End of October Thoughts

Writing Haunts
I’m hiding in my office. Not my ideal choice of writing venue—I much prefer my new digs in the Library. But the Library is at the front of the house, and I’m hiding from trick-or-treaters. In the words of Bilbo Baggins, “I’m not at home!”
Despite being in the second best place to write in the house, Mr. Bentley the Cat decided to join me. He’s currently washing his right paw on Meg’s chair. That’s better.
Worky Stuff
This morning I started training everyone on the fall software updates for our core banking software. I’m teaching approximately 140 of 170 employees in 16 different sessions. The morning session is an hour long; the afternoon one is an hour and a half.
When Beth and I were planning out all the classes, I was worried about not having enough content to actually fill an hour and a half. She insisted that I should two different types of classes, Level I and Level II, the latter being the longer and more complex of the two.
I designed agendas for both levels and estimated the time it’d take me to complete both, but these things are notoriously hard to predict until I teach it a time or two.
As it turned out, I ended up teaching Level I (the hour-long class) in 45 minutes. Level II (the hour-and-a-half class) finished after 60 minutes.
C’est la vie. I can’t predict things perfectly.
Tomorrow I’ll train another 24 people in two classes and consider how to take a little more time doing it. Maybe I should talk a little s l o w e r. Sometimes when I train I rush too fast through things, and people give me confused, sheep-like looks. I expect them to tilt their heads and bleat at me sometimes.
Oh, did I mention that Beth went on vacation this week? I have to train 140 people and she goes to Vermont. Hah! Actually, it’s not that bad. She’s been stressed out lately, so it’s nice to have a little peace and quiet while I figure out how to teach these classes.
Meggy
I came home yesterday and asked Meg how her previous night was. She works nights as a RN at an ICU, which tends to be stressful. She said that the nurse she had to turn her patients over to was being a complete jerk, and then promptly Meg burst into tears. Through her sobs she tried to explain how mean the other nurse had been to her, how she’s been trying so hard to fit in with her new job but it’s never good enough, and so on.
I rubbed her shoulders and tried to comfort her. Eventually the tension cracked and she relaxed. There’s a tipping point when it comes to crying, when it usually just feels better after a while.
“It’s probably more hormones than anything else,” she said, patting her belly.
“There’s a baby in there,” I said, smiling. “But seriously, that nurse was being a bitch. It’s not you—it’s her.”
We ate cold roasted chicken, fruit salad, and dipped French bread in seasoned olive oil. Meg got up to get her shoes on for work. Retrieving her phone, she noticed that she had a message from work. They wanted to know if she wanted to be stand-by, which means that there aren’t enough patients to warrant her coming into work and she’d be on-call if they needed her. She readily agreed.
“You should change into something more comfortable,” I said. Meg was wearing her typical Caribbean blue scrubs and tennis shoes.
“I don’t want to jinx it,” she said.
I shrugged. Five minutes later, she conceded and changed into her pajamas with the pineapples on them.
So instead of her having to work 48 hours in the last five days, she got a break for one night. We watched the third Richard Dawkins video from Sex, Death, and the Meaning of Life on YouTube, and then The Great Sperm Race. (I now have a greater respect for my poor sperm.)
Farts
Meg has been farting more. Farts are hilarious, of course, but her reactions to them are great. They go thusly:
Blap!
Meg: Pregnant!
Jellybean
According to doctor math, pregnancies start from the first day of your missed period. So you’re actually pregnant before you have sex or conceive. Kind of strange to me, but by this reckoning, Jellybean is five weeks old. By actual math, she’s three weeks old. By wishing math, she’s several years old.
Meg told me that she doesn’t want to know Jellybean’s sex until she’s born. Well, that is, Meg told me that a few months ago. She wants to know now. “Not that it will matter,” she said. “I’ll love him just the same.”
“It’s a girl,” I said, rubbing her belly.
“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid you are wrong. It’s a boy.”
“It’s a girl,” I insisted. “And she’s going to be just like you. Hopefully without my nose. Or diabetes.”
“I wonder if he’ll get your feet?”

"I certainly hope she won’t get my feet."
We’ve had names picked out either way for four years ago, but our little rivalry is fun. Meg says they usually can tell with a sonogram by about 20 weeks, which will be in February.
Telling People
Meg has an OB appointment on November 8, which is when we learn if the pregnancy is healthy. Meg has a lot better feeling about this one than last time, so I think the odds are good.
“It’s weird—I can feel my cervix twinge,” she said yesterday.

“Twinge?”
“Not in a bad way. But it’s weird to feel my organs saying, ‘Hey, I’m here.’”
Meg and I decided not to tell anyone about being pregnant until Meg’s seen the OB. Last time we were so excited at getting pregnant that we told everyone right away, and then had to tell everyone laterthat we lost the pregnancy. Standard protocol for these things, apparently, is to keep it a secret until the pregnancy is confirmed to be safe and healthy.
Still, if you know anything about me, it’s that I’m horrible at keeping a secret. I’m nearly bursting at the seams to contain my excitement at having a baby. I just want to barge into every conversation and tell my big fat secret.
Person 1 I have lunch with: My son is getting involved in this school activity…
Me: I’m going to be a dad too!
Person 2 I have lunch with: I got a Wendy’s chicken burger.
Me: That’s awesome, because I’m going to be a dad!
Person 3 I have lunch with: Did you see Abraham Lincoln Vampire Hunter?
Me: Yes, and it sucked. And you know what else I saw? A positive pregnancy test!
This secret’s killing me.