Well, baby, I have good news and bad news.  If you’re like me, you’ll want the good news last so you can revel in it and try to forget the bad news.  If you take after your mom, you’ll want the bad news last so that you can immediately get to work on righting it.  But, since I’m writing to you, we’ll do things my way.

The good news is that we have settled on names.  I can assure you it has not been easy.  Every name I chose, your mom swore she knew a dog with the same name.  And, every name your mom brought to the table, I shot down like I was Doc Holiday.  (“I’ll be your huckleberry.”)  In the end, we were able to agree on both a boy’s name and girl’s name. (A small miracle, I believe.) If you are a boy, you will be called Callen Thomas.  In all honesty, Callen is taken from our new TV show, CSI: Los Angeles, which, incidentally, I always call “CSI: Las Vegas”, and your mom always has to correct me.  (I’m telling you this, so when you ask, years later, where your name came from, you’ll correct me, too.)  But, I looked up the meaning of Callen, and I knew it was meant for you.  The name means “powerful in battle”.  I love that image, and I know it will be fitting to the man you will be.  You’ll be a powerful force in the Lord’s army.  You’ll be a warrior in this life that, at times, is a battle.  But, I promise, baby, you’ll find all the armor you’ll need in God, His promises, and hopefully, through our examples.

If you are born a girl, you will be called Macey Shane.  I am sorry to say that the name Macey is not quite as inspiring as Callen.  According to the book we have, Macey is a form of a name that is a form of the name Miriam.  Miriam means, “a sea of bitterness”.  Try as I may, I can find no positives in that.  And, I’m afraid it gets worse.  Your middle name was taken from an L Word character.  Shane was a womanizer, a one-time drug-addict and prostitute, and more times than not, she had terrible hair…despite her profession as a hairdresser.  I know that doesn’t afford much hope, baby, but what can I say?  We all have things we have to overcome.

And, for the record, you aren’t allowed to watch The L Word until you’re 37.

And, now, for the bad news:

January wasn’t our month.

I’ve been behind on the blog because the last month has been a whirlwind of activity, mental exhaustion, and caffeine withdrawal.  On December 2nd, I went in for surgery.  There was a polyp that needed to be removed, as Dr. Slackman feared it would act like an IUD and prevent the pregnancy we so badly want.  And, so, while I was drifting away to la-la land, Becky, Jean, my step-mother, Janice, and our pastor, Joe, sat in a waiting room, quietly supporting me and one another.  (This day, dear baby, has stayed with me since the surgery.  It was very minor; I was home within 6 hours of going in.  But, I never imagined that scenario playing out in my life.  If you had told me five years ago that I would have such an amazing partner, a faithful best friend, a community of faith, and an accepting, supportive family, I would have laughed in your face and asked you to pass whatever you were smoking!  But, that day, I was aware of and humbled by the many blessings the Lord has provided to this sinner.  I don’t know that I’ve ever had such an awakening moment.)  The surgery was a success.  The polyp was removed.  The biopsy showed zero cancer, and I recovered without a single pain pill.  A couple weeks later, Dr. Slackman said we were ready to move on with the process.

I started on the fertility drugs, which, I’m here to tell you, are not fun.  I was in a constant state of ‘hot flash’.  I woke up in pools of sweat, and I wore short-sleeves in 20-degree weather.  When the doc said things were looking good, I gave myself a trigger shot to induce ovulation.  (This happened on New Year’s Eve in Jean’s living room.  She watched on, wide-eyed, as I stuck myself in the belly, while chanting, “I can’t do this.  I don’t know if I can do this.  I can’t believe I’m doing this.”)

Two days later, on January 2nd (Derby’s 2nd birthday!), we went in for our first (and, we had hoped to be our only) rendezvous with #979.  I wish I had a grand way to share the events of that day, but the truth is, it was over before I realized what was happening.  As the doctor walked out saying, “If you haven’t had your period in 14 days, you need to take a pregnancy test”, I looked at Becky saying, “That was IT?”  To that, she replied, “What did you want, a steak dinner first?”

It wouldn’t hurt.

The last two weeks have been a roller coaster, to say the least.  While visions of you danced through my head, I jumped at every twinge, sensation, and possible symptom my body produced.  I was aware of everything and sure of nothing.  Our plan was to test on Friday morning.  It would have been a day early, but we just couldn’t wait.  Turns out, we couldn’t wait even that long.  So, on Thursday morning, when the dogs woke us at 5:30, I let them out, and I peed on a stick.  We bought the digital kind, because we didn’t want the hassle of “Is that one line or two?”  With the digital, there’s no sugar-coating.  It’s either “Pregnant” or “Not Pregnant.”  So, I peed, took the test, and crawled in the bed with my wife.   I watched it for the full three minutes, while the little hour glass blinked, taunting us with the results.

I thought I’d vomit before it finished.

And, then…

Not Pregnant.

Ouch.

But, I told myself, “It could be wrong.  False negatives happen all the time.”  So, I hung on to that hope throughout Thursday.  We said we’d test again on Saturday morning (today) to be sure.  But, yesterday morning, my period came with a vengeance.

So anti-climatic.

So not fun.

So heart-breaking.

I wallowed in my disappointment for a while.  I can’t deny that my hopes were sky-high. I’d already daydreamed about telling my father that he had another grandchild on the way.  I’d already imagined your mom’s eyes tearing up when we read ‘Positive’, and I was prepared to have to reel her in from telling everyone we knew.  And, as I stared at that stupid, pink tampon box, I cried.

But, as the day went on, and I thought about the journey that had led to that moment, I was reminded of the day of my surgery.  The Lord has blessed us.  Becky and I are blessed to have one another.  We are blessed that God has helped us through the rough times and that He has provided us with the good times.  We are blessed to have families that love us, and despite our fears of rejection, support us in our dreams of adding to our family.  We are blessed to have people that pray with us.  We are blessed to have each of you that read this and care about us.

And, we are blessed to have the resources to try again.

So, on Monday, I go for another doctor’s appointment.  (The medicine I was on can cause cysts to form, so we have to check before starting another round.)  Assuming that goes well, the routine begins again:  Medicine, shot, date with #979.

It is my prayer that this time is easier.  Mentally, I need a little recharging.

I am hopeful, dear baby, that February, the month of love, will bring us together.

Until then, I’m going to enjoy the Diet Cokes I’ve missed oh-so-much.

I am so impatient!  It is a trait that I pray you do not inherit…or learn.  Instead, my hope is that you will be blessed with your mom’s it’ll-happen-when-it-happens attitude.  I’ve been driving myself fairly insane for the past few weeks.  As you know, we took part in the 2009 Swimmers Draft last month.  We shipped our picks to Chapel Hill to await the final decision–that was supposed to be announced weeks ago!  This week, finally fed up with the suspense, I began blowing up the phone at the doctor’s office.  So, finally (!!), the nurse called with the excellent news that we’d been matched!  (And, the peasants rejoiced.  If you learn anything at all from this, dear baby, let it be that persistence does indeed pay off!)  Melissa informed us that, not only had we been matched, but we’d been matched with our #1 draft pick!  Apparently, this is rare, because she was shocked and kept insisting, “this never happens.”  I just smiled and silently thank God for the sure sign for which I took it.

From that moment on, I spent my day imagining what you would be like when we finally meet.  What will your laugh be like?  What will you dress as on your very first Halloween?  Will you be studious or sporty or both?  Will you beg to go fishing with your grandfather?  (Oh, I can’t wait for you to meet your Papa George.  He is one of my favorite people on this planet.)

Along with my obnoxious impatience, I pray you are spared the curse of my hair.  It’s curly.  It’s unruly.  It’s a pain.  And, no offense, but if you’re a girl, I don’t want to spend the hours waiting on  you to do something with it.  (Yes. It’s that bad.)

Not all of my traits are bad, though! lol.  My hope is that you grow with my sense of justice.  I believe in fairness, and I try to live my life free of double standards.  I pray that you live with the same, just attitude.  And, with that, I hope that we raise you to speak against injustice.  I pray you’ll have the backbone I’ve not always shown.

My hope is that you inherit your mom’s work ethic.  She’s the hardest working person I know, baby, so you have big shoes to fill.  When you join our family, she will do everything to be sure you all that you need–and then some.  I can’t promise that possessing that work ethic will make all of life easy, but you will find satisfaction in knowing that you’ve done all that you could do.

I pray we get pregnant early in the year, so you aren’t born under the Cancer sign.  My moodiness is enough for one household.

I hope you’ll be adventurous and unafraid.

I hope you travel.  We’ll raise you in the Roanoke Valley, and I hope you share my appreciation for the glory of the mountains in the fall.  But, I hope you’ll travel enough to know the beauty of the sunset over the Gulf Coast, the snowfall in Germany, and the hustle of New York City.

I hope you inherit Becky’s sense of direction; I still get lost in Roanoke.

I hope you enjoy the pull of a good book, the ache that accompanies a beautifully crafted song, or the romance of a painting.

My prayer is that, from the beginning, your mom and I teach you–by example–to lean on God through every joy and sorrow.  May you never experience the confusion and fear we faced.  May you always know that He knew you before you were born, and that He loves you just as you are.

May you never discover SpongeBob SquarePants.  I don’t think I could live through it.

My hope is that you find a family outside of our family.  These past few weeks, I had the humbling experience of witnessing your mom’s firefighting family, and the way they depend on one another.  It moved me.  Whether it’s the men and women you with whom you work, childhood friends, or your own band of misfits, I hope you find a home among them.

I hope you find love early and often.  If our lives are any indication, you’ll suffer heartbreak.  But, I assure you, dear baby, the end result is more than worthwhile.  When you find the person with whom forever is, not only possible, but the only option, may you cherish it.  May you never take it for granted.

May your mom and I extend to you the same grace that our families have shown us when you choose your partner.  May we trust your judgement and accept your decisions.

May you treat every person you meet with respect and dignity.  May we raise you to think beyond yourself and consider each person’s circumstances–both known and unknown–when meeting them.

This may seem backwards for a parent, but I hope you find some way to serve your country.  For all of its shortcomings, America is an amazing place to call home.  I hope you feel the same pride I do when I see her flag.

I pray that you aren’t allergic to cats.  Or dogs.  We have a few.

My list of hopes and dreams for you is long; this simple blog cannot contain all that I wish for you.  I know that, largely, these things depend on us.  Our examples.  Our teachings.  Our decisions.  Your mom and I will be very new at the parenting game; we are sure to make a million mistakes.  May you not hold that against us, and still come home for the holidays.

So, with that, here’s where we stand:  Minor surgery on Dec. 2nd.  Assuming that all goes well, we should be rendezvous with donor #979 in early January.

So…hurry up and get here.

I hate waiting.

So much has happened in the past month!  (I promise to not ever leave you for this long again! lol)  First and foremost, I love your mom so much.  I am very fortunate to have her in my life….and, dear baby, you will be so lucky to have her guiding you through this world.  She has so much patience, and she is one of the most caring people I have ever known.   She’s just good, dear baby; I hope you inherit that from her.

Okay, so secondly, and perhaps, most importantly –from your point of view!–we picked out the swimmers that are going to help us make you!!  I was nearly nauseous with the thought of making this decision, but…then a friend told me, “Hey…good kids come from shitty sperm; Look at my kid!”  lol.  I know that we were paying to be sure your swimmers aren’t shitty, so it brought me comfort.  We were given a list of 30 or so potential swimmers and the daunting task of narrowing it down to SIX!  So….we eliminated what we knew we DIDN’T want in your swimmers:  None with body builds considered “large”.  (We need swimmers to off-set my fat ass, dear baby.)  None that considered themselves ‘agnostic’.  (I know it’s silly; you will be raised in a Christian home, and you will then make your own decisions.  But, still….it made me feel better. )  None that were under 6’0″ tall.  (I want you to be taaaaaaaaaall, baby!)  I was partial to swimmers that listed things like drama, music, and reading as their hobbies.  Your mom insisted we choose swimmers that enjoyed football, basketball, or weight-lifting.   (She wants you to be a ball-player, dear baby.  But, I can assure you–she will adapt to and fully support you in whatever you choose to do.  I’ve done everything from roller-derby to teaching Sunday school, from scrapbooking to dreaming of attending seminary.  Your mom has not only supported me, but she’s become a huge part of those things.  Whether you follow in her footsteps to become a kick-ass softball player, or you dream of dancing on Broadway, she will find a way to be a part of it, baby.  So, be whatever you want to be.)  Once things were said and done, our A #1 draft pick for swimmer duties was (…drumroll, please):  #979!!!  (Huzzah!!!)  These swimmers have dark brown hair, blue eyes, are 6’0″ tall with a medium build, 170 pounds, are majoring in Marine Biology, and they list various sports as their hobbies.  The other five were a lot like #979.  Ultimately, we will use the swimmers that match most to my genes and your mom’s features.  (The swimmy bank used a picture of us and TONS of medical/family history to determine which are the best for us.  WE will never see a picture.  We’ll only see you!)  And, keep in mind, baby, that while these facts look great on paper, dear baby, they are simply going to make you look a certain way.  They won’t affect how much you love the people around you, how you love God, how a certain song will affect you, how you view the world, your work ethic, how much bullshit you will tolerate, how important family is to you, whether or not you become a cynic, which books you enjoy, or what makes you laugh.  Those, dear baby–the things that matter–will come from us…your parents.  We are so excited to be on this journey, dear baby.  We want you so badly!!

And, so, here’s where we stand:  Waiting to hear back from Chapel Hill about which swimmers will work best.  Waiting on me to finally start,  so we can schedule a small surgery.  (Need to have a pesky polyp removed.  In and out.  No biggie.)  And, then, our first rendezvous with your swimmers should be the first week of December.  What a glorious Christmas present you would be, dear baby!

PS—We’re still working out the name thing.  STILL.

God has not even been planted  you in my belly yet, and your mom and I have already had our first tug-of-war for parental power. 

Six months ago, the decision was made to call you “Pacey Thomas”, should you enter this world with a ‘haa-haa’, as opposed to a ‘hoo-hoo’.  “Thomas” is after my grandfather.  He was a giant of a man, with U.S. Navy tattoos littering his body, jet black hair, and an affinity for 10-pound chihuahuas.  I called him “Paw”, and I loved him dearly.  “Pacey” is for my and your mom’s embarrassingly obsessive love of televised teenage drama.  (See:   Dawson’s Creek.  When you get older, we’ll sit down with a dictionary and watch the show together.  You’ll see what I mean.)

However, a dear friend (read:  sabbatoger!!) pointed out to your impressionable mom that, if you grow up to be a geek (as if!), the kids would be less likely to call you “Pacey”, and more apt to call you….well….another word for the aforementioned “hoo-hoo”.

I’m still holding tight to “Pacey”, dear baby.  It’s fun and unique–just as you will be!