The new familiar

The kidlet has just passed 11 weeks.

That's half way between the previously infamous 12 week mark, and the 'new 12 weeks' of 10 weeks. Appropriately, some things people have said to me lately have gotten me thinking.

An email came from a friend mentioning how nervous I must be in these early pregnancy stages, and a comment was left here from someone who said that I would have a lot of fun with this kid because I already am having fun with them.

I'm not nervous. There is always a moment of anxiousness just before a scan or check up, but on the whole I'm not worried at all about the pregnancy.

Maybe I should be, this could be naivety, perhaps this is some sort of denial state I'm in, but I really don't think so.

I'm certain everything will be okay now. I've no proof or evidence, and my psychic abilities are somewhat underdeveloped, but I just know. That's why I'm not nervous.

It's not a matter of 'ifs' or 'someday' anymore, it's a matter of when.

I know that this kid is going to arrive safe and well, and we'll know it. We'll recognise it. (The obviousness of it dangling from my wife's cavern of carnal delights aside of course.)

We don't know what colour hair it will have, if any. We don't know if it will have all its toes or an extra ear growing from its belly, but we will know it.

We'll know it as the kid that has kept us going for two years. The kid who shook me out of sulks and reminded me to look after ET during month after month of failures. It's the same kid who inspired silly writing and jokes when all I wanted to do was switch off and just walk away.

This kid pulled both our hands together, reminding us why we were doing what we were.

So no, I'm not nervous, I'm excited at the thought of finally getting to meet in the flesh, someone who has already done so much for us. Someone we're already familiar with after years of ups and downs.

Someone we've already known for a long, long time.

A brand new old friend.

Don't tell Bono

Little Fitz has doubled in length again this week.

I presume it has at least, because that's what 'the books' are telling us.

In fact, it could be doing absolutely anything in there, anything at all. I picture it sprawled out and scratching itself, reading Stephen King paperbacks, playing air guitar on its umbilical chord, stopping occasionally to choose something to munch on from the placenta platter. When it's time for a scan, it hurriedly hides all its paraphernalia under the yolk sac and assumes the foetal position for the camera.

Maybe.

Anyway, the growth is jolly news in itself, but toss in the fact that its relatively humongous head should hopefully not have grown this week, and we can celebrate having a less Gollumesque looking foetus inflating my wife.

If you are going to have your entire metabolism abused by a complete stranger, it might as well be a cute one I say.

A couple of 'firsts' have happened this last week for the bellydweller too.

(S)he has been registered at day care. Stop laughing. Another one of Holland's unique aspects on all this, we've asked for three days a week sometime from August 2010, and if we are really, really, really lucky, we might get them.

Also, while technically not its first live music experience, (that particular privilege goes to Holland's answer to 'The Commitments'), the kid did go to its first proper rock concert in the shape of U2.

I expect that the mutating one was just as underwhelmed as I was.

The 'first' that I'm most proud of is the fact it managed to get in for free, sneaking in under ET's t-shirt. At about 100 euro a ticket, that made papa very proud.

Kidlet is already earning its keep.

Very proud indeed.

Shotgun weddings & bastard avoidance

I never said we were normal.

We got married today. Again.

In fact, I got married today, to the same woman I was married to yesterday, and I wasn't even there.

To make a long story in no noticeable way shorter, our local town hall decided they didn't like the look of the marriage certificate we returned from Louisiana with, and unless we had it authenticated (again) by the governor over there, it would not be recognised as valid here in Holland.

Being far too busy watching television and eroding each others groins, we never bothered. A married couple, living in sin.

Until now.

The arrival into the world of spawn of people like us needs to follow the same administrative process as that of any old street tramp. Basically, Little Fitz needs to be registered at the town hall soon after (s)he rips ET a new one.

This is a task that is usually left to the father of the newborn, usually because the mother is too lazy sleeping off losing 25 lbs in fifteen minutes through a gaping bloody hole in her lower body.

I, as the father (all laboratory mix-ups aside) shall perform this fateful duty.

Ahhhh ha!

This is where they get us. If I were not married to the mother of the child I am registering, (which I am, but I'm not,) I could not register the birth in the normal manner. There would be Dutch disclaimers, affidavits, declarations, and carbon copy forms in duplicate to be furnished if we were not married.

So, here we are, 2 FedEx letters, 20 US dollars, one confused Louisiana governor, and four short years later, we are married in the eyes of the Dutch.

ET is quite smug at the concept of trapping me twice, but two can play that game.

For tonight -is our wedding night!