meant that he was a ready-made babysitter for most of my childhood. Mr. Grumpy-Pants is the one who spent countless Sundays trying to teach me to pitch, hit and catch a flyball (wishful thinking, significant improvement, and never gonna happen, respectively.) He’s the one who supervised me the first time I got drunk. And he is the one who oh-so-generously offered to pay for my university leather jacket, when I was crying on the phone terrified that I wouldn’t be able to afford it on my own. For four years, I wore that jacket almost daily and treated it with a kind of holy reverence. And every time I put it on and got a whiff of that heavy mixed-up scent of leather, lanolin, gentian violet and beer, I said a small thanks to him internally. He saw me through break-ups and moves across the ocean and country. He protected me and stood up for me through some significant family conflict. He was there for me for every celebration along the way: each graduation, my first greasepole at Queen’s, my ring ceremony.
He’s going to be a great dad. And his son will probably be able to catch those fly balls that I never could. Good luck Grumpy!
posted by nerdifer at 5:13 p.m.
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