Week 18

We're back! You may have noticed a gap in these weekly updates and I'm just going to credit Dr. Omar (he's no math-whiz) for the lapse. Sure, he was just a week off and the reports have jumped from 14 to 18, but my good friend, Ken Hatter, would just call it another example of Boolean algebra.

So what's up with the pickle?

This week we're about five inches in length from crown to rump and looking quite human. The rapid growth period is normalizing and from here on out (literally "out") the pickle's growth will be devoted to refinement and specialization moreso than just getting bigger for the sake of getting bigger.

In week eighteen the heart's ventricles are the darling project of the pickle's growth efforts. In an amazing feat of segregation, the baby's little tubes have fused, separated and will pump fetal blood through the umbilical cord to the placenta and leech off mami's oxygen- and nutrient-rich blood without ever mixing/touching.

Have faith, because I can't figure it out either, but that's what they're saying is happening. I like to think there's some kind of magic spell allowing Kasha's blood and the fetal blood to come "this close" (actually exchanging molecules!) without coming in direct contact with one another. Two entirely separate circulatory systems with one contained entirely within the other and not ever touching.

OK. I'm done. I was trying to blow your mind. But I'm done now.


As far as Kasha is concerned, the 18th week is marked by other eerie connections. At a rock n roll concert this past weekend she confided in me, her hands covering her waist, that "the pickle likes music!" And at dinner that she or he is not a fan of the spice. Kasha will also be glad to tell you that the pickle is squishing her guts and reeking havoc on her hips and ribs.

What can you say? The pickle is already bad to the bone. Get it? Hips and ribs? Bones. Eh, here, see for yourself:


That's the pickle giving Bruce Lansky the whomping he so richly deserves. Stick n move, pickle, stick n move. (note: this is my hack-kneed attempt at animation and in no way represents triplets!)

For Carrie Faulknor-Peirce

I used to tell people with guitars that "Yellow Ledbetter" was the only song I could play. I'd spice-up the story with various jargon such as calling the instrument a "git-box" or referencing frets, pick thickness, and effects pedals. Inevitably a guitar would be passed to me with the permission to "go ahead and play" or something of that ilk. Next I'd just say, "Oh, sorry, I don't do requests."

But that was yesteryear. Nowadays I do something similar, but with the harmonica and citing that playing has become too painful as it reminds me of my days in prison. So be warned: I can't play a lick. There's not a musical bone in my body. I can't even snap my fingers to "the rhythm".

Maybe it's in my genes. My mom never learned how to whistle and is forced to say things like, "Freet-froo" when she sees someone worthy of a cat-call.

But enough about me. Carrie wants the bare belly and I want to prove that there's no shame in taking requests. So without further ado I present you with a gallery of the belly. ENJOY!




*Happy Birthday Jim Schneider*

Ed Notes Smith... Catchy, eh?

In a bit of editorial tidying I need to start off today by clearing up a few points. I like how magazines have Editor's Notes all over the place and the Corrections can't be found without a magnifying glass and a shovel. Not me, boy. I'll air out my dirties in the front window!

When I said that fetal sex information is kept from expectant parents in China I should have expanded that sentence considerably. Or boiled it down a bit. I meant to say that Chinese doctors have a long standing policy of not telling Chinese expectant parents the sex of their babies until the last month. As Americans seeking medical attention from any of the international clinics dotting the Beijing landscape, Kasha and I are more than welcome to inquire after the pickle's naughty bits.

In fact, our doctor and at least one sonogram technician have been nearly flabbergasted by our desire to be kept in the dark about it. Maybe flabbergastaition is ham-fisted in this case, but it went like this: Dr. Omar, a really sweet and articulate Obstetrician/ Gynecologist of Syrian extraction (although not a math-whiz), informed us with xmas-morning-excitement that we'd finally be able to know the sex of the child. Thank you, no is what we said. Tick, tick, his mouth falling open, "but other parents do... want to know... the humma humma humma."

So, what would you call it? Without a doubt, that's a weak argument. I mean, if other expectant parents were jumping off a bridge. You know. Would you have me say the man was dumbstruck? Doctors can't be dumb, although I am sure they'd know what to do if ever they were struck. Astonished might work, but you can't say the word without saying "ass" which is just immature. Puzzled doesn't work either for this story. Even if 99% of people want to know the sex of their baby and only a sliver of folks don't want to know (or want to prove to themselves that they don't care "as long as it's healthy!") that's still just two scenarios. Okay, one would be highly unlikely, but how are you going to be genuinely puzzled at the outcome of an event with only two possibilities?

No, I'll stick with the flabbergasted Dr. Omar. The guy was momentarily caught off guard, is all. And we're privy to the information (of the sex of the pickle) whenever we want it. I think it would be great for Kasha and I to find out and keep it a secret from everyone else!

Another point that I think needs clarification is Bruce Lansky. Anyone who can be a best-selling author (besides Glenn Beck, that is) deserve their accolades in simple sales/earnings terms. Yeesh, that's a lotta books. But, let's be clear, this dill rod did write a best-seller, it is 699 pages long, and to the dreadfully unimaginative I am sure it's every bit the helpful and fascinating tool that its cover purports it to be. But, I have to say it: being an author means writing. Sure, Lansky wrote a book that has very nearly seven hundred pages in it, and it weighs very nearly five pounds, but it has less than 700 sentences in it and fewer than five paragraphs. You give me any topic you can think of, this is a dare, any topic at all, and if I can't write a seven hundred page LIST on the subject... I'll give you one of my kidneys (whether or not I'm your donor-match) and a heart-felt handshake. 'Cause that's what you call it. Writing books involves crafting sentences. Making lists usually involves groceries.

And people say Comix aren't literature!

So there! It just needed to be outed. I know I said some nasty things about Bruce Lansky, but give me credit, what I had initially hoped to write is that I wanted to bury Bruce Lansky in a mixture of the powderized bones of his ancestors and his own greasy crap. Up until just now I had shown commendable restraint.

So there you have it. I feel it almost confessional or therapeutic to approach the needed corrections in such an open manner. Makes it seem almost dishonest to think of editing in secrecy!

ANAWHATWHATME* (Question)

Beautiful and Natural have been replaced! Huzzah! Whoop whoop! Ya-a-a-a-y! At this point the beautiful and natural characteristics of the process that Kasha is near to the forty percent completion benchmark of have been thoroughly internalized. And why not? You've seen the snapshots, they're undeniably beautiful. Sure, film capture photos would go a bit further with me as far as 'natural' is concerned, but it's two thousand freaking nine for gosh sakes and digital images use technology to enhance what we perceive as naturally beautiful just as post-industrial particulate matter trapped in the atmosphere enhances a sunset. So, beautiful and natural are firmly in place, place-holding substitutions though they may be.

But what could possibly usurp their title as king of the expectantcy hill? At this point in the pregnancy we're in a dead heat between, "is it a boy or a girl?" and "what are you thinking of for a name?" and it's fitting that these two be the far and away front-runners. They are linked, no doubt. Oh, and the answers, in either case, are: "dunno."


But both questions are thought of at the same time. We'll say to ourselves that if we knew the sex of the pickle we could arrive at a name in half the time. But that's lazy math. If you know you'll have a Junior (II, the 3rd, and so 4th...) in the case of a boy, that wouldn't stop you from having endless debate about the case of a female. If something like that were the condition, as I am sure it often is, then discovering the sex of the child would make the naming decision easier in a strictly insignificant way. It'd be the same thing if you'd settled on a particular girl name, say Agatha (from Greek, good and kind), but had no predisposition towards the male name (and were averse to Agacio, the manly, Greek counterpart to your settled-upon girl name).

What we've been struck by is that it's a universal question for this period of the pregnancy. Both American and Chinese friends have been caught asking. The notable difference is that, in America, it is a choice: do you want to know the sex? While in China the information is kept from expectant parents unless they beg or, rather, bribe the info out of their medical practitioners. I'm not implying cultural gender bias or attempting to comment misguidedly on overt, solution-weighted political policy that produces unintended perceptions and realities in its wake. But, look at the demographics and make your own implications. Then get back to me. Please don't also forget that free-market-America has given the world the choice to pick (ahem, pay for) the preferred sex of their child. See Gen-Select's site http://www.genselect.com/?referrer=Google&gclid=COfrsPjsxJkCFc0vpAodM2D_aQ
if that sort of thing tickles your fancy. I'll also refrain from commenting on this freedom, this right, this reality.

So, any how, knowing the sex of the baby doesn't make the decision that much easier. Lazy math is but one pitfall. There's also the chance that, whether you know the sex or not, you may pick an unsuitable name for a zillion other reasons. Let's say you want to call the baby Rosie or Lilly before birth and then you discover that you've got an olive-complected bundle on your hands. Wouldn't fit. Or you may be leaning towards Gus when the baby looks like an Alex. I'm not saying wait a week and watch the sky and woods or whatever and come up with a name the way the Natives would have done.
Sure, it's a romantic enough idea, and certainly a super personalized solution, but for example, I don't even think Sitting Bull is possible. Do bulls sit? Is it a play on words? Bull Sit = BS?! Besides, we don't exactly populate a landscape abounding with natural glory anymore, now do we? It's likely that the Native American approach to baby naming would end with the pickle going by Charging Card or Falling Dollar in this modern age. And if you chose a name in a manner that states unequivocally that this little pickle is not gonna be part of the impersonal modern age... well, you'd feel like a real horse's patoot when the little guy wants to become a space-man or hacker or a pilot or a televangelist.

Besides that, you have layer upon layer of onion skin obscuring your ability to take a decision. Say you know it's gonna be a girl. Say you've always felt "Marsha"had a nice ring to it. Say your last name is Smith. There's the elements. All sewed up then, innit? Actually you're farther from the finish line then ever you have been when you think you're on that home stretch. OK, for one thing, is that Marsha or Marcia? Think about it now, the spelling will effect the diminutive: Marsh or Marcie. And then there's the middle name/initials consideration. With some form of Marcia as the first name and Smith as the last, you start navigating through potentially treacherous waters with the middle name. Choosing the wrong one could wind up with little Marcie being "Mess" "Messy" "Missus" or (gasp) "Mississippi."

So, you know, there's a lot to think about. Don't get me started on what would happen if you were living in Asia and decided to name your daughter Loraine Ellery Smith. Without filling in all the blanks, I'll just say that would be a disastrous triple whammy in terms of the above outlined considerations and the realities of pronunciation differences between regions.

All that having been said, the truth is that the only name I am crossing off the list with bold strokes is Bruce Lansky. I have a bone to pick with this jagoff. If you're not in the expectant parent subset of the population you may not know that Bruce Lansky is the name of the author of 100,000+ Baby Names and some kind of self-proclaimed know-it-all on every subject from etymology to history to psychology to mythology vis-a-vis first names. Really: one hundred thousand names!
And you're proud of this accomplishment? Well guess what, Bruce... I can eat an entire box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch in one sitting and slam (by modest count) eight Guiness back to back. You don't see me running around and acting like I'm mister big stuff about it though, do you?

OK here's where the rift between me and Bruce Lansky started. The jerk really does think he's god's gift to the meaning of first names as if such things can have significant meaning on their own, without being attached to a person or place. The jerk. Anyways, in a 700+ page tome of one hundred thousand names, the first time Bruce stinking Lansky mentions my name it's listed as one of the top 25 names that evoke a sense of being "Whimpy." And guess what list the name Bruce is on... top 25 names that give a "Strong/Tough" impression! Give me a break! If you lined up 25 Bruces and like seven Wesleys and just let them go at it... well there'd be a big bloody heap of random, torn and shredded Bruce appendages and at least a half dozen intact Wesleys. Probably the one injured Wes tripped over the first Bruce to be felled in the one-sided melee and was otherwise game fit.

To make matters even much much worse, Bruce Lansky (who thinks that he can somehow glean what qualities are inherently evocative of any name as if he's evangelizing to a monolithic readership), the chump, listed Kate, Kathryn, and Katie as evoking impressions of "Intelligent," "Friendly," and "Athletic" respectively; which put his relative esteem within our household at diametric poles.

But, that's fine. He's got some level of respect in our house. I mean, the reason being is obviously one of self-serving braggartism. That much is clear. And any feelings contrary to the espoused greatness of Bruce Lansky are derived from his trumped-up and un-meritorious credentials as the CEO of Bullcrap Incorporated.

Pluswhich, that's fine that he gets some respect in my house. But just you wait and see what happens I ever see Mr Bruce Lansky in the streets.

* Solution: "WHATs in A NAME?"

Chinanniversary One

Just celebrated the anniversary of our official Chinese marriage. I was told, "we need to start more traditions." That utterance in and of itself kicked-off the first tradition I've been present at the inception of. Um, we'll eat sushi on our anniversary. Sure, we went to a Middle Eastern restaurant with belly dancers and nargilah on the night of our marriage, but who wants to start a noisy, smoke-filled tradition? Chinese New Year pretty much has that one down pat smoke/noise/and tradition-wise. And they don't use the avocado in Arabic food, which makes it hard to think that it'd be a sustainable tradition for Kasha and I.


And since we're using this anniversary as a reason to celebrate something in a periodically repeating manner, what better excuse to haul out a bunch of old words and pictures? The words describe the day we got married, and the pictures are the only pictures I have on this computer.



It's probably for the best that sometimes you have no idea what you're actually doing. Otherwise you tend to over-think things, assign significance needlessly, or just succumb to the gut-wrenching nerves that someone with an over-active mind for irony and sarcasm once decided to dub 'butterflies'.
Sometimes an unimaginable outcome evolves from happenstance and the world changes drastically. History is full of these unanticipated discoveries from the rising of dough to the properties of nitrous oxide; from the first telephone call to the first Europeans who saw the American chain of continents. I'd even bet the recipe for Thousand Island dressing was a kitchen mishap with favorable results. The point is it happens all the time and mostly for the better. That is why Good Friday, the 21st of March 2008 can be seen as such a huge success, and that's the only way it could have been.

To begin with, it was not the type of morning you where you spring right out of bed, although it was the beginning of Spring. We woke up late after pressing snooze for half an hour only to find a rainy, cloudy, dismal, rotten, damp, dingy, and cold day. 'Overcast' does the sky of that morning no justice. It looked as if the whole of Beijing was submersed in a stopped sink full of greasy dishwater. Undeterred, we hopped up, threw on the kind of clothes that people behind counters can't ignore, and, with coffee and toast in tow, we grabbed (what we thought) was everything that we'd need for the day. Although it seemed like a passing, trifling sort of a thought at the time, it was at that moment that the 'singing toast-o-gram' was invented. But, I digress.


So, the idea was simple enough. We needed to go to the US Embassy in order to attain an affidavit that could attest to our marriageability… certifying that you're marriable in the eyes of the US government. Seriously! Next we had to take that information to the Beijing Branch Office of the Chinese Marriage Registry Bureau to do the same thing for the Chinese government. How romantic?! At least it'd be quick. Zip through a few offices, fill out some papers, dot some 'i's', cross some 't's', and maybe find a little place to have a nice lunch.It was five after nine and we were thirty-five minutes from the place we had planned to be at by nine.



So we were late and cold but, not to worry, in what seemed just a few seconds we were at the bus stop and moments from starting our day's journey. Or so we thought. After fifteen minutes of shivering on the corner we finally saw our bus approach with an accompanying feeling of relief. Then we saw the bus drive right by full to the brim with passengers, it's driver giving a honk and wave in acknowledgment while accelerating right past us. It's fine, no big deal. These things will happen. And taxis are faster anyways…We hailed a cab and before you could say "Wo men chu Gou Mao" we were on our way.
Yes, but we were also on our way before you could say, "wait, did we catch a cab or a sardine-can-port-a-potty with ashtray wheels?" Really, it wasn't that bad. We were both thankful that the driver seemed to have miraculously escaped unscathed when his taxi was buried in an avalanche of old tunafish sandwiches and washed away by a flash flood of urine and armpit sweat. But you know how smells are: they don't fade so much as you just get used to them over time. We couldn't even pinpoint when that moment had come, but it could have been at any point while we were caught in Beijing gridlock for over an hour. At the first opportunity we jumped out and began to hoof it, double time.


At this point in the morning we had to anticipate the possibility that we were in store for long lines and impossibly out-of-date periodicals that typify government waiting rooms. Added to that was the reality that the offices close for a two-hour lunch from 11:30AM- 1:30 in the afternoon. Who were these people, farmers? Spaniards? Old Money? As we rushed up to the embassy, I was filled with pride and confidence when I realized that, as an American citizen, I would be one of the few to survive if there were an outbreak of zombies in Beijing. The walls were high, barbed-wired, and would pose an impossible obstacle to even those unfortunate undead, deranged as they are by their craving for human brains. God Bless the United States Embassy!


We arrived in the metal detector room one hundred yards from the entrance of the Embassy at a quarter to eleven o'clock in the morning and had shown our passports three times already, to three different sets of skinny Chinese guards in the uniforms of fat men. There we got to take a number (22) for our turn in the queue of the office and I think also to pick up a half pound of thin-sliced corned beef.
Only one guard remained before we were sitting in the waiting room, and this one was an actual US enlisted man in full camo fatigues! We were really there, finally, and the magazine (People, September 2007, cover story: Owen Wilson's Tragic Secret Suffering) was really interesting. The Stars are just people, you know? Just like you and me.

In less than ten minutes time, we were brutally torn from our interesting magazine article and called up to (show our passports again and) take our turn in line. They usually only have to verify one passport and emboss one affidavit, so we posed a bit of a complexity to them: What do you do when two Americans want to be married? Day in, day out they prepare the document for combinations of one American and one Chinese, quickly sending them off to the bliss unending that is marriage.

We were instructed to take our seats for another moment, ostensibly to again verify our identities and make sure the printer had fresh toner. Our passports must have been passed through whatever machine they used to disconfirm the authenticity of the Shroud of Turin. That gave the person preparing the forms plenty of time to comment on two amusing tidbits that had occurred to her: 1) that we had brought in all the information which was requested on their website to no end as that information is not actually needed at all! and 2) the fact that my passport photo made me look like an unemployed wreck with lunatic eyes and hat-hair, which I am, which reminded her of her own husband. And people say I don't know how to make conversation.



We were sworn in and smiled at while we gave testimony to the fact that neither of us were under coercion of any kind when it happened: we had each signed the other's documents, immediately rendering them invalid. And so the process started anew in a giggly expedited fashion. We were happy to be given the address and phone number of our next destination, the Chinese counterpart to our own American government office, because this information was not to be found anywhere else on the internet, from other expats in the know, or in countless emails to the embassy. We were a little shocked to learn that it was on the other side of Beijing, but we left with the sense that we really knew where we were going (that afternoon, specifically; and in life, generally) as well as who we were, for our identities had never been quite so scrutinized. We were now very, very verified and, indeed, marriable. Another memorable tangent was that everybody in the waiting room and behind the counter took a moment to wish us a happy married life.


As we descended into the Beijing subway we made our next plan: get as far north as the trains would take us and call for further directions when we got back to the surface and the office reopened around 1:30PM. Things were going smoothly. The subways in Beijing are not extensive and as such are quite simple to navigate. They are a great way to feel as if you are one with the people of China, due mainly to the fact that if it were possible to position yourself any nearer to them you'd have to be sharing pants. We wedged ourselves in and out, transferred to the northbound line, re-wedged and shimmied, and were back at the street level at (get this) 1:34PM. How do you like them apples?


The next step was simple: call them up, find out where exactly they were, and catch a ride right over. Luckily for us, the office had one of those, "Press Two For English" prompts. We were really in business now; the business of listening to the shittiest, most garble-mouthed and incoherent, fuzzy, static-y, broken "eng-rish" that has ever been heard on earth. We began to curse the zombie-proof embassy. Had they found this phone number in the Yellow Pages (oh, Chinese phone books are actually yellow too, although not full of chins) or in some fifties-era bomb shelter time capsule?

We flagged down a cabby hoping for some understanding and help. She kicked us out into streets and drove off. Again was the embassy damned. The next driver pulled over, let us in, and, looking over the directions we had, used his own phone to call the office. He took us directly there. It was uncanny. We learned a valuable lesson about positive mental attitudes: when you start the day with a positive attitude and get nowhere fast, just start criticizing the US Embassy and you'll get there.

The Chinese Registry office was beautiful. It's high walls had no razor wire, no shards of glass, not even the decorative spear tips that seem to send the same message but in a genteel voice. They were walls, sure, and the entrance was guarded; but the walls were carved with the images of a hundred naked women dancing and the guard looked to be an eleven year old boy just about to doze off for his afternoon nap. Inside we pulled out all our forms and such, impressive as they were with the seal of the US of A. We had made sure that we had brought everything we needed. We were now more than two hours from home so it was imperative to have it all. The woman behind the desk told us we had it all wrong. It said to bring in three pictures and the certificates from the embassy. What it did not say is that the photos had to be identical and prepared by a professional photographer measuring 4x5cm. Right. Why not just assume that people will know that? We also were told that we could use a nearby consulting firm to translate the documents and we were presented with a business card of one of the consultants. Before leaving we were informed that we'd have to bring someone back to the office to transcribe our information onto the official documents in Mandarin characters. How silly of us not to have known that?!

It was now approaching a quarter to three. We were back on the streets and talking with the consultant who assured us we could be serviced that very same afternoon when we spotted an oasis in the desert of frustration. Right across from us was a wedding photographer with instant passport photos available. Where did that photographer come from? I had to look around just to be sure that Lindsay and Brittany were not going commando in short skirts! After ten minutes we had moved closer to the finish line and calmed our nerves by looking at thousands of adorable Chinese baby pictures.

We were handed our still-wet proofs in the photographer's special envelope and were en route to the consultant's firm, the consultant himself directing our driver. Imagine our surprise when we discovered he had still dropped us off at the wrong office building. The architecture of this area was arranged in compounds full of numbered blocks. We were at the right address in the 6 block, but we needed the corresponding address in the 10 block. OK, just walk down past the next three of them, no? No. The blocks aren't in numerical order, but are labeled in random fashion as if for a hidden camera blooper show. Not wanting to waste time we called the consultant who kindly agreed to escort us in person to the office. As it turns out, the fault for our lost condition couldn't be laid solely at the feet of our cab driver. I am not even sure that a bloodhound with GPS channeling Boba Fett could have found this consultant's office.

When we got there I had to doubt that this guy even worked there. We were stuck outside the front door until someone from the office came to let us through in spite of the fact that the door had a keypad. "I don't know the code," he told us, blushing. He asked us for the documents inviting us to sit down. The look on his face can only be described as puzzlement. The guy had obviously never seen these forms before. He took the forms into the next room and left us to sit in the cubicles of his coworkers. Our noses must have been fully recovering from the stenchridden taxi of he early morning because we both noticed the unmistakable smell of a scam.


This office looked like the last thing they had consulted for was a bachelor-pad after a hurricane. No, the spider webs would have been blown away by a hurricane! I wondered what look they were going for when they hung only half a set of curtains. Is that nouveau-heroine-junky or post-apocalyptic-dystopia? Then I wondered what we were thinking: we had let this guy take our embossed certificates without negotiating (or even inquiring about) the price of the translation and with less than 90 minutes to get back to the Registry Bureau before missing our window.

At that moment the consultant emerged with the news that they usually charge RMB150 per document and an additional 300 to go out of the office and translate on site. Would it be 150, 300, or 600? The consultant and his coworker argued about the price after we told him we could not afford to have him come and help us at the Registry office. It should be noted that one document was translated. Certainly, we needed two different pages, but those differences were Kathryn and Wesley; Southfield and Toledo; etc, and they were left in English. He did the right thing and, to the visible irk of his colleague, he gave us our papers at ten minutes before four, charging only RMB150.

We had the same problem with the address of the Registry bureau and the first taxi declined to pick us up. After flagging down a new ride we decided to show him the photographer's envelope and we were back in a jiffy, passing all the huge and amazing new buildings of the Beijing Olympic Park. Back at the same desk we'd been at just an hour and a half earlier the most unusual thing happened. The woman who had informed us that our documents were out of order now refused to speak any English. We were in a serious jam.
None of the people we knew who'd have been delighted to translate for us for free were anywhere near enough to get to the office before it closed at five. We tried to get a friend on the phone and it was a dead end. Things were about to get frantic. We could go and try to bribe a kind stranger in the streets, we could scream and shout, we could, we could… well, those were our only options.


I decided that I'd try my old standby and curse that damned embassy again. Would it be that hard for the US Embassy in China to have their forms available in Mandarin? Seriously, have them translated ONCE! All the remaining info is just printed in English on blanks that correspond to the blanks on the Embassy's document. Unbelievable! Kasha sighed one of those sighs conveying unmistakably, "I can't believe this BS!" And then it happened.


The woman behind the desk cracked. She got up and left the room, returning a minute later with two friendly, smiling guys. She pulled out a form that had the questions in English, which we filled in, and one of the nice gentlemen put it all into Chinese for us in about five minutes. She stamped the papers, affixed a seal, and stuck down the passport photos with a glue stick, asking RMB9 in fee. The woman asked if we were happy. I thought she was referring to the fact that we had managed to cut out RMB450 from that consultant (yes, very happy) or with the fact that she had suddenly regained her interest in helping us in English (which, of course, was agreeable) but next she said, "you should kiss."

She offered to take our picture with our kiss and new documents and I realized that we had not become registered to marry, but rather we had just registered ourselves as a married couple (at least as far as the government of the People's Republic of China was concerned). She was asking us if we were happy to be married and, honestly, we were delighted. Having it thrust on you like that (while at times throughout the day seemed confounding and hopeless) completely sidestepped the cold feet and "My life is now over!" feelings that traditionally accompany the wedding day.

She snapped our picture and made it official. We were now married and I officially look like a lunatic in a two-dollar haircut. All in all, it was a perfect fiasco. We got it done, and on an easy to remember day that seemed to simultaneously capture the sentiment and stand at diametrical odds to its proceedings (Good Friday), and one which is known within Catholic circles as an occasion where vegetarian food is called for. What a coup?! We pulled off the unthinkable, at 4:53, with 7 minutes to spare, without even knowing it, and, in a lot of ways, that made it the most memorable.

The Week Off Week Off

At the last visit to the Ob/Gyn we did our best not to find out the sex of the baby as we had the best ultrasound experience thus far. By the 'best' experience I mean that we got to hear that Michigan is already in our baby's heart. Seriously, the heart beat sounded exactly like driving through the huge tunnels of I-696 approaching the Woodward Exit. Unmistakable.

We also learned that we have been a week off in our keeping track of the pickle's progress. Have a look at the images for what we were prepared to call Week Fifteen. When this picture was taken Kasha was actually at 16 Weeks! The doctor explained that the due date is accordingly earlier by one week which is fine by me, due dates are just suggestions anyway.
You can't tell a fetus anything about punctuality. When we though it was the 15th week, we were already on alert for "the kick." Now that we know it's closer to 17 weeks, we're getting impatient. We'll really be in a pinch, though, if this happens again and the date needs further bumping up as Kasha is making the long flight to the States and back in the last week where airlines will allow non-Alaska governors to legally fly. Not to dwell here, but we also have no reason to expect that Kasha will be permitted to hunt wildlife while in flight either. And really, if the good lord wanted man to fly, I am sure that He'd have created us with wings.

Besides kicking, which the books say has a lot to do with reassuring first time expectant parents, we'll also gain access to all sorts of information about fetal health and development very soon. Fluids, a lot of it has to do with fluids. Are these fluids at the appropriate volume? And is their composition normal in every way? Eh, gimme the kick over that voo-doo mumbo-jumbo any day. I didn't read this in any of the baby books, but here's the deal with doctors: They're always wearing gloves. I don't trust them or anybody else who wears gloves as often (and isn't, you know, an avid snow-mobiler or such). Doctors, OJ Simpson, and cat burglars. Who do you trust? The Juice, right?

Another thing that makes the pickle fun at this time is that limited interaction is possible through the belly. Reading books or singing songs to the belly bump has been implemented even though at this point I am almost 100% sure that the pickle is illiterate, can't understand plot elements, and certainly has no taste in music. Also, if we wanted to tick the bugger off, we could flash strong lights on the belly. True fact, the baby book actually suggests this! That kind of thing has a lot to do with why people hate cops, and it's actually recommended by best-selling authors! What a woild!

Week 14

Well, what can you say about this world we live in? It's a kinda nutty place. You start off with "things are never quite as you'd expect them" and then when anything happens at all you make up excuses. It's like, jeez, nobody's defending binging and purging, and nobody's saying TV isn't a boob-tube, but do we really want to lay a culture run amok of body image fixation on the advertising industry?

The fact is that chips are good. Oh, they're real good. Wavy, thin, whatever. They good. If it weren't for nachos, how many of us (English Speakers) would just intuitively sense that two L's equal the Yah sound? Zero is the answer. So give it up for whoever invented the savory snack.

But I wanted the body of a bronze god (with perhaps a palm frond substituting the fig leaf, you know, for modesty's sake)! You can't really have the cake and eat it, too, can you?

What's the point of all this? Well, they say in the expectant father guide that these are the days when you have to be sensitive to body image around the house. It might become a trick subject.

Two things here: 1) as a chubby kid, I'm well aware of the phenomenon, and 2) where on Earth would you have to have been hidden away for that revelation to live up to it's billing as a 'tip'? It's like, here's another tip for you: put on your parachute before you jump from the plane.

Really, We've all seen Oprah on that up-n-down elevator for twenty years now. We get it. Body image super-self-conciousness is pervasive. Words like 'waif' and 'cocaine diet' have been replaced with 'bathing suit body' on the cover of all the magazines. Just last weekend we saw Jessica Simpson on the cover of People with the story's headline bearing her confession that she's sick of people saying she's fat. Jessica Simpson! She looks like a Barbie. What is going on?

OK, the point is, I'm getting to the point. At week fourteen, we've finally got a bump in the belly. By 'we' I mean Kasha... I've always had a belly! And this is also the week when fetal development has progressed to the point where the baby will make the first attempts at storing fat. So play around with the formula. Pregnancy equals a belly, it's expected, but you tip toe, and there're excuses to be made.

For one thing, we're still talking about a person who has gained exactly 4 lbs. And really, we're talking about (basically) 2 people averaging, what 53 lbs apiece? Plus, you're supposed to be chowing down (in the neighborhood of) 3,000 Calories as an expectant mother. Add to that the fact the baby is (get this) actually trying to put on the fat!

And then you blame TV!

So, what is Lanugo anyway?

It's a curious thing that certain entities get the cute pass. Seriously, some folks can't do anything that isn't cute. The other day the cat winked at me. It was so cute I almost had an aneurysm. But winking is a cute thing to do. Anybody who isn't a creep gets a little cuter mid-wink. That cute moment, fleeting like any other moment to begin with, can be instantly dashed into oblivion when it's accompanied by the (all-too-often) click-clack finger point that makes it obvious that the one performing the combination prizes being "slick" more than "cute."
But back to what's cute: The cat didn't really wink at me. It has some gross thing where its one eye is always kinda gummed up. And I know this. But that wink was so doggone cute anyways cuz winking gets the cute pass.

But how about cats? Could it not be that they, too get the pass. It may certainly be so. On Wednesday, returning home to an empty house, I was greeted with "Hello" by Chinakitty, the China kitty. You want to talk about cute for just a second here or what? Holy Toledo, it was the bright center of the cute universe and I was an enamored astronaut, gleefully hurtling toward the event horizon with mathematical certitude in the existence of super cuteness. And I'm not crazy, neither. Kasha says that Chinaks is always saying "Nihao" to her which tells me that cats get the cute pass in any language.

Far be it from me to massage the data into spuriousness, but it brings up a tangent that perhaps the cuteness is interacting with the unexpected. I mean, you come home, you open the door, somebody says, "Hello."

Big Freakin' Wow!

That same crap happens everyday. Maybe it's just unexpected when the cat does it. Watch, next month I'll be so sick of the cat saying, "hello" that that cute-fueled voyage through the cosmos of the adorable will seem like an impetuous detour off the AAA Triptik to the annoying. Now, Dootz, the other cat, one time Dootsy burped. Good-ness-gray-shus! Burping aint cute. I've been told enough times to at least pay that fact the lip service that repetition bought it. But it was unexpected and performed by a (card-carrying-cute-passer) cat, so... you get the idea.

Well, here's the thing: Babies get the pass. They're new, if nothing else, and as such can do little but the unexpected. I'm not crediting them with being all that original or nothing. Gosh sakes, no! They follow the same playbook as they have since cave-man time (with the exception of the inexplicably buff Bam-bam Rubble) and alls we keep gushing is, "AWWWWWWWWWWW!" Like we've never seen they're schtick before.

I mean, they all 'goo' and they all 'goo-gah.' They all say "Mama!" Seriously, every baby on every continent since literature consisted of a stick-man hunting a stick-animal has said "Mama!" And, to the Mama in question, nothing has ever been seen as so cute or has come as unexpectedly. Babies get the cute-pass. Big time! They are the kings (and queens) of the cute-pass.

But what about back hair? Back hair isn't cute. Oh, yeah? Well slap it on a baby, why don't you? Bet you five bucks it gets real cute real quick! That's babies for you. Masters of cute!

The deal with the Lanugo hair is that babies have their hubris. They devoted so much effort to cuteness for so long that some of the basics were skipped, some of the corners were cut. Case in point: they can get pretty cold in there. The obvious solution to that is to do what all the other mammals do and grow hair all over the body. ALL over the body. In India, I saw a man with Ambras Syndrome who looked like he was a werewolf or some hyper-fanatic ZZ-Top aficionado. Turns out he made a decent living by collecting people's pity and had a wife and (regularly follicle-d) kids. He couldn't jump high or smell a drop of blood from a mile away, but making a decent living for your family is practically a super-power these days, anyways!

And then there's Scotty Howard. You know what? It turned out he was pretty good at hoops without the wolf, and he didn't need all those fake, fair-weather friends anyways. He was good enough for Styles and Boof, and made his father proud as just an averagely normal geeky teenager. Besides, the wolf traveled more than Kobe! And break-dancing while on the court when the clock is still running!? Ron Artest has more respect for the game!

Whoops!

I mean babies are cute! They'll stay warm with that body hair until they can store enough body fat not to need hair anymore. Premature births often result in the baby being born with the majority of the body hair intact...Yikes! The really cute thing is that once they've outgrown the need for all that hair, little babies in-utero will get in some valuable real world skills practice. Um, by scraping off all that hair...and eating it. Cute!

Week 13

Who says 13 is an unlucky number? That's just ridiculous. Where do ideas like that come from? Some things are cut-and-dry, straight up, no-two-ways-about-it, unlucky: head lice springs into my head. Get it? Dry rot; I don't know what it is or how it's gotten, but getting it can't be fortunate. That said, every rotten thing I've ever seen has had a real nasty, tangy wetness about it. Musty at best. Dry rot must be luckier than your run of the mill juicy moldering, no? You know that thing where you're putting away the dishes and you leave the cupboard door ajar and you go dry another one and you turn around and you knock the dickens out of your head? Bad news, certainly. But keep your eye on the ball for goodness sakes! If you know better and do it anyways, it's not bad luck. Something else. If you're going to rely on "luck" or its converse to take credit for the ins and outs of the day, you'll wind up mistaking every little thing for good or bad, when really it just is. I guess that what I am saying is that it's all in how you see it.

The pickle can only be seen through rose-tinted glasses. In the thirteenth week, that is a lucky thing! What's going on? Well, this is the week when thumb sucking is our pickle's big fixation. By school-age, this could be thought of in problematic terms, but now, now it's a sign that things are progressing.

And then there is body hair: Lanugo hair. At week thirteen the baby is completely covered with the stuff. And we're looking at that as a good thing. For warmth and what have you. When I started noticing body hair about the shoulders and back... let's just say it wasn't my lucky day.

You know, it is what it is. And in week thirteen, the external genitalia is... I don't know, it's external. You have to look away from the ultrasound, as if those things show you anything. Also, the ears are formed and have settled where they're gonna stay. If the Pickle comes out with goofy-looking ears... it's lucky week 13's fault! But we're still looking at it in the best possible light. Goofy ears are no big deal. Look at Will Smith, Tony Blair, and others who became household names, goofball ears notwithstanding! Yep, this is the pickle's luckiest hour!