Remember When We All Went So Hard?

As Jenna and I were getting ready for bed tonight, I huddled over large piles of clothing, smelling for sweat stains or dog dander, when I heard Jenna give out a sudden grunt. The sound has become more ordinary over the past 8 months, but each time my reaction is the same: “Are you alright, is there anything I can do.” I ask. “No, Lucca is just practicing boxing a speed bag, and using my bladder and uterus as a target.” Jenna replies. Then she said “Sometimes I don’t believe I’m pregnant, well, at least I can’t believe that there is a human being inside here, maybe it is just a blob.”

That statement is an example indicative of where we are at this very moment. Down to the wire, Larry Bird and Kevin McHale are on a two by two break away on the old Boston Garden parquet floor, Bird makes a no look bounce pass to McHale, then out of no where, the Chief, Robert Parrish comes up from behind, gets a pass from McHale, and his old lanky awkward arms slam the ball into the hoop, the crowd goes nuts, mainly because the power play was unexpected, Isaiah Thomas and Bill Lambier could do nothing to answer back. This is basically how I foresee the day of Lucca’s impending birth to be like. We have done all the preparing, I have attending classes about breastfeeding with Jenna, I learned the fishhook move to remove the baby mouth from the feeding area, baby bags are stuffed with diapers, hand puppets, first aid kits, and changes of clothes. But I am eagerly awaiting for the moment when the play book goes out the window, soon the speed boxing blob of a baby will matriculate into a crying, beautiful life form. But the waiting is the hardest part.

In between a bottle of wine and cleaning sessions, I thought last night about what our home will be like filled with a child. Right now, Lucca’s bedroom is vacant, looking more like an Ikea museum than a living space for a sleeping and pooping child, he is the last hinging puzzle piece who is taking his own time schedule very seriously. This is the greatest lesson in patience so far. When I was a kid, my father took my sister and I to Disney World; getting ready to triumphantly conquer Space Mountain, an automated warning system asked all riders with heart conditions or medical conditions to get off the ride, my sister lost her 5-year-old mind right then and there. Crying fits, flailing fists, clamouring, screaming, real life exorcism motions, and the ride had not even began. I feel like we are on that same ride, every person’s opinion and experience, every website, every book, every youtube movie is its own encapsulated warning system, we are flowing with anxiety, just to realize the ride is scary because it is dark and covered in fluorescent LED lights. These three past paragraphs are just to say: This damn baby better come soon, because I am amped and have developed a healthy fear, like the Salem Witches of the 1600’s.

In 17 or so days, it will not only be the birthday of my dear friend the Criblet Jehou Josh Conner, but it is the expected due date of Lucca, here are some things I have learned and prepared for:

1. When Jenna’s water breaks, I should not scream and force her out of the house immediately. I have been instructed to let her chill out and take a bath, rub her feet, calmly prepare the car. This oddly sounds like the setup for the situation that brought this baby to fruition in the first place.

2. Do not shake the baby.

3.  All the breast-feeding positions are aptly named after certain sports terms like The football carry, the onside kick, the tomahawk slam dunk, and the Hail Mary. Also, I will be required to use a move called the Fish Hook to remove the baby from the feeding flesh ( I am doing all I can to not write about my wife’s lady areas in direct terms.)

4. When asked to cut the umbilical cord, that will surely separate Lucca from the one thing that has been providing him life, love, and sustenance for the past 9 months, make sure it is actually the cord and not the penis, that could create further lifelong complications at minute 1 of life that I do not want to deal with.

5. The sounds of punk rock in the baby’s room may not be as soothing as I want them to be. Maybe the sounds of ocean waves will remind the baby of a uterus swaying with jalapeno pepper and nacho flavor filled amniotic fluid, but Refused-A Shape of Punk to Come definitely will not.

6. Never shake the baby.

Jenna and I have been together for nearly 4 years now, our lives have moved fast and it has been most excellent. The biggest enjoyment/mathematical equation of the next forever years will be figuring out how to incorporate a child into the fold. Up until now, we have found success in living as if not a single plan exists, now we need checklists, positive progress, and structure. I mean right?

I am what ready might be. Jenna as always has been beautiful and patient, loving and strong throughout the past 9 months. She has taken every bladder kick and gained pound with grace, keeping a smile every time she has been sick, and reassuring me that I will be a good father. I am ready to not shake the baby, to get up in the middle of the night to fetch the baby from his Ikea museum, to take the phone calls when she wants to sleep, and to smile even after the baby has peed on me. I am just ready to be a tangible father.

As a side note, to all the soon to be fathers out there, when you are in the process of cooking a 26 pound turkey for thanksgiving, it is wise to not make the comment to your beautiful wife “Wow, this turkey is huge, it is like you are carrying a turkey.” The actual turkey presents a visual to your wife that cannot be taken back, you might be sleeping on the couch that night. To all the baby mammas of the world, I don’t know how you do it; the waking up 8 times a night to use the bathroom, the dealing with husbands that don’t understand what you are going through, the task of getting in and out of small bathrooms, and the idea that a baby that you have labored over and carried with love is still going to cry even after he makes it out. 

Speak With Perfect Diction When Remembering The Facts

It has been about a month since I have taken the good intentions of my mind to write and translated them into the real intentions of hands to type. I had intended to write much more than this, to update those we care for and love, those who are wondering of the progress of our child, and those who have seemingly unknowing found these writings through some miscalculated Google search; but living the reality of the past month has been heavy enough for Jenna and I.

So where to start? I guess with the last update. Let’s go backwards to get to the present. In September, we found out that we, Jenna and I were going to have a baby boy, for the duration of September, we battled over a name for the child. We fought between Conrad, Lincoln, Wolfgang, and due to the deep democrat roots my grandparents bestowed upon me, I argued in the ringside of naming our son John Fitzgerald Hamel. I lost most of the bouts, realizing that the will of my pregnant wife, who feels every hiccup, punch, and roundhouse kick of the child should weigh in a little more than my hopes for him to one day become a semi-corrupt/common politician that will fight for social welfare programs and the plight of the working man. So together, we settled, rather we agreed and set the stage for a child that will either be a lady killer or the captain of the chess team.

As my wife puts it to people before readying for long awkward pauses and half-laughs “Imagine a 5 year old little boy walking up to you and saying “Hi, my name is Wolfie.” Our Littlest will be named Lucca Wolfgang Hamel.

After finding out the gender of the child, we soon went back to the US to see old family and friends. East Coast travel is a bitter bitch sometimes. Flight cancellations, pending bus rides in the middle of the night, several plane vouchers for a single destination, and having gracious parents that allow you to borrow their car like when you were in high school. It had been nearly a year and a half since going back to Massachusetts. For weeks before, I feverishly prepared, checking the weather reports 15 days out, making lists for possible lists, and attempting to be engaged with people every single cold sarcastic waking moment. There is never enough time to meet every want and expectation, never extra minutes to travel deeper into the ravines of childhood and adolescence.

Sitting on the C-5 as it refueled somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, I looked down at my wife attempting to find a comfortable position to sleep, grasping her stomach in which our future sat growing, and thought about how lucky I have been in my entire life to have the family I do. On the sunday before we departed, my grandfather gathered together 3/4’s of the Hamel Family in his backyard. A family reunion is something that it not unfamiliar to me. Growing up, I can remember running around his backyard recklessly, as adults grasped steamers and beers in their hands, talking about the months since they had all last seen each other. This time, I stood with a smile on my face, having deep laughs with Uncles and Aunts, hugging distant cousins, and dodging the the kamikaze movements of young kids chasing each-other playing tag. Some people grow up not knowing who their parents are, some are bred in broken homes, deep rifts perpetuated by petty arguments keep the only meeting place at a funeral for others. That day, there were 4 generations of family present. My son, will be the fourth generation Hamel from my side of the family, started by Rene and Veronica Hamel in 1962. I was in love with my family that day.

I left Massachusetts having buried all my hatchets, understanding that I had spent more time dwelling on the past than looking forward to the hope of tomorrow. “The cause of living in the past is dying right in front of it.” A man with bad breath and wooden teeth said that in an old movie, it stands true.

Upon arriving back in Spain, Jenna had her mind’s eye set upon one single nesting task, the completion of the nursery. Stripes and chalkboard paint had been placed on the walls, cribs had been assembled, now it was the last magic mile. We have spent hours simply sitting on the couch in Lucca’s future room, deciphering sun patterns, lamp placements, and a nursing chair’s strategic placement in the floorplan. Now, with it nearly complete, only missing the waking cries of a child, we are content. The floors are free from anything that will trip us up in the middle of the night, the sun will not penetrate the weatherproof windows and melt our son’s face. The lamplight Vacancy sign is ready to be extinguished.

Jenna has been a sewing machine and Ikea owns naming rights to our next child, but we are happy with the domicile that Lucca will be protected within.

Ten days after getting home, I was off again. Seven month earlier, a life-long best friend, Tom Rheault and I had agreed to set out on an epic roadtrip throughout my new country. In ten days, many miles were driven, many kilometers were hiked, we saw some things, met some people, had some run ins with wildlife and wild nights. Since I can remember, I have had a restlessness within the tines and sinews of my bones to be on the road, to be away. It is the very grain of the story of how Jenna and I had met, and it is something that has brought me joy and troubles. I set out on this trip to shed every sediment of that restlessness on highways and backroads. After 10 days, 375 Euro in petrol and tolls, I stumbled into my house. When Jenna met me at the door and welcomed me with a hug and kiss, I could think only one thing “I am ready to be a great father, make mistakes, and learn.” That’s what roadtrips and old friends are for.

So here we are today, showing signs of readiness and refining communication skills. I am attempting a facade of strength, when the very thought of fatherhood rattles me to the core. But it’s a good thing.

So tonight, we are doing nothing to prepare for the lessons we will receive tomorrow. Remember to use perfect diction when recalling the past.

This is from two days ago:

Gregor Mendel and Punk Rock Hope

Before I was married, I could fill my days with no problem; living in Norfolk, Virginia I would spend my nights bike riding, taking pictures with Howard Tarpey, having parties at my apartment, anything to take up the slack between 4:30pm and 2:00am. Something within me has changed, something very definite and final, with marriage, I was bonded with the person to fill those times, a person who was the reason for making a living and living my life.

My wife, Jenna went back to the United States from Spain on Sunday, since that time, I have found no motivation for anything but taking long naps after work, eating my dinner out of cans and ice cream containers, and walking around the house in my ripped up boxer shorts. I haven’t written a blog or mowed the lawn; causalities of absence I guess, but I have found time to watch documentaries on the American Civil War and bad Mel Gibson movies. Finally, she is finding time to ease her cravings by dining at non-taco bell establishments, deep-fried christian chicken restaurants, and eating organic food marts. In some ways, I envy her. But still, she carries the difficult task of carrying a nearly 6 month old baby.

Again with her absence, I have become concusionally irrational. Somehow, I believe that without my eternal presence, my human-growing wife and karate kicking unborn 21st week son are in constant danger. There are many dangers in the world; ecoli bacteria, feral cats, zombies, moral conservative Republicans, nuclear weapons, and humidity of the South. As of late, my only intention in life has been to protect the health of Jenna and the progression of secret named baby. With the very heart beat of Jenna, the very beautiful life, the beauty of my wife, the baby is a succesful being.

If you believe in the theology of Christian Faith, then you may adhere to the understanding that Adam, would have been the first human being, a son, the very creation of God. With that same sentiment, I somehow feel that this child, my son, is the most important creation that has ever existed. In my belief there has never been a more important child, in fact I believe that no other human has experienced the feelings that I have for this child now. This in fact I understand is irrational, in hope, I hope my father felt the same way for me, and the same hope can be extended for anyone that is reading this, that their parents felt the same for them. In poker, this is an “all in hand.” Every single chip, every single effort, and thought goes to this child.

My father instilled into me some things that I will carry with me for the rest of my life; some traits, hobbies, and characteristics that compose the very being of who I am. In times, people rely on photographs to remember their past, they depend on family stories and partial myths to build their very being. I can remember from my past fishing with my father on cold days, sledding, being challenged in education, physically exerting myself to improve the expectations of my family. I ran from the ghosts and shadows of the dark, I strayed away from addictions, and found punk rock due to the heavy metal love of my father.

With these thoughts, I wonder what traits and genes my son will garner from myself and my wife? There are only three things that are final at this point: 1. We are having a son. 2.His last name will be Hamel. 3. He will have both American and Canadian citizenship. At this point everything else is up to faith and fate; I wish Gregor Mendel had answers for us, but there in lies the mystery and chance.

Tonight, my wife, carrying my son is in Orlando with her dear friends, fast food stops, and humid hell; I will be with them soon in the Union North of Ted Kennedy and U.S. Grant. Hope is Everything.

The Hope of the Family Name and a Reason to Reconcile.

I have been waiting the week to write something about the largest discovery thus far in the progression of human growing. I waited because I needed this week to figure out and sort through the emotions and thoughts I have about the our baby.

On Sunday night I was sleepless, knowing that finally the next day we would not only see our child on a poorly pixellated screen, but that we may also find out the gender of the child. Waking up the next morning and beating my body on workout machines, driving home sweaty, taking a low pressure shower, and eating ice cream for breakfast, all I could think about was the child. Jenna made me call the sonograms department of the hospital 3 or 4 times to confirm the time of our appointment, and I think she picked out 2 or so outfits for the day; I was glad to be authorized only one uniform from 7:30am to 4:00pm, or I may have worn something nice to sway the outcome of the gender.

We got to the hospital at 1:00pm, sat in the waiting room with red and shining faces looking like every face muscle was covered in vaseline. Finally, our name was called and together we walked down the sterile white hallways to the sonogram room. All the time, receiving a brief from the x-ray tech, that the intention of the appointment was not to find out the sex of the child, but to measure the bones, brain, and body movement of the child; if and when the child’s gender is designated, they would only ensure it at 65%-80%. We nodded our heads and understood. When asked what gender I wanted I replied “I definitely want either a boy or a girl.” The technician stared at me with a blank face, I sometimes forget that not all people understand sarcasm. Jenna has been hoping for a girl, we had a named chosen, but it was nothing to have a heart set upon. I wanted a healthy child, one that in the womb could appreciate baseball, heavy metal, and pretentious conversation; the gender was not important.

The ghostbuster’s gel was applied to my wife’s stomach, and the baby radar attachment that looks like a window squeegee was pressed against the approximate area that the baby may be residing. There was a silence and anticipation, then the Tech turned to me laughing, “Look at the screen, you can break the news to your wife.” On the screen was what looked like a cheap mimiograph reproduction of an early work of Picasso’s non-artistic brother. The tech traced out 4 very descript lines, two legs, an umbilical cord, and the pride of the Hamel name. It’s a boy.

A boy, I showed Jenna what he was talking about, and we both glared at the 1950’s tube driven t.v. screen with a sense of happiness, like we were watching our child at the age of 10 winning the Pulitzer Prize or hitting a home run over the Green Monster at Fenway Park for the first time. A boy. Over the next hour and 40 minutes, every body part was measured, the baby did amniotic flips, covered it’s face, planted roundhouse kicks to Jenna’s uterus, and made us very content that this life was healthy and growing. The technician, hoping to beef up my make bravado took approximately 7 photos of the baby’s penis from every angle possible, printed it, and handed it to me like it was keys to the White House (with any luck in 42 years, i may receive the keys to the White from our Son.)

We left the hospital laughing, talking about names, and spoke with fear in that the child in it’s teenage years may take after me. My father was the first informed, he is going to be the grandfather to a male Hamel, the child that will carry on the legacy and last name of our side of the family. We scanned the photos, called family, and then just sat in bed, talking to the child in the stomach, feeding on the leftovers of chinese food.

This is where it gets a little complicated. When I woke up early the next morning, there was a sense of love and protection and peace that came over me. I picked up the etch-a-sketch photos of our child and just looked them over for nearly ten minutes. This was our child, and I would now do everything I could to help him grow, to show him love, and to give him every opportunity in this world to do what he chooses, whatever that may be. Then, while driving to work, with every intention of filling my first 40 minutes writing about the child, I was overcome with a sense of a sadness and partial understanding for an old high school mentor of mine.

I have not spoken a single audible word to my child, I have not had it hold my finger like in all those iconic photos, I have not changed a diaper, not escorted it to it’s first day of school, or seen it grow up; yet I know that if anything would happen to him, I would be devastated, it would be a long hard road to tread. It has been some time now since my old Mentor lost his adult son. At the time, I sent condolences and mourned for him, because I knew the love he gave to his children, but I could never fully understand, I could not grasp the weight of grief and tragedy.

In the car on Tuesday morning, being clean from smoking cigarettes for a good couple weeks, I thought about my old friend and his son, slowly smoked a cheap menthol imitation, and mourned his loss all over again, this time not as just a distant friend, but this time as a father. To watch your child grow up and not be able to protect them from every darkness in the world is terrifying me. I smoked the cigarette down, crushed the filter beneath my foot, cleared my head, and walked to work. Since Tuesday, I have thought about nothing else, but the immense value in my father’s word’s when he tells me he loves me, because I know by his voice, that means it with everything inside, everything past, present, and future. And then I think about my old friend that cannot reach across a phone line and hold onto his son with his unconditional words, for now, he can only speak love into the air, hoping it reaches some type of medium and carrier to bring the words to his son.

Today, I don’t have anything witty or funny to write, I have only the want to say, that the thought of loving, raising, and putting hope into the most fragile of elements in the world, a human, is the scariest and most exciting thing I have ever thought of. But everything at this point seems much bigger than us all and much more temporary than we would like it to be. I think now, that the only words I want to speak are love to my child, my growing boy, because I cannot fathom or predict what the future may bring. This is not a hallmark card, not some sentimental movie line, this is mourning for my old friend, and hope that I can meet the mark of men like my father, my grandfather, and all my friends that help their children progress in life. 

Today, our baby still has not been named, it is not tangible to my fingertips, but I have nothing but love and hope. Someday, we will all have to mourn something and I hope we will all find a way to grieve in a common nature. If you have the time, take a listen to a song by the Be Good Tanya’s, a song called Momsong. I listen to it now as I am writing, and it brings tears to my eyes.

You said to yourself that we did not love you
All of the years didn’t mean nothing
You told yourself we would not forgive you
Mistakes that you made would keep us separated

Comin’ home hard day done
Comin’ home hard day done

Don’t you know it’s your laugh we laugh
That pulls us through
And the strength and the love that we carry
We got it from you

Dear Baby, Please Try Not To Be a Bastard.

Today, I wish I could talk to the baby doing tae-bo inside Jenna’s stomach. I have some serious advice to give the child. At this point the advice may be a bit irrational and caused by either the medication that my doctor who only cares to speak about bullfights at our appointments has prescribed me to quit smoking or it is because I got only 4 hours of sleep last night from watching Shark Week and Braveheart until 4.a.m. But either way I am very sentimental and am making an attempt to make an honest trek through my childhood memories.

My number one memory from growing up is that I was kind of a bastard. I was the first grandchild on my father’s side and I was the baby of the baby for my mother’s side. My parents were extremely young, 20 years old or so, and both sides of the family took care of me from the beginning of life. I was a spoiled kid, almost always getting my way, this carried on into my teenage years, where the term used for a spoiled teenager becomes ungrateful, and people are less charmed when you make messes or throw fits. But through everything, through every tantrum, every fuss spell I was loved totally and unconditonally.  The love my sister and I received from our family overcame overwhelming obstacles and issues, addictions, and distance, we did not have it hard on a grand scale, but even today, I can realize that sometimes it sucked being in the midst of it all. Maybe that was the forethought and reasoning for people to put up with me and my antics.

I want to tell our child that people will love you more if you do not beg, bite, or steal from them. . People will enjoy your babysitting you more if you do not get lost in grocery store, if you don’t jump off second floor balconies thinking you are superman, and if you do not constantly attack your sister or cousins. But maybe these are the things that build character? No most likely not, those are just things that get a wooden spoon on the knuckles and soap in your mouth.

Our child, who on this Saturday afternoon has no known gender and no known name will be the first great grand-child on my father’s side, and the first grand-child on both sides of my family and Jenna’s. I fear for our families, somehow young Hamel babies, without making audible words can put people into a trance and have them complete the actions of their will. I am excited to see the face of my father the first time he sees our child, I will happy to see the joy my sister shows knowing that she is an aunt, and I want to believe that in some ways I am ready to be a father.

.The 1980’s were tough times, disco had just died, the dirt lip mustache was fashionable, and neon anything was king. For that time, maybe a new baby was what everyone needed. Because from a baby there is hope. hope that they will not have to go through the things you have, hope that you can selectively choose every amazing experience for them, and hope that they will do something better than you.

My father has been working for 28 years to make sure the life I live is better than his, now I will have to continue on that process, making sure that the life my child will live is better than the one I lead. Tough goal, my father did a good job, though I may exclude all the damn raking of leaves and stacking of wood he made me do as a child, there is only so much character that can be built by hard labor.

So baby, who until monday we will continue to refer to as our littlest, I will try hard to aide you in the process of not being a bastard when you are 17 like I was, or better put 15 through about 24 as I was/am/will continue to be.

Turtle Attacks, Ring Worm, Dump Trucks, and Safety Leashes

Reading the news from around the world, a father-to-be cannot help but fear for the child that will soon come into the world. This morning, upon arriving to work, I read about a horrible bear attack in Montana, drug cartel clashes in Mexico, whooping cough pandemic in California, unemployment rates rising in Spain, pit bulls killing smaller dogs in Massachusetts, and Glenn Beck still being alive in the world. These are the type of things that one would want to shelter a child from, keep them from the chance of injuring themselves, keep them from having irrational fears that the likes of Sarah Palin or John McCain could ever hold the office of President. But my question now is, how far should a parent go to protect a child from the things in the world that may or will hurt them?

Looking back to growing up in Central Massachusetts, I realize that my parents were smart in allowing me to learn from life. I was never one of the children attached to a baby leash, their were no fences corralling me, and my parents did not swoon over me with hand sanitizer; I don’t remember washing my hands for the first 11 years of my life. But it was the 80’s. My grandparents’ home made it easy to get in trouble growing up. I was pecked at by chickens, got stuck in trees, lost in the woods, bit by snapping turtles, tore legs on jagged metal, at a young age I was allowed to use a snow-blower, use canoes on my own, I was the only non-Greek on an all Greek kid’s soccer team, and even at the age of 10 in worcester I was hit by a dump truck while riding my bmx bike (this fact can be verified by several family members, two retired members of the Worcester police force, and a dump truck driver.)

Where is the worth in sheltering a child from the world? Is it an attempt to shelter them and to keep them pure? It can be argued that more evil has emerged in the world since the wide-spread use of the internet, that there are more predators in the world sitting in the 1’s and 0’s shadows waiting for your child, they there are more sickos and weirdos in the world. But is there really?  Ted Bundy and Ronald Reagan existed long before the internet.  I am thankful that my parents did not micromanage each facet of my youth. Right now, sitting here, as my wife is still 5 months pregnant, without a tangible child in my arms, I say, I choose to allow my child freedom. I want to now pledge to teaching them how to fight off bobcat attacks and when they grow up cougar attacks, I want to teach them to expect ring worm and hook worm infections, and I want to buy them their own First Aid kit in case of turtle or dump truck attack. Here in Spain, parents allow children to start practicing bullfighting at 4 years old and in the Inuit culture, children are taught to hunt polar bears and wolves at 6. Freaking Polar Bears and Wolves, Polar Bears and Wolves. But we, the modern date cultured Americans fear our children being lost in the local Wal-mart or if you have granddaddy dollars you are afraid of your child being hit by a segway at your local Whole Foods.

Is allowing your child to get bumps and scrapes and turtle wounds being an irresponsible parent? I hope not, to appease my wife, I may try selling this stand point that by promising her  that whatever happens to my child will happen to me to. I am not excited about getting poison ivy in my nether regions again, I am not too amped about getting stung by bees after smashing their hive with a baseball bat; but I would do it so my child will live a full life. Our child will listen to Black Sabbath while other children are singing along to Raffi. But remember, I am saying this now, my child is not born yet, I am just acting like I know what I am talking about. Ideally, I want to find the happy medium between overly safe sanitized parenting and stupidity.

My Beautiful Wife Makes Meghan Fox Look Like A Dumpy Hag

Here are week 15 and week 19 photos of my wife done by the amazing Lisa Kimberly Costigan.

A Father’s Take on Baby Clothing

Before I write this post, I need to note that I love my wife for her imagination, her sense of style and fashion, her ability to pick and place elements of clothing and design in her head and have them turn out in a magnificent way. All the things I just said about my wife, cannot be said about myself. I have always been a little more plain, I have enjoyed salvation army flannel shirts, vans sneakers, band t-shirts, and basic accessories. My wife has brought a sense of fashion dignity into my life. As much as I fight it, I dress well because of my life. Still, for the most part, I fight the idea of vanity, in no way should a pair of jeans cost $100.00 after being beaten to a pulp and tears made in pre-planned places, cowboy shirts and other current fashions should not be taken off the racks of the current hipster clothing store and then toted as being an original thought. I am ready for the clothing I have been wearing for the past 12 years to not be fashionable anymore.

That entire rant is just a way to describe how I feel about the entire process about shopping for a newborn. The fact is that our soon to be baby will grow out of clothing before it can wear an outfit more than 5 or 6 times (if we are lucky.) Jenna will undoubtedly pass on amazing fashion to Our Littlest, people will comment on the clothing choices and will smile when they see the clothing. However, I am looking to pass on something that are dear to me as well, a Father’s take on baby clothing and fashion. I am not saying that I want the child to have to wear 10-year-old clothing to earn street credit and learn how to be pretentious and un-pius at an early age, though hopefully with a push that will happen. I want to pass on elements of my life that have carried me through for the past 16 years or so.

Here are some fashion picks, I will attempt to pander off to my wife as a good idea. Old School Hardcore/Punk/Metal band onsies and zip-up hoodies, Baby Vans or Chuck Taylors, baby cut-off camo shorts, and an old baby camera to tote. Examples:

All of these amazing baby clothing options are available at http://www.revhq.com if there are any possible buyers out there reading this post. Bottom line, I want our child to be diverse in understanding of life, when it outgrows these amazing garments, I will then make them into a blanket that it can obsessively carry around forever, and it will still be cool.

Pastrami Sandwiches and Chinese Lunar Charts.

Yesterday, Monday the 26th of June 2010, we were to finally find out the gender of Our Littlest that is currently residing in Jenna, kicking, stretching out, and scratching out. Over the past few months we have been following ever old wives tale way of telling the gender. We have used Chinese Lunar Calendars, we have used keys on a string, attempted to decipher where Jenna was carrying weight.  Yet through it all, the deciding factor would be the sonogram on Monday.

After getting done with the 20 week appointment, in which our doctor told Jenna that if for some reason she craves a Pastrami Sandwich, that she should eat Carrot Sticks instead. Also, Jenna threw me under the bus by telling the doctor, that I basically force her to eat ice cream, because I am the one that is having the cravings.  The report was that the baby was doing well, the triple mark test came back negative for CF, and the baby’s heart is pumping at 158 beats per minute.

We left the doctor’s office with smiles on our faces, ready to find out the gender. Then we could plan out colors, names, clothes, and furthermore, the babies future in industry, music, sports, ballet, or journalistic writing for the Democratic Party. We were ready on monday to begin planning our babies run for President of the United States of America in 2045.  We make it to the window to check in, tired smiles from not sleeping the night before due to excitement and anxiety.

“Hi we are here to check in for our 20 week sonogram to tell the gender of the baby.” I said.  “Ohhh, you’re the Hamels, I am sorry we made a mistake in scheduling. The soonest we can see you is going to be Monday August 4th, 2010 at 1:00p.m.” The nice receptionist said biting her lip in an embarrassed manner.

So we go back on relying on charts like this below. According to the Chinese Lunar Chart, we are having a baby boy. Jenna attempts to not put any faith in these due to the fact she wants nothing more in this world than to have a baby girl that she can give a french name, dress in tutus, rain boots, and striped tights. The only setback is that she cannot french braid hair. My take on this entire gender game is that, well, I don’t care. I want to have a healthy beautiful child, I would even settle for a striking child, as long as it’s happy and healthy.

In a away it may have been better that we did not find out on monday, my bank account rests another day, as soon as the gender is determined, Jenna will buy amazing clothes at firesales at Baby Zara and H&M, we will have the most stylish child, but she may have to breast feed for 3 years while we build the account back up. At this point, the Littlest already has 3 or four outfits, semi-gender neutral, as long as it’s okay to dress a baby girl like Picasso.

Since Pregnancy, she has taken up dangerous hobbies, it might be a boy.

It is not far fetched that this could be Our Littlest's Outfit next summer.

jul 26, El Puerto De Santa Maria, Cadiz, Spain

I looked up BABY ZARA, and this appeared??? Weird. But a sign, that it may be a boy I guess.

For now, this remains one of our two bastard children. Tundra Kid.

Woman’s Age at Conception
Month of Conception	18	19	20	21	22	23	24	25	26	27	28	29	30	31
January
February
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April
May
June
July
August
September
October
November
December

The Story of The Start. The Beginning of Human Growing

Before I begin talking about our future, I want to help people understand who we are.

I am Bryan Michael Hamel, born October 14th 1982 on the second floor of Saint Vincent’s Hospital in Worcester, Massachusetts. I have a sister jessica, and am lucky enough to have 4 parents. I usually only care about Boston Red Sox baseball or Liberal Politics. My father hates one of those two things, it ain’t baseball.

My wife is Jenna Lee Price Hamel, born June 22nd, 1984 at Mount Sinai in Toronto, Ontario, Canada. She has a brother Sean and a sister Jamie. She has currently has 3 parents, but we are sure this number will grow. A proud Canadian and sometimes proud to be an American as well.

We married on October 25th, 2008 in Maitland, FL. The story of how we met, would require another blog all together, but let’s just say it involved a magazine, the internet, the ocean, compassion for other humans, a lot of suave lines on my part, and a group of her friends that threatened our life. Upon marriage, we intended on taking it:

After living in Saint Augustine, Florida in a old apartment living over a polish/brazlian woman with bi-polar tendancies, I received new orders from the U.S. Navy to go overseas to Rota, Spain (our current home)

Then……it started out with a cold and “stomach ache.” My wife Jenna and I had just gotten back from a week in Paris, France in the 40 degree weather and the nearly freezing snow. This was a huge shock to our bodies, due to the fact when we stepped onto the plane in Spain where we live, it was 79 degrees and sunny outside.

The “stomach ache” and cold last for 3 weeks past the return from the trip. Jenna had been throwing up in the morning, could not get comfortable when sleeping, could not handle the smell of garlic or olive oil.  I thought something else was going on. After asking Jenna several times if I should get a pregnancy test, she said no, “it is just a stomach virus, it is going around, I should be fine in a couple days.” The next day on the way home from work, I purchased 2 pregnancy tests and a case of beer as a chaser.

Together, we gazed at the box for about 2 hours, realizing that if that test was positive and we were having a child, our lives would change forever. In the past year and 7 months since being married, we have made some big changes, we moved into our first house together, then moved to Spain, thousands of miles away from our families and friends.  I read the instructions thoroughly for the test, recited them to Jenna, she did everything she was supposed to do. We waited 90 seconds, looking with courage and with determination not to blink, as if the lines will only show for a moment and then disappear. Looking, looking, sweating, looking; Nothing happens. The first test was a dud, manufacturer error, so we motioned for the second test. Again reading the directions and reciting them to Jenna, she again mustered up patience for the second test.

Then there was no sound. Our two dogs and I stood in the hallway waiting for Jenna to open the door, but there was nothing. A moment later, the glossy white door creaked open, a ghostly pale look on Jenna’s face. “Read the directions again.” I read them again, looking over the black and white diagrams for the white and blue reality of the test. I grabbed the stick that was sitting on the sink. We just looked at each other, and hugged. On Tuesday April 20, 2010, our lives changed forever. We were going to be parents.

So I begin writing today, Jenna is 19 weeks and 4 days pregnant, we are anxiously awaiting to find out what Our Littlest is going to be. These writings serve a two fold objective:

1. Log our life before the baby, the resolutions to anxiety and joy.

2. To provide our friends, family, and strangers updates on our lives. As of late, we have not been so good with contacting everyone, this is because we have in our own way, been preparing ourselves and optimizing on the time we have together as semi-babyless parents. Here is our attempt to get better.

Germany v.s. Spain World Cup Game, week 16