Sad and ashamed. Anger later.

Right now, as the last quarter of results trickle in, and the gap fails to narrow on the constitutional amendment that says my wife and I cannot be who and what we are, I feel a sick, stiff knot grow in my gut. Tonight I am sad and ashamed to be a Californian, born and raised. Tomorrow we will take our daughter to daycare, then have our full-term unborn son measured for a probable induction this weekend. I do not know when or how the anger will find a place, but it will, as I am Californian; I love this state, and I love its potential.

I know that the hate fomented across these great valleys was heavily funded out of pockets thousands of miles away (though certainly not entirely so). I know that this travesty of discriminatory doublespeak was made possible by a profoundly broken popular-initiative system. I know that I am not alone, and that this will be fought, tooth & claw, in whatever way possible. In fact, I do keep reminding myself that the remaining 20% could close that 2-point margin. All the same, there's a fury at the potential passage of proposition 8, a rage. How dare they do this to my family?

But, for now, exhausted and apalled and impotent, all I can do is write. And eat some chocolate chips and drink some milk and hopefully get some sleep.

And yay for our 44th president! It's not all gloom and doom. Goodnight.

Daily Life

O H M Y G O D

I cooked a three-course (two, actually, unless you count filling -- then later opening -- the rice cooker) meal for my family, Saturday, and THEY ALL SAT DOWN AT THE DINING ROOM TABLE AND ATE. TOGETHER. AS IN, SIMULTANEOUSLY. LIKE, CONVERSING AND STUFF.

It's still sinking-in. It's still a little hard to believe.

You see, that's a FIRST. It's never happened before, not in three and a half years of parenthood. Weirder still, it's happening while my wife is 7 months pregnant. I checked, the sky still looks securely attached. I dunno.

Oh, and better yet? WE DID IT AGAIN ON SUNDAY.

My world is a little shaky. Go figure.

In other news (news? it really is something of a conceit to pretend this is any more than a diary: isinterested googlebots, yep, that's my traffic in a nutshell ...), I'm seeing a dermatologist for a hair removal consultation, Thursday. WOO. I'm practically counting the hours. Once Epic comes along (mid-to-late November, depending on how fast he grows), endocrinology here I come! That'll be such a relief.

Sunday afternoon, my wife and I hit-up Macy's for maternity bras. Well, she got the bras; I sat and read Reviving Ophelia. I kept finding myself wondering (for what must be the umpteenth time) if maybe this time Alice Miller's Drama of the Gifted Child might not be too impenetrable. Really, I have got to read the blasted thing from cover to cover one of these years. *sigh*.

The nice thing about the outing, though, is that we were able to joke casually about how I wasn't really "joining" her in her quest for bras, this time. She also observed that chances are, I won't have quite the same fitting problems she has (ribcage size -- she's 41" around). I disagreed, but couldn't quote numbers (I checked this morning: 40". Ha!). It was ... comfortable. There was something profoundly relieving about the whole experience.

Speaking of outings, I get to come-out to my voice coach on Friday. I don't think there'll be any problem -- we've already sort of discussed this -- and it's really the only thing I can rationally do. Adjusting my speaking voice may wreak havoc upon my blossoming bel canto production, and to continue to study (stopping is not an option; I need this venue) without sharing with her what I'm up to, vocally, would be a waste of time, effort, and tuition. None of this reasoning, however, makes the anticipation any easier. Feh.