Underdressed for the Occasion

Do you have moments in your family history that probably shouldn't be recorded, much less publicly shared? Perhaps an incident that was neither acknowledged in the moment it happened, nor has it ever been discussed since?

Me neither.

Well, alright. I have one.

It was the summer of 2005. Katie’s side of the family was having a Family Reunion at a ranch in southern Utah. A few days prior to the official reunion many out-of-staters were flying into Las Vegas to stay with us for a day or so, and then driving from there up to the ranch. We thought this was great, as it allowed us some extra time with a handful of siblings and cousins.

It was a Sunday morning and you could hear the mayhem of a full house outside our bedroom doors. We had crammed several families into our home, many with small children, and we were all trying to get ready for church at the same time.

Katie was in front of the mirror in the master bathroom, blow-drying her hair, as I stepped out of the shower. Now, if you must know, we are pretty casual with our nakedness; and additionally, if you must know (you are so nosy!), sometimes I … well, I air-dry. There. I said it.

I suddenly realized that all my bathroom stuff (deodorant, hair gel, toothpaste, smell-good) was still in my racquetball bag from the day before. And my racquetball bag was not in the bathroom. Nope. It was on the bedroom floor, in front of the door. I strutted across the room and had my head buried in my bag as I pulled my stuff out of it… When abruptly, somebody knocked hard and deliberately on the door. THUD, THUD, THUD. (At least, that’s how it sounded to my naked ears.)

I tipped my head up and locked eyes with the doorknob. My heart stopped, my world went silent, and time froze. A single water drop from my hair ran down my face.

At this point, my brain told me I had two options. Option 1: Frantically yell, “DON’T COME IN!” Or Option 2: Remain silent and wait for them to go away. I went with Option 2 because I was confident that yelling “DON’T COME IN!” would immediately conjure up the image in this poor soul’s head of one Ken Craig standing less than three feet away, stark raving naked. And that image isn't doing anybody any favors.

I chose wrong.

Promptly, the doorknob gave and the door swung open!

As I saw it, at this point, I still had some options. 1. Push the door closed on their face. 2. Pull my bag off the floor and strategically place it like “so” (I’m showing you with my hands right now), or even 3. Jump behind the door!

But no. I chose Option 4: Jump into the open from where you’re standing, and spread your body as wide as possible as you sail across the room. Yes, jump like you are taking a bullet for the President of the United States, and that bullet simply must not pass by you; naked or not.

It probably looked more like the shot above; though in my mind, it was more like the photo below.

I closed my eyes as I leapt through clear and present danger, because I knew for sure that if this person and I made eye contact, our lives would forever be changed.

And before I landed, I heard a woman’s voice yell, “EEEEEEEEEK!” and the door slam.

I ran into the bathroom where Katie was still blow-drying her hair. “Your sister just saw me naked!” I reported, as if I was tattling on her.

“What?” answered Katie, with her head still under a blow-dryer.

“Your sister! She just saw me naked!”

“When?” she responded so calmly.

“Just NOW! A few seconds ago.”

“Oh… I’m sure she didn't mind.”

????????????????????????????? (This is where my brain just fell right out of the back of my head.)

“I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS! SHE “ DIDN'T MIND?!” WHAT ARE YOU SAYING TO ME?!

“Just…I don’t know…you play racquetball…you’re fit…. I’m sure she didn't mind.”

“I...(pointing wildly at my chest)…I MIND!”

“Were you walking around like that?”

“Yes, in our room!”

“She just walked in?”

“Well, she knocked first, but then walked in.”

“She just barged in without waiting for a response?”

“No; I didn't respond, because if I’d yelled not to come in then she would have imagined me naked!”

“Well, she doesn't have to imagine it anymore.”

“Who walks into a bedroom when the door is closed?! This is not my fault!”

“Isn't it?! She knocked! You don’t have to yell in a panicked voice! You can calmly respond, ‘Just a minute’ or ‘One second.’”

“Oh. Huh. Those both sound pretty great, actually. WHERE WERE YOU 20 SECONDS AGO!?”

I got dressed and finally, after reassuring myself that this would go away and there wasn't really any reason to discuss it further, I headed downstairs. On the way down I thought to myself, “Maybe it wasn't Katie’s sister that saw me after all. Maybe it was her cousin…”

For some completely irrational reason, I just knew I would feel better if it had been her cousin. I have absolutely no idea why. We were all similar ages, from similar backgrounds, and followed similar social norms of not being naked in public. But I sensed that if it had been her cousin, the two of us would be able to just laugh it off quicker. So I did what any normal individual in my situation would do.

I located Katie’s cousin in the living room, walked right up to her, and in a normal voice, just normally said, “Meredith, please tell me that you just saw me naked in my bedroom.”

She stared right back into my eyes with a widening smile, not even flinching, and said, “Nope.”

“Shoot,” I said back.

Well, I had successfully deduced who it was, and now, Meredith probably had, too. We agreed to never discuss it again. And I never brought it up with Katie’s sister either. And if she is reading this, please note, there is still no need to discuss anything. I’m fine. You’re fine. And I don’t keep my bathroom things in my racquetball bag anymore. Now let's all just get back to work. As you were. 

Five Ways Death Will Never Conquer Me

I hesitate to be so conceivably morose, yea, perchance even a bit macabre (pronounced mack-uh-bree), but I can think of no more opportune time than the day before Halloween to present to you my list of The Top 5 Ways I Do NOT Want to Die. ‘Tis the season!

1. Shark Attack. Perhaps this is the most disconcerting to me, because I have it on pretty good authority that this is exactly how I am going to die. And by “good authority,” I am of course referring to “unfounded and irrational fear.” You can read about my feelings (i.e.: fear and loathing) regarding sharks by clicking here. And in case you are wondering whether or not I am more afraid of being ripped to shreds by a shark, or swallowed whole, it is the latter. Because in order to be swallowed whole, that mother has got to be pretty big. And it’s the size of the beast that frightens me most.

2. Being at the top of the Sears Tower (or Willis Tower), leaning up against the glass to look below, and having the glass break and falling through the glass. Truth be known, this could never actually happen to me. Because leaning against the glass alone would give me a heart attack, and thus, falling to my death would be, as Rick Springfield so eloquently put it in his hit single Jesse’s Girl, a mute point.

3. Having a magic trick go horribly wrong and being sawed in half. Couldn’t happen you say? Or could it happen SO easily that your head is spinning like a top!? Insane, am I?! Or am I SO sane that I just blew your mind?! Impossible, is it? Or is it SO possible, that your world is crashing down around you?!

4. Being outside the space ship and having the cord snap and floating silently away into outer space. For this reason, David Bowie’s Space Oddity and Peter Schilling’s Major Tom straight-up freak me right the heck out.

5. On the toilet. This is really more about location than anything. And I trace this trepidation back to the stories surrounding the death of one Mr. Elvis Aaron Presley. What a shame. How do you recover from that? Turns out you can’t, because guess what – you dead. And I suppose that’s what I don’t like about it. When you die, your mortal body is expired. But your legacy lives on. But not if you die on the toilet. You’ll have to have two funerals – one for you and one for your dignity. Doesn’t matter if you invented penicillin, birthed Oprah, or sold 18 ka-billion records. You will be remembered for one thing. Number 2.

Is there a way I would prefer to die – other than the old cliché of “in my sleep?” I suppose death by overeating of ice cream would be acceptable. “His body just couldn’t handle that much lactose. We did all we could. He felt no pain. Look at him smiling.”

Potty Humor

Since you asked, I play racquetball about three times a week at a tremendously fashionable gym in town that goes by the name of The Las Vegas Athletic Club. This gym is overly crowded; nevertheless, since it is on my way to work, I bring my toiletries and do my showering bidness there, in spite of the enormity of body hair casually on display in the locker room. (Not mine, others.)

Oddly, brushing shoulders with Wookies is not the most offensive part of my morning routine. It is the four bathroom stalls located directly across from the sinks where I brush my teeth and wash my hands after applying a medium-sized dab of hair gel, referred to as “product” by my hair gal, Holly. Anyway, these bathroom stalls might as well have revolving doors with how much use they are getting, and unfortunately, the room is permanently permeated with the most pungent funk that has ever burned your nose hair.

It is affecting my life.

I fear my teeth are suffering the consequences, because I cannot stand to be in there long enough to give them a proper cleaning. I’ve tried holding my breath; I’ve tried going in at different times of the morning; I was even going to try pulling the fire alarm so everyone would evacuate and I could brush in peace, but if they aren’t evacuating from the dreaded stench, I have my doubts they would evacuate from the less-threatening effects of fire.

Then I leave the gym and head to work. I work in an office building where a single bathroom is shared by, oh, I estimate about 40 men. There are two “sit-down” stalls; and again, they are in frequent use. And if you thought the gym was bad… Now you are dealing with a more enclosed space, and the less-health-conscious mindset of Corporate Americans. Oh. My. Stank. 

Many are the days I am torn between doing a “stop, drop & roll” while I crawl out of the bathroom or being a Good Samaritan and hanging around to make sure this poor individual isn’t in need of immediate transportation to the hospital; because they must be dying inside.

What it has come to is this: I have grown weary of smelling O.P.P. (Other People’s Potty habits.)

Perhaps I come across a bit insensitive; and if so, it’s most likely because I’ve never been much of a P² myself. (P² = Public Pooper.) I’ve always been an “At Home” kind of a guy. And at this point in my life, if I come home and Katie and the kids are off running errands, and I have the house/bathroom to myself…I almost get emotional. It’s like Christmas morning.

Of course if you are going to force the issue I will admit that there are emergency situations, and that is why we have public restrooms. I guess. I remember in college, at BYU, I actually had mapped out the best restrooms on campus. You know, in case I was too far from my apartment, or was uncomfortable, or just newly married and trying to keep a good impression going at home.

The best restroom on BYU campus? Seventh floor of the Tanner Building. Nobody is ever – ever – up there. One time I went in there around 11 a.m., and the lights were still off from the night before! Delightful.

The worst bathroom? The basement of the JKHB. One time I was in there because, I don’t know, it must have been a life or death situation, and I checked and nobody else was in the bathroom and I was minding my own business in the stall furthest from the door...when somebody else entered the bathroom. I sat silently. I didn’t breathe. I didn’t flinch. I did not want to be acknowledged. And so stellar was I in my silence, that when this intruder left the bathroom…he turned off the light. I guess he figured nobody in there, no need to waste BYU’s precious electricity.

Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever been trapped in a dungeon-like bathroom in one of the most vulnerable positions you could ever be left in…but it was an experience I shudder to repeat ever again. I really had to hurry because the only thing worse would have been to have somebody else wander in, turn on the light, and then hear me in the stall and wonder why some weirdo would have been sitting in a bathroom stall in the dark.

The bottom line (pun intended) is this: If I am doing the world a favor by keeping my Potty Habits in check, why should I be exposed to O.P.P.? Why is this not on the ballot? Where does my candidate stand on this issue? And where does my candidate stand on federally subsidized back-waxing at local gym locker rooms? Because Oh. My. Chewbacca. 

Announcing Rebecca

Ladies and gentlemen, do you have trouble with guests who have overstayed their welcome? Do you have company that just refuses to leave? Well, grab a pencil and jot this down. I have three little magic words that will clear your house faster than “I just tooted.” Ready? “My water broke.” (I learned yesterday, however, that this also works on guests that you are not trying to get rid of as well.)

If you’ve heard the birth story of our fourth child, Roxanna, this story is going to sound faintly familiar to you. The thought may even cross your mind that we must have wanted to do it this way on purpose. But then you might want to check your Crazy Pills prescription, because nobody would want to do it this way again on purpose. We even made a most concerted effort with our fifth child, Tanner, to make sure that it in fact didn’t happen that way again. Plus why would anybody consciously decide to pay for the loving care of a midwife, and then not invite them to come over for the love and care? And then why would you do that twice?! That’s like experiencing a very unique movie, and realizing it was certainly a once-in-an-odd-lifetime experience, and then finding out there is an unnecessary sequel. (Weekend at Bernie’s II, I’m looking in your direction.)

Well, it all started with a single contraction on Friday night. I was on my way to a "Weird Al" Yankovic concert with some of my other home-nerds, so you can imagine my relief when Katie said she was sure it was nothing and gave me the green light to rock on with Al and his accordion. (Speaking of once-in-a-lifetime odd experiences, I had seen Mr. Yankovic in concert in 1987 and had assumed that would be the only time. So I should have seen this as a sign. But I was too busy wondering how My Man Weird is able to do so many costume changes in one concert. The man is truly an artist, obviously dedicated to his craft.)

True to her word, Katie had no other contractions. Until Saturday morning. Yes, beginning around 6:30 a.m. Katie started having extremely mild and completely irregular contractions. This continued through the early afternoon, when some ol’ college friends of ours who were in town for the weekend brought lunch over.

Katie was feeling so great, she was able to be social and casual and showed no signs of ever being uncomfortable. She would still have the occasional contraction, but these were the most gentle and docile contractions ever recorded, according to Katie. The contractions weren’t getting any harder, they weren’t getting any closer, they didn’t seem to be progressing at all! I could have had these contractions, and I have a very low tolerance for pain. (I also have a low tolerance for large crowds of Weird Al fans, it turns out. But this isn’t about me. Or the fans.)

Around 2:30 p.m. Katie slipped into the downstairs bathroom just to tinkle. The rest of us were on the couches, chatting. Katie called for me and said, “Can you come in here for a second?”

I tried to open the door, but it was locked. “Can you unlock the door?" I asked.

“Nope,” she answered.

“Well, we’re going to get going,” said our college friends, leaping from the couch to gather their kids from upstairs, and, in the process, easily breaking the Olympic qualifying time for the track and field hurdles.

I picked the lock and opened the door to see my cute, sweet wife on the potty. “My water broke,” she said. “I need pads and dry clothes.”

I retrieved the goods from upstairs, but I was actually quite casual about it because while Katie seemed energized that things were finally moving, she didn’t seem overly anxious or concerned about the immediate moment we were in.

I walked back into the bathroom with her stuff and she said, “Why don’t we call the Midwife. I think we’re going to have this baby tonight.” Now, our standard go-to Midwife that we have used for our last four children is Margie. Margie is wonderful. Margie knows her stuff. Margie makes you feel comfortably at ease. Margie was on a cruise in the Bahamas. We had three back-up midwives to select from.

“Sounds good,” I said. “I’ll call one of the back up midwives. Did you want to say goodbye to the Muirs? They’re leaving now.”

“Uhm…no. If I get up, I just know I’ll have a contraction.”

I left the bathroom, said goodbye to the Muirs, and was walking over to the phone to call a midwife when I heard Katie yell for me again. This was a different yell. This was a familiar yell. This was a “For the love of heaven, get in here and catch this baby” yell.

I opened the bathroom door, this time to find Katie pushing out a baby. Katie’s head was down, her eyes closed, her arms stretched around her front with her hands holding the bottom of her stomach. She seemed remarkably peaceful. Focused. I have never known anybody to be able to understand their body like Katie. The room seemed entirely still and silent

She looked up at me and said, “Tell me it’s a head.” This was a legitimate concern, because if it was a bum, a leg, or anything but a head, we were up an afterbirth creek, without a paddle.

I dropped down on my knees and saw the head out, just above the eyes. “It’s a head,” I said. “Are you ready?”

Katie started pushing again and the head came out. She pushed some more. “Is it further out?” she asked.

“No. Still just the head.”

She pushed some more.

“I can see a shoulder, here it comes.”

And she slipped right into my arms. She was covered in vernix, and now I was too. I held her so close because I thought she was going to slip-slide right out of my hands. She wasn’t crying at all. I couldn’t believe I was holding her. We had waited so long for her.

It was 2:36 p.m., and all of our kids were peering from behind the bathroom door at this point, wanting to see what was going on. They came in to see her, and everybody oohed and aahed, except Tanner, the 2-year old, who had a very concerned look on his face. After he saw that Katie was okay, he seemed fine with the situation. And has fallen in love with the baby.

We called our friend and neighbor, Jonelle, who has been to a number of births. We knew she wouldn’t freak out at being up to her ankles in…stuff. With the baby in Katie’s arms, the placenta in a bucket, and Chux pads on the couch, Jonelle to came over and helped me help Katie make the move from the bathroom to the living room.

Katie sat down on the couch and started nursing the baby right away. We cut the chord and called the backup midwife, but she was with another woman who was laboring. We called the second backup, and she was in Boulder City with another woman who was laboring. (Which, honestly, how long does it take? If they are like Katie, we should have had a midwife arriving in about 15 minutes.) But she sent her apprentice over. She showed up about two hours after the birth. We sat there for two hours like it was the most normal, Saturday afternoon thing to do.

When the Apprentice arrived she weighed the baby. According to the scale, she was 16 pounds. According to the Apprentice, the scale must be broken. So we had Abbie stand on a normal scale, and then handed her the baby, and then figured the difference, which is about 10 lbs and … something ounces.

We’ve named her Rebecca. (We call her Becca). She is lovely. I adore the smell of her newborn head and sweet breath. I love her dark eyes and quiet nature. As always, I am absolutely and in every respect overcome with wonder at Katie. She is powerful, soft, and warm. She is beautiful, secure, and poised. I wonder if we should have named the baby after her incredible mother. Or we could have named her “Weird Al”berta Craig.

P.S. I am leaving the Comments on, if you would like to wish Katie congratulations!

Reader's Indigestion

So I recently canceled my longtime subscription to Reader’s Digest. Originally we subscribed to this national treasure for two reasons. Katie grew up with it, so it was a bit of nostalgia for her, and I needed something to peruse whilst lounging in the bathroom.

I’m kidding of course. I haven’t lounged in a bathroom in ages. Not since I’ve had children old enough to recognize that when Dad is in the restroom, he is trapped. They have a captive audience, and it’s an opportunity to tell me the details of their day, get my opinion on their outfit, or – and I wish I were making this up – cram a drawing they made for me under the door so I can compliment their artistic abilities.

Kid 1: (Paper appearing as if printing off a dot matrix. being wedged between the door and the floor) Daddy, I made this for you while you were at work!

Me: If you’ll wait just a second, we can look at it together. Daddy just needs to finish reading about life-saving dental breakthroughs, and I’ll be right out.

Kid 2: Dad, look, I’m waving at you! (Little fingers sticking out from under the door.)

Me: Yes, mm-hm, I’m waving back! Why don’t you go see what your brother is doing?

Kid 3: (Faint knocking) Hi, Dad. I’m going to read you my book report on Mr. Popper’s Penguins.

Me: Oh, why don’t you go practice first, and then when I’m done, you’ll be all ready.

Kid 4: Dad, can we play catch before dinner? I’ll leave your glove here by the door.

Me: Katieeeeeeeee!

Katie: Kids, leave Daddy alone and come help me with dinner.

At any rate, the love affair with Reader’s Digest has come to an end. It just sort of fizzled out. It seemed we had less and less in common. For example, “Life in These United States.” A Reader’s Digest feature where people write in little personal experiences, recounting amusing anecdotes or misunderstandings or sound bytes, so we can all chortle and say, “Oh, that is just like our little family/community/city/whatever. It sure is amusing, living in these United States.”

My submission would be like this true story that just happened on our last road trip.

Abbie: Dad, can you think of another word for ‘barf?’
Dad: Barf?
Abbie: Yeah, we have 9 already, and we need 10. We have vomit, upchuck, puke…
Connor: (Cutting Abbie off) Can we stop talking about barf….?
Katie: (Cutting Connor off) That sounds like a great idea.
Connor: (finishing)…and start talking about poop…?

My other observation is the celebrity interviews they do. Sweet, fancy Moses, these people suck up to every celebrity they interview. No matter how controversial, offensive, or worse – boring – these celebrities are, Reader’s Digest wants you to feel you can bring them home and introduce them to Mom.

If Charles Manson was on the cover, here are the questions you could expect to find Reader’s Digest asking. “Of all the celebrities you’ve had the chance to meet and kill, which one impressed you the most?” “In between murders, aggravated assault, and larceny, you must have had a lot of down time. What kind of skills did you develop that have made you stronger today?” “You have claimed The Beatles were talking directly to you in their song Helter Skelter. What other musicians have influenced you since then?”

But what finally pushed me over the edge was when I called to cancel my subscription. They told me I couldn’t. “Oh, no. We’ve already sent you issues you haven’t paid for yet. You can’t cancel now.” That seemed a little dishonest to me. A little shady. A little “That’s Outrageous!”

I immediately packed a suitcase and hatched a plan to fly directly out to Chappaqua, New York, publishing headquarters for the Reader’s Digest. My plan was to march straight into to the president office, knock on the door of his private bathroom, and cram a drawing under the door of what I was going to do to him if he didn’t cancel my subscription. Now that’s a ditty I’d like to see featured in “All In a Days Work.”

But instead I just called back, paid what I owed for the additional issues I had received, and canceled my subscription. Dear Reader’s Digest, notify me when you have an article on that 10th barf synonym. Maybe I’ll renew my subscription.

Allow Me to Introduce Roxanna

It was two years ago this morning that my youngest, Roxanna, was born. In her honor (but mostly in the honor of Katie) I wanted to post what I wrote that day about the experience. I sent this out to a few of you, so some of you may have read this previously.

***

Katie woke me up this morning at 4:45 a.m. My first thought was that Katie was waking me up for "That's Cat," but then I realized it was 2003. That stupid VH1's "I Love the 70s" episode from last night was messing with my mind. Katie told me she had been awake for about an hour with some contractions that weren't horrible, but were strong enough they had woken her up. We called Margie the Midwife. Margie asked if we wanted her to come over to our house immediately. I looked up and saw Katie walking around the room. She was casual and witty and not burdened by the contractions. We decided Margie didn't need to come yet, but we wanted to let her know that something was starting.

We crawled back into bed, and actually fell back asleep. And when I say "we," I totally mean "me." Katie feel asleep, then woke up to contractions, then went back to sleep, then woke up for contractions, then went back to sleep. You see the pattern. At about 7:00 a.m. we got out of bed. My mom was making breakfast for the kids, and we were hanging out in the bedroom, working through contractions with Katie breathing, and me holding her, or rubbing her back, or letting her hang on me. I was also breathing, by the way, but it was more just out of habit. It wasn't necessarily benefiting Katie.

We worked through the contractions for a while - I would help Katie work through one, then run to get something done, then come running back for the next one, then run to get something done. You see the pattern. I started to notice my time for getting things done grew shorter and shorter, until Katie was leaving me practically no time to do anything, which is extremely rude and I mean to bring this up to her later, once our routine is back to normal.

I decided I'd time Katie's contractions to see if they were as close as I was thinking. And they were. A minute and a half long, only two minutes apart. They were right on top of each other. This usually means the Transition Stage has arrived, and then you start pushing. (And by "you," I totally mean "the mother.") So I told Katie how long her contractions were. Her comment was, "That's impossible. Look at me - I'm too chipper. I'm happy, I'm fine, I'm even a little bit sassy." She had a point, to be sure. But I called Margie anyway. "Margie," says I, "Why don't you come on over for the party. Katie's contractions, though not really hard yet, are pretty close, and I'm sure we're on our way." "Okay," she said, "I'm going to throw some clothes on and I'll jump in the car." I appreciated knowing she would be dressed when she arrived.

Katie had decided to go to the bathroom, and then she would venture out for some breakfast. I hung up the phone to go check on Katie, and as I did, I heard, "Keeeeeennnnn!" This was a familiar sounding yell. I had heard it at least three times before, with the birth of each of our children. I went running in. Katie looked up at me and in full confidence said, "I have to push."

Ah, nuts. I called Margie back and said, "Katie needs to push." I suppose I was hoping that Margie had a "Back to the Future" type car and would be able to arrive immediately, if not five minutes ago. Margie shot back, "Oh, tell her not to push." Thanks, Margie. Katie's on the brink of delivering, and I'm going back in with "Margie says not to push."

"Margie says not to push," I told Katie. Katie looked up at me like she was wondering when I had started drinking in the mornings. Then there was a large gush of water. Her water had broken. The expression on Katie's face was telling me this was IT. I had seen it before and I knew this was it. I knelt down and had Katie scoot to the edge of the toilet and lean back. There was the baby's head. Not just a sliver of it, but the entire top of the head. At this point, it seemed it didn't matter if Katie pushed or not, the baby was coming out.

Katie seemed calm, and I think more than anything, that is what helped me be calm. I told Katie I was ready and that she could push when she was ready. She pushed once and the head came right out, no problem. I put my hand on it to guide it out, and waited for Katie to push again. Katie kind of panted and re-evaluated the situation. I told Katie that it seemed the baby's shoulders might be a bit stuck. Katie stood up and hunched over my shoulder, and pushed again. The baby came right out into my arms.

Katie's mom stepped in with a towel and we wrapped up the baby and handed it to Katie, still sitting on the potty. I peeked under the towel and announced, "It's a girl!" Katie echoed, "It's a girl!" smiling and sighing. Katie looked beautiful and powerful and kind. She looked incredible. I had the camera right there, so I took a photo of her. It may be my most favorite photo of Katie ever.

I handed the baby to Katie's mom and helped Katie over to the bed. I set out some pads on the bed and she sat down. Katie's mom cleaned off the baby, and brought her over to the bed. She nursed right away, perfectly.

Margie called from the road, stuck behind a car accident, and asked if everything was okay and when I said we were great, she told me to go ahead and cut the cord. I clamped it, an inch from the belly button, then cut it. We cleaned everything up, got Katie something to drink, and sat in complete amazement at what we had just done on our own.

Margie arrived. She weighed the baby and checked Katie to make sure she was okay. Everything was fine. To me, everything was more than fine.

A Soap By Any Other Name...

We moved into our new home at the end of June, and more ecstatic I could not be. We loved our last home. It was the first home we ever owned. (And by “owned” I mean “owed an obscene amount of money to Washington Mutual.”) Two of our children were literally born inside that house, (one on the couch, one on the toilet.), we loved our neighbors, and we loved the low interest rate. But the time had come when we had really outgrown the place. Plus I didn’t want to have to take my daughter into the bathroom one day, point at the toilet, and say, “I’m afraid the rumors are true, Roxanna…this is where we brought you into the world.”

As fate would have it, I also started a new job this year. A job that has enabled us to own this new house, no less. (And by “own” I mean “owe an obscene amount of money to IndyMac Bank.”) The job is good, the house is wonderful, my family is healthy and happy … but if I’m going to be completely honest, I must admit that my entire sense of accomplishment stems from something else. Soap.

On our first morning in our new home I stepped into the shower to discover a new bar of soap, the likes of which I had never before seen. “This isn’t our standard Spring-scented Ivory,” I thought to myself. No, this soap was white…and kind of oval shaped. Hmmm… I picked it up, wetted it in the shower stream, and began rubbing it between my hands to produce a lather – the way God intended. Sweet saints and soldiers – this soap was fantastic! It smelled of success. It smelled of destiny. It smelled of providence. There is no way that a man having showered with this soap could not have concerted power over his own fate and the fate of the people around him. No sir. This was clandestine soap. This was the soap of corporate executives. Of media moguls. Of members of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts & Sciences, for crying out loud! This soap had a new convert, to be sure. I became addicted.

My confidence at work – unmatched My social calendar – filled. My drollness around strangers – above reproach. I was certain that life could never get any better for me, now that I had discovered this life-shifting soap! Psychiatrists should prescribe this stuff, I thought. How much better the world could be if we could all ascertain the power of this soap. Bless you, Katie, my darling bride…bless you for experimenting with new soap.

And then one day the soap had gotten quite small.

“Honey,” I shouted from inside the shower, feeling powerful and masculine. “Can you hand me another bar of soap, this one is almost gone.”

“Really? Are you using the Ivory?”

”No. That is substandard soap.”

"What have you been using?”

“The other soap. The white, oval-shaped soap.”

“Oh. Huh. That soap was here when we moved in.”

I froze mid-lather, my hands to my face. The stream of water from the showerhead beating against my chest with a deafening reverberation. I was partially horrified that I was using a bar of soap owned and used regularly by a man I had never met, and partially horrified that the soap was almost gone, and I had no idea what it was called or where I could find more of it. I quietly wept, hiding my tears in the shower stream.

The soap is gone now. I guess it’s only a matter of time before I can kiss my job and this house goodbye as well. (Who’s going to employ a guy that smells like Irish Spring? Well, I don’t want to work for that employer, mister. I can’t go back to being that guy.)