The First Trimester: Denial I must confess, the very first thought that went through my mind was that Ricky Ricardo was full of shit. And that devastates me, because I love Ricky Ricardo. The man was wearing clothes in the fifties that would still be hip today, and he made smoking look so cool I started doing it. To my mind, he was the coolest character in the history of television. What a shame he was so obviously full of shit. I''ll tell you how I know: Remember the episode where Lucy tells Ricky she''s pregnant? She does it anonymously, making him figure it out in front of his audience at the Tropicana nightclub. Ricky sings "We''re Having a Baby, My Baby and Me," trying to guess which guest is the lucky one. Do you remember how he strolls right past Lucy without the foggiest notion it might be she who is expecting? What are we to make of this? Was it the second Immaculate Conception? Had Ricky never traversed the space between those separated twin beds? Could it really have been that much of a surprise? Now, this was the fifties, so I''m willing to cut them slack on sexual chemistry.
I suppose in the time of Joseph McCarthy, network censors might have been squeamish if Lucy had said, "I should go off the Ortho-Cept this week. Last time it took me three months to get my period." But did they really need to insult our intelligence? Now, maybe it was better the way they did it. I certainly didn''t need to hear Lucy tell Ricky she was ovulating, or tell Ethel she was three centimeters dilated and twenty percent effaced. I don''t regret never seeing Lucille Ball in the stirrups, or bored out of her mind on bed rest because she was carrying too low and they didn''t want to use a stitch in her cervix. Perhaps the world was a better place when we were spared all of that on television, but mustn''t Ricky have had some inkling that Lucy might be knocked up? The point of all this is that today, my wife told me we are going to have a baby. Unlike Ricky, I was not shocked by the news. Not after we went off the pill three months ago, visited three obstetricians and a pediatrician, pinpointed the optimal instant of ovulation, became unprecedentedly intimate with a thermometer, had sex when I didn''t feel like it (a first), and spent hundreds of dollars on books--everything from prenatal diet tips to the benefits of communication with the fetus.
Like everything else in my life, this transaction was carefully budgeted, programmed by a computer, dissected on a spreadsheet, discussed via e-mail, and scheduled in my BlackBerry long before any rabbit died. My wife didn''t need to slip me an anonymous note, and there was no point in feigning surprise. This was a day that was only about the facts. We''re having a baby. My baby and me. The first thing I have learned is that my role in all of this is negligible. My wife''s obstetrician made that abundantly clear when I made the catastrophic mistake of attending an appointment. What I found is that my contribution to anything beyond insemination is purely optional.
There was not a single question I asked to which the reply was not: It doesn''t matter. Should I exercise more? Should I stop smoking? Should I get more sleep? Is there anything I should do about my diet? It doesn''t matter. But the doctor did have a great deal to say to my wife and, frankly, the language she used was absurd. Am I really supposed to know what a uterus is? I mean, does everyone? Apparently my wife thinks they do. "How in the world can you not know what a uterus is?" she asked. "Well," I said, "I don''t have one." "You don''t have a satellite dish, either. But you know what that is.
" "Do you know what rack-and-pinion steering is?" I asked. "No." "Well, you see," I said, "I don''t make fun of you." "I cannot believe you would compare rack-and-pinion steering to my uterus." I realized there was no good end to this conversation. "Well, does anyone want to tell me what a uterus is?" I asked. Without blinking, the doctor pulled down a roll-up picture of a frontally nude woman with her abdominal cavity on display. And I immediately regretted not having pursued the rack-and-pinion line of questioning.
By the time she finished, I needed a stiff drink. That was how we began the horrifying process of insemination, which I must say bears absolutely no resemblance to actual sex. As Tom says to himself in The Adventures of Tom Sawyer: "Work consists of whatever a body is obliged to do. Play consists of whatever a body is not obliged to do." I was stunned at how quickly sex started to seem like work when it became something my body was obliged to do. Let''s do it now, honey. Seinfeld starts in eight minutes. I actually spoke those words.
What has become of me? Though, on the positive side, I will say this: There is something liberating about a sexual experience where the sole objective is to get it over with as quickly as possible. It alleviates all the pressure. And all she wants to do is get it done and then lie flat on her back with her feet in the air like a T-square, anyway. She''s just as happy as you are if it''s over in time for Seinfeld. So eventually it happened. Three months of that and away we go. I would describe my wife''s overriding emotion as relief; she has so many friends who''ve had trouble getting pregnant, she''s behaving as though the hard part is behind us. Me, though, I feel like I''m standing on the edge of a giant cliff and cannot see what is waiting for me once I go over.
There isn''t a hint of euphoria or delight or even joy. All I feel is a distant but heavy sense of dread. We''ll see how that changes--if it does--as time goes on. Dr. Gray has recommended that I keep this diary for the duration of the pregnancy. I pledge to be diligent in doing so, even though I have some doubt as to how much good will come of it. I figure, if nothing else, maybe it will make for interesting reading someday. Note to self: At some point, make sure you write a letter to unborn child.
A tad kitschy, perhaps, but an idea I find appealing. Perhaps I''ll read it at the kid''s wedding someday and everyone will cry at the majesty of it. Be sure to write it majestically. *** Just back from a visit with Dr. Gray, who has the uncanny ability to be uplifting while she explains that I am doomed to forever be unhappy. "What you must come to accept," she told me, "is that we all have priorities in life. Those priorities define who we are, and yours are about to change." "But what if they don''t change?" I asked.
"I am the most self- centered person on earth. What if I remain that way even after the baby is born?" "It does not happen that way, Michael," she said, "not for us who love our children and put them first." That''s the trouble. Sometimes you don''t put the really important things first. I should know; I talk about sports for a living. "Ah, yes," she said, "the games you enjoy so well." "I do enjoy them, but it''s more than that." "How so?" I thought about it for a minute.
"I don''t know." "Think about it," she said. "If you can tell me why you love sports so much, it may give us the answers to other questions, too." Well, I spent the rest of the day thinking about it. I love the fact that my father, a man who grew up penniless during the Depression, refers to the Yankees'' loss of a World Series game as the worst moment of his childhood. And I love that after making himself a successful lawyer and publishing a book, he dedicated it to his heroes, including Joe DiMaggio along with Clarence Darrow and William O. Douglas. I love the fact that my mother, who grew up within walking distance of Yankee Stadium, is such a passionate sports fan herself that she must watch games alone because she finds conversation distracting.
And I love that she would have left my father for Joe Namath in a heartbeat, and that he would have applauded her for it. I love that my kid brother, who--like all kid brothers--always hated everything I liked, chose to root for the Miami Dolphins because they were the sworn enemy of my beloved New York Jets. And I love that, thirty years later, he flies to Miami every time the Dolphins have a big game. I love that my wife, who grew up without sports playing any role in her life, now watches games with me and occasionally puts down her magazine. I love that she recognizes it is important enough at least to try. I love the way I felt the first time I covered the Super Bowl. It was Pasadena, California, in January 1993. The Bills were playing the Cowboys and Garth Brooks sang the national anthem.
I remember thinking about all the games I''d watched as a kid, and how if someone had told that kid he would someday get to cover the Super Bowl he would have said, "I am going to have the best life of anybody in the whole world." And then U.S. Navy jets flew overhead in formation just as the sun set over the mountains in the distance. That stadium was the loudest place I''ve ever been. I love that Dave Wannstedt, then the coach of the Chicago Bears, once yelled at me over something I''d said on the radio, and I stumbled into the pressroom, humiliated, and a veteran writer pulled me aside and said, "Don''t sweat it, kid. They never yell unless they know you''re right." I love the way Michael Jordan.