I’ve never thought I was overly intelligent. Sure, I realize that I’m not handicapped or any other dramatic thing like that, but nothing particularly special. Now, after having gone through the experience of seeing my kid in an ultrasound, I realize I might just be closer to the level of a protozoic dustball because of one fact alone. I didn’t expect the friggin’ thing to move around.

Who knows why I was so ignorant about this fact. Maybe it’s because I didn’t grow up around much family that I never really knew any pregnant people. But my concept of an ultrasound was entirely static, simply as those photos that expectant parents flap around that (to me) look more like ink-blot tests than anything else. No movement. But man was I wrong about that.

Last Thursday The Wife™ and I hung out with cranky women in uncomfortable chairs watching The View visited the doctor for our first (and only) ultrasound. I surely looked like an idiot when the nurse flipped on the monitor, because my mouth went entirely agape. There, in black and white, was our baby. Might it be too dramatic to suggest that the skies then ripped opened up to reveal a choir of heavenly angels? Probably. But had that happened, I wouldn’t have even noticed because I was too busy staring at the ultrasound monitor like a kid seeing the ocean for the first time.

To see the little heart beating and to watch it wiggle and flail on the screen was one of the most profound, touching moments of my life. I was so stunned in seeing the movement that when the nurse asked if I had any questions, I could barely parse a coherent, non-protozoan response. I was floored, because for the first time in this entire process, I realized the gravity of this whole pregnancy thing. Sure, the little scare earlier in the week had ignited my protective side, but nothing could have prepared me for seeing the beating heart of our child, almost as if in person. And if it had been one of those shmancy 4D ultrasounds, well my head would have probably gone and exploded. Good thing it was just one of those older quasi-super doppler 3000 machines.

Since Thursday, we’ve analyzed the photos a million times, trying to figure out if parts are teeth or toes, ears or eyes. The Wife™ is even trying to determine the sex of the kid from the black and white smudges on the paper. Me? I’m finally more excited than scared. And I’m perfectly content knowing that: 1) there are no twins in there, 2) it has four limbs and a normal spine and, 3) it’s head is reasonably sized and might not take after dad on this one. Fingers crossed that all the weight gained from here on out is not just in the cranial region.

Oddly enough, all three things in the title are related. True story.

This past weekend The Wife™ and I were graced with the presence of some great friends, people that inspire me and who are entirely too talented and intelligent to be hanging out with my sorry ass. We spent our time eating, playing board games, watching the Slam Dunk Contest and rocking out with unparalleled zeal in all-night wine & absinthe-fueled marathons of Rock Band (okay, perhaps I was the only one drinking the green stuff). All in all two truly great days.

Unfortunately, the weekend ended on a more stressful note, with The Wife™ having an emergency ultrasound to check for the possibility of a blood clot in her leg. And while everything seems to be fine (no explanation for the odd, unilateral swelling), it didn’t stop us from silently freaking out.

For the first time in this pregnancy, it all seemed more real. While I think that there wasn’t much danger of the baby being at risk with a clot, it didn’t stop me from feeling protective of both her and the child for the first time. I’ve been at odds with myself since October about the fact that the pregnancy has really been a rather abstract concept for me, something not entirely real to me yet. But after seeing The Wife™ in a hospital gown and hooked up to a fancy machine with a trackball, it suddenly was all too legitimate.

The only thing that kept me sane was having my friends with us in the ER. I don’t know of too many people that would freely give up six hours of their weekend to not only hang out in a waiting room with us, but to turn it into an adventure as if it were something we had planned to do. We spent the better part of the afternoon together watching Seth eat crackers off the floor creating stories out of the other waiting room guests, completing a cast of characters like SARS man, Bitchy Migraine/Unibomber Lady, and the old faker who brought a prop wheelchair and oxygen tank to get admitted faster. And besides the comfort of having someone with you in a place that you hate, they helped us cope with the stress of it all with their laughter and smiles.

And apparently my wife has chops as a drummer. Who knew? Maybe the swelling in her leg was just a result of rocking too hard.

Driving to work this morning I began to wonder. No, not about why that clown in front of me just cut me off, but rather how as a nation we’re prepared to deal with an entire generation of unskilled laborers.

With yesterday’s news of GM looking to buy out every higher-paid worker to hire in an entire workforce of lower-paid employees, my thoughts wandered to the coat that I was wearing. My dad gave me one of his old formal winter coats, a charcoal gray overcoat of surprising craftsmanship. Was my father rich enough twenty or thirty years ago to buy a boutique coat? Surely not. He’s one of the cheapest men I know. Yet still this coat is in pristine condition, and shows no sign of wear. I wish 99% of my clothes, even ones bought within the past year, could be described similarly.

We all know that mom-and-pop stores have been going the way of the dodo for decades, swallowed up, devoured by global chains looking to boost only their profit (at the cost of lower quality products). But what saddens me most is the idea that, if we ever realize (collectively) that what we’ve lost is of value, that well-made products of all types are a good thing, it might be too late to turn back.

From colonial times onward here in the US, we’ve passed down generational knowledge of how to perform specific tasks with care, grace and attention. But now that the family jewelers, craftsmen, woodworkers and clothiers are virtually extinct, who will teach a new generation how to go back to that, to return to the notion of taking time to do the job right?

If this coat ever gets ruined, and I’m forced to buy a new one, I’m positive that it will wear out in a few years, rather than lasting thirty or forty. And it will likely cost an arm, a leg and possibly more to get one of moderate quality, which I won’t do. And thus I’m left continuing the cycle of disposable goods, which I loathe.