They Call Me Gunnar Lee

I do not intend to allow life to pass me by. If I am to be a very aware person, I might as well begin early to record my impressions of what I encounter in the expectation that an eventual compendium of my thoughts and opinions will be considered a significant contribution to American life and literature.

At this writing I reside in utero, expecting to be born around 8th April 2008. Up until this past week, my grandpa, Old Muldoon, referred to me as Fetus Lee.

I can tell you from recent personal knowledge that an ovary is a very cramped place, no room to stretch out or move around. I’m very happy to be moving on. A scary ride down a fallopian tube and I encountered a speedy swimmer, a spermatozoa. That union was followed by my developing into an embryo by establishing a vascular connection to the uterine mucosa. So you can ask me Y. I know Y. Because of Y, I am a male fetus who has been named Gunnar Lee. Dad likes that name. Mama likes that name, and Grandpa Muldoon is thrilled that I have a very stand up masculine name and not some namby pamby sissie name like Maurice or Roy – YUK! As Gunnar Lee, I expect to become a very large, exceptionally strong and impressive person, with a physical appearance suitable to my outgoing personality. One day people will look to me show them the way to deal with life’s difficult issues. But that is in the future.

Although life in utero is far less cramped that in an ovary, I can tell you that amniotic fluid is definitely an acquired taste.

Here I can practice swimming and suck my thumb and do summersaults and play jump rope with my umbilical cord if I like.

There’s not much of a social life in utero unless you are a twin or a triplet. But everything is a tradeoff. If you had to share a uterus with siblings, it would be more cramped.

I do get to live somewhat vicariously, because sound travels well through fluids, and I can hear conversations that go on outside whenever Mom is talking with someone. I can even hear both sides of phone conversations she has with people. I hear all her conversations with Grandpa Muldoon, and all the conversations she has with Dad, with Beaumont Hospital people and with Grandpa Muldoon about Doctor Brodsky. Those are really quite entertaining. I am, of course, right there with Mom when she is in the operating room making people well, delivering their babies, and in her office when she is giving people advice about their health and how to manage their pregnancies. If I wanted to be a doctor, I bet I could pass the medical school entrance exams very soon after I am born.

I thought that I would at least enjoy privacy in utero. Forgetaboutit! If your Mom is an OB/GYN, she has her own ultra sound machine and will be watching you jerk and jump around every fifteen minutes. I wish I could destroy that infernal machine so that I wouldn’t have to worry about someone watching when I feel like picking my nose or scratching some private area. And she never seems to tire of watching me. Leave me be, Mom, OK? By the time I am actually born she will certainly have at least two volumes of “baby” pictures – and don’t you just know she will parade them out at family gatherings without caring the least about the fact that I find them embarrassing. I am certain that she will display them at my wedding and show them to my girlfriends when I start dating. I intend to get someone to try to talk her into keeping those private. Fetuses whose mothers are not doctors are certainly lucky. Thank God that Dad isn’t like that. He respects my privacy and I am extremely grateful for that.

Gastronomy in here is nothing to brag about. Frankly, I can’t imagine that I would even be able to sense the flavor of anything in this amniotic environment anyway. Imagine trying to enjoy dinner in a room full of cigar smoke. You just can’t do it. So it’s probably just fine that my nutrition comes through the bloodstream filtered as it is by the placenta to screen out some harmful things. Fortunately for me, since the placenta doesn’t do that great a job of screening out what I shouldn’t be consuming, Mom is very careful. She consumes no alcohol while I’m here, and she doesn’t smoke. I suppose the biggest danger in this situation might be the effects of ice cream or candy. Thanksgiving is later this week, and I hope she doesn’t overeat and pass all that excess nutrition down to me.

Well, Thanksgiving has come and gone, and I sense that either from food consumption or the natural progressions of being pregnant, the space here is enlarging and becoming more commodious. I know it’s true and not just wishful thinking on my part, because I heard Mom on the phone with Grandpa Muldoon yesterday saying that she suddenly got “pooched out” more. YEA! I have to pose for another picture, because Grandpa wants another picture showing where I am in the cycle as of now. He seems preoccupied with evidence of burgeoning masculinity, whatever that means. Sometimes I can’t really tell if they are using words I don’t understand yet or it’s just the effects of the sound having to travel through all that tissue and fluid. I am really looking forward to actually tasting the turkey and dressing and gravy next Thanksgiving.

A strange thing has happened. During Thanksgiving there was a lot of eating going on. It seems as though the amniotic fluid in which I live has started to taste differently. I don’t know if it is because of my entering into a plateau of growth and development in which I can sense differences in the amniotic fluid because of what Mom eats. I suppose I’ll have to figure that out later on. But I can now distinguish flavor differences. Some of them I like a lot. I wonder if development has now reached a stage at which I am being more aggressively prepared for what I will be experiencing after I am born. I also wonder what the names of these tastes are and whether I will remember them later on and be able to associate them with specific foods after I am born. I also wonder if I will like then what seems yummy to me now. Hmmmmm!

I think I now know what it’s like to fly on a plane on a trip. It’s December, and I am somewhere far from home in Michigan. I hear strange voices through the fluid, and the food that Mama is eating has changed – much to the better. I think I must be in Texas, and I am certain that that is Papa Muldoon’s hand on Mama’s tummy waiting to feel me move or kick. I sense a wonderfully delicious place, based on what Mama had for lunch and dinner when we arrived. I am certain that I now know what a cat sounds like, and I also think I can pick out a really warm and lovely voice belonging to someone named Belinda. This is really nice. I’m really looking forward to coming back here again. There’s some celebration going on, and that must be the purpose of the trip. I haven’t figured out yet who Ron Paul is.

Well, we’re obviously back in Michigan, and I can tell when we’re on a plane. The pressures change. There are no more soft Texas accents among the people talking around us. From the discussions, it is almost Christmas, whatever that may be. People, including Mom, are eating more sweets. We spent a lot of time together with everyone who will be my family soon, at least those located here in Michigan. I suspect that Christmas must be about singing songs and eating everything in sight. Do they expect a famine? Is that why all this food is moving through the system?

It’s something called New Years Day, and it’s really awful. Mom ate something in some restaurant and spent the night and most of the day on the potty. There was a real storm in here, as my house kept squeezing and releasing, squeezing and releasing. It made me seasick. I think I was almost born three months early from the convulsing associated with what Mom called food poisoning. It has finally calmed down, but there were many terrible hours. I’d like to give somebody a piece of my mind for feeding Mom bad food. I suspect that if Grandpa Muldoon were here, we wouldn’t have had bad food to begin with. Life is claming down. Thank God, whoever She is. Eleven more weeks to go and Grandpa Muldoon will be here to get ready to celebrate my being born. I can hardly wait. I’m actually going to get to meet my Mom and Dad and grandparents and everyone face to face and breathe real air and taste food without the intercession of the flavors of amniotic fluid. YEA!!

Well, today is 24th January, and it is Mom’s birthday. From what I hear listening to this end of telephone conversations, she is lunching out today and having a big steak dinner at Morton’s tonight. I will be enjoying that a lot. However, what with all this eating, I am moving on to about three pounds or so, and it’s starting to get a bit cramped in here again. This fetus life is getting old. I have six more weeks of this. C’mon April 8th!

I have just about two weeks of this left, maybe a day or two more. Thank God! Judging from the phone calls Mom has with Papa Muldoon, she is ready for this to happen also. This is Easter Sunday, and he will be here a week from Tuesday for the big event. That means I get to hear some more Texas stuff. I wonder what he looks like. Heck, I wonder what everyone looks like. I’ll be here just in time for baseball season, according to what I hear Dad talking about. I wonder what baseball is – Hmmmm. I gather Dad is really into sports, whatever sports may mean. I can’t wait to taste Papa Muldoon’s meatballs in Sunday gravy. I hear they are really spectacular. I wonder what that is.

I hear that Texas voice again. Grandpa Muldoon must be here. I like that.

It sure is moving around in here. Could this be it? A lot of people have come to our house for dinner tonight. Grandpa Muldoon arrived two days ago. We are in some form of transport, maybe a car – whatever that is. Daddy says we’re going to the hospital and that it’s time for my arrival. YEA!! I’m so excited. WOW!! Just think. I’m gonna be born now!

Goodness, it’s cold in here. Thanks for that towel. They call this cleaning me up. Now I’m being wrapped up in a soft cloth they call a baby blanket and I’m being taken to Mom. I don’t taste amniotic fluid anymore. YEA!! That stuff is awful. It’s very light, and people are coming over to look/stare at me and they are making happy noises. Here at last! Here at last! Thank God almighty, I’m here at last! I guess I have all the parts I’m supposed to have, and they all seem to work. The people are going away and we are being taken to another room. It’s just me and Mom, and she’s tired.

Mom’s awake and I’m hungry. Mom holds me close. I like that. I am feeding from her breast. This is really wonderful. YUM!! I could get used to this. Daddy’s here and we are all very close to each other in what must be a very happy time. This must be what happiness is about. I like it a lot. We spend a lot of time together, just the three of us. Other people come in wearing official looking clothing. They apparently are there to check on Mom and help out if needed. That’s great.

Dr. Aboud, who delivered me, just came in to circumcise me. Oh my goodness! I had no idea circumcision took this long. He keeps pausing to sharpen his scalpel. What’s taking so long? Bummer! Why do people do this?

OK. I’m home. Boy this is really nice. I have a dog named Francis. Francis is very happy to see me. That guy with food stains on his shirt must be Papa Muldoon. I recognize his voice. He keeps repeating something. Why does he do that? He looks into my face and says that over and over again. I think he is doing that to try to get me to say that same thing. I’m gonna play with him and pretend that I don’t understand what he wants me to do. He sure is funny. Every time he sees me he puts his face close to mine and says “Git in the truck”. Is that some Texas greeting, or do old people just go around saying “Git in the truck” all day?

Where’s Belinda? Why isn’t she here? I as so looking forward to meeting the person who has that delightful sweet voice.

Oops! I just messed up my diaper. Yuk!

Why does everyone have to come watch me getting my diaper changed? Phew!

I have a feeling that it’s gonna be a while before they let me eat meatballs and red gravy.

Papa Muldoon went back to Texas today. It seems odd that all day goes by and no one looks into my face and says “Git in the truck”.