Just a Little Something my Husband Cobbled Together / Guest Post

Hello. People call me Mr. Cob. By “people” I mean my wife and you strangers casually observing my life through the electronic magic that is the interwebs. As avid readers you will recall that I promised to address some “gross mischaracterizations” of Mrs. Swan’s retelling our wonderful news concerning Baby S.

Let me begin by explaining how all this started. When and man and woman love each other very much, they get married, and then… well I forget how it actually works. Something about a stork, a twelve sided die and chocolate sauce then poof baby. But here is the thing, I was told, nay re-assured, that the process of creating a new life took the average couple 6-8 months, even longer if you are Sting.

So imagine my shock that Friday in February when, after a truly horrendous day, I came home to the sweet, synthetic smell of Funfetti. Yes, I love funfetti cake. What of it? It is pure sugar, has rainbow colored faux sprinkles inside the cake, and is peddled by an adorable little crack addict who appears to be related to the Stay Puft marshmallow man.

And yes. I was shocked. I thought Ryan baked me a cake because I had such a horrible week. That’s all that unusual. Instead, I found out that I was going to be a father, way ahead of schedule. It was a wonderful surprise to say the least and what better way to celebrate new life than with the finest food life has to offer – Funfetti.

I must say that the best part about finding out we were having a baby was the keeping it a secret. Many times I feel like everyone is in our business. I suppose that is the only negative, and a small negative at that of being so close with our family and friends. We have few secrets that ours, just belonging to the two of us. And so the next week and a half, before we told our parents and friends, was great. We would hang out with people and any time there was an opportunity to share the news, instead of blurting out “We’re having a baby!” we would smile or wink at each other. It was truly special and I will always remember those moments where it was just our little secret.

Having now been immersed in baby land, with our other pregnant friends, for some 9 or 10 weeks, I have learned one thing. Pregnant women are like Jeff Goldblum from The Fly. You know, the part where he is keeping a daily journal of the strange and fascinating changes his body is undergoing as he turns into a giant insect. Only difference is that in nine months, Mrs. Swan won’t have compound eyes – I hope.

Not that I blame them, I mean, it is pretty incredible and their bodies are going through an incredible metamorphosis. But still, it is like every time we get together, I hear about some new fluid or growth that will be coming.

It is in this context that I need to address a statement made by Mrs. Swan. I need to address all this nonsense about breast milk and my apparent shock and horror at her suggestion that I go buy a bag of oreos and drink some up like some perverted Louis Pasteur. (paraphrasing) Look, the reason why I think it is acceptable to drink cows milk but am grossed out by drinking human’s milk is the same reason I think it is acceptable to eat beef, but not eat humans. It is the same species. It is as close to cannibalism as we can get without the plane crash. That was the reason. This whole cave man nonsense is complete and udder fabrication.

Finally, I would like address some recent posts Mrs. Swan has made about herself. First off, you are glowing girl – to say otherwise is absolutely ridiculous. She looks great, the bump is cute . . . everything is just perfect. Second, this woman will be an incredible mom. True, there is no such thing as the perfect parent, but I believe World’s Greatest Mom is not out of the question. That t-shirt is tougher to come by than you would think – though neither I, nor Jerry Seinfeld, are entirely sure how official those rankings really are. (“Mandelbaum, Mandelbaum, Mandelbaum!”)

So last week we had the uber-ultrasound. The souped up version where we could see the baby’s brain, it was moving around, and most of all heard the heartbeat. Its heart was beating so fast. German discotech fast. If it is a boy, we should name him Dieter and get him a monkey fast. Get it? Good. Moving on.

Notice I have been saying it. Mrs. Swan is thinking that we are having a boy, she constantly says “him” and “he,” but I really don’t care. Truly. And yet, people keep asking me, in slightly different ways, but it is the same question: Do I want a boy or a girl?

When I consider this question I am reminded of the words of my favorite actor John Cusack in one of my favorite movies, Gross Pointe Blank. In this scene Martin Q. Blank, the hitman who returns to his hometown for his high school reunion, is out for a drink with his high school sweetheart, Debi, whom he abandoned – on prom night – to join the army, and who he has not seen or spoken to since.

Debi: So, is there a Mrs. Mysterio?
Martin Q. Blank: No, but I do have a very nice cat.
Debi: Not the same.
Martin Q. Blank: Well, you don’t know my cat, it’s very demanding.
Debi: It? You don’t know if it is a boy or a girl?
Martin Q. Blank: I respect its privacy.


Baby S, I respect your privacy – for now. I truly don’t care whether you are a boy or a girl. The die has been cast, so to speak, and I am just on the edge of seat waiting to find out. That being said we are going to find out what you are as soon as we can. As you will learn Baby S, Dad doesn’t handle surprises very well… just ask Mom.

Speaking of surprises did you know that I am tubby? That’s right. I lost nearly 20 pounds at the beginning of this year and most of it is back already. If you have been paying attention, you probably know that I love food that is awful for me. Funfetti, buffalo wings, deep fried, cheese covered twinkies, and, of course, Guinness. And guess what. Daddy books tell us that it is normal to have crazy cravings. They call it couvade – or sympathy hungers. I call it a convenient excuse for my inner fatass to take over. Guess what, I always want a doughnut, but before I heard about sympathy hungers, I said “You are better than that. You don’t need that.” But now, armed with all sorts of daddy books, I say “It’s normal. Make sure it has sprinkles…”

And I that note I bid adieu. Rest assured dear reader, I will be back in the not so distant future to offer more observations on life, choc full of references from Cusack movies, Seinfeld, and possibly Monty Python. Now where did I put that twinkie… oops. I was sitting on it. Again.