Some Assembly Required ...

I fancy myself as being handy with tools.  Some of my fondest memories from childhood are of my Dad (or, as Sidney will know him, Abuelo) and I working on something or other around the house.  Re-fitting a bathroom, tinkering with an engine, building a tool-shed in the back yard, rebuilding a chunk of the house after a fire … you know, the usual.  To this day there is little my Dad will not take a stab (usually successfully) at putting together or fixing.  It’s in the blood, if you will.  So, when my Wife started buying various baby furniture and peripherals for Sidney, it was only natural that I would carry on the family tradition of grabbing the tools and building the stuff.  I’ve built things before, I told myself.  Hell, I have a degree in physics in addition to my years of ersatz construction, how difficult could this be?  As with most rhetorical questions asked by a protagonist as Act I draws to a close, the answer came in the opening moments of Act II.  But more important than the “quite difficult”, writ large as the story unfolds, is the reason for the difficulty: the manufacturers of baby products are sadists that derive considerable joy from the screams of frustrated parents as they try, generally in vain, to decipher the method of constructing their wares.  No, seriously.

The first thing that arrived for me to build was the changing table.  As the name suggests, this table, generally with some drawers on the side to keep diapers and cleaning products on hand, provides a stable and designated surface on which to change your child’s soiled diapers.  No need to clear the kitchen table or risk getting poo or pee on the couch; very useful.  I open the box, I pull out the slats, screws, nuts, rods and other miscellany that will become the table.  So far, so good, right?  Then I pull out the instructions; cue ominous music.  Let me try to describe these for you: imagine a set of instructions written by the Cold-War era Soviet nuclear engineer that designed the safety protocols at Chernobyl, which are then translated into English by a Chinese assembly line QA inspector whom learned all of his English from watching episodes of Bob Villa.  Was that sentence confusing?  Well, good, because the instructions were worse and now you know how I felt.  I wish this were hyperbole; one panel showed 3 different slats, 2 of which had to be held perpendicular to the third, being secured by way of screws that had to be simultaneously tightened because if you tried to do them one at a time the weight of the 2 slats you weren’t securing at that moment would strip and crack the third slat right at the screw.  You needed either 2 people or an extra set of arms.  What’s more, this step created part of the support for the slab of wood on which the child is to be placed, you know, the thing that stops your child from falling to the floor as you change him.  So cracking or fraying of these supports would be … uh .. bad.  Ultimately I solved the issue by using a make-shift hobby-horse and a clamp, but none of this was suggested by the instructions.  Nope, all that had was the various materials suspended in mid-air.  Come to think of it, these instructions were perfect for a physicist: “ok, so this solution works so long as you ignore the effects of gravity and friction.”  Long story short, the table got built, but not without a good amount of “are you f*cking kidding me? how am I supposed to do that?”

Next to be built was the bassinet.  Having learned my lesson on the changing table, I enlisted not one, but two extra sets of hands in case the instructions called for more gravity defying maneuvers.  So Uncle R (a systems engineer) and Aunt A (another lawyer)  got dragged in.  We were pleased to find the instructions reasonably intelligible and set about construction.  The problem this time?  A lot of the steps involved keeping fabric pulled taught, and by taught I don’t mean “military bed making” taught, I mean “pulled so tight the molecular structure of the fabric is re-aligned so as to create a super-solid”.  Two of us would pull as the third tried to thread a rod; someone would try to fasten a clamp and another would have to duck as the rod would pull free and launch itself on a ballistic trajectory.  Several hours and one rebuild later (we had an entire section on upside down … don’t ask), we were done and Sidney had a bassinet.

You can imagine my relief when the glider (fancy rocking chair; I swear, changing the name adds at least 30% to the price … ) arrived and it was 95% built.  “All” I had to do was secure the seat part to the gliding part via a slot and lock system (no tools needed) and then snap on the back and arm rest padding via already sewn in snaps on the fabric/padding and tabs attached to the wood frame (again, no tools).  Piece of cake, right?  Wrong.  Sure, the slot and lock went just as planned, and then 8 of the 10 snaps went easy as pie … but the last 2 snaps would not “click.”  It was the last snap on each of the arm rests and no manner of pulling and pushing would get them to go.  The more pressure I applied the more stubborn they got, and at one point I feared I was going to bend the damn things, so I start applying the pressure only in spurts.  After 5 minutes of cursing in every language I knew how to curse in and at least 3 instances where I was certain I had broken the damned thing, the first snap locked.  My euphoria was as short lived, however, because I realized I still had one to go.  Either because my hand had gone numb or because I had subconsciously learned some secret on that penultimate snap, this one went quietly and we were done.  Hands tired and cramping I could just about hear the cackle of the company.

Then the crib arrived, and as with most Act IIIs, the situation looked dire.  So how did it all end?  What did our protagonist learn?  How was the conflict resolved?  The answer to all 3 is sublime: you can pay the delivery company to build a crib.  Roll credits.

At Least I'll Look Good Doing It.

As we (and by “we” I mean my Wife) prepared for Sidney’s arrival, various “necessary” supplies were discussed and acquired.  In order to preserve marital bliss (and, quite frankly my sanity) my position on the matter was that given the extensive research my Wife was doing with regards to child rearing and the accoutrements “necessary” for same, I would defer to her on the topic and rubber stamp the vast majority of the decisions.  I was comfortable with this because of the aforementioned extensive research, emphasis on extensive.  She cross-referenced doctors’ advice, product claims, product reviews, advice posted by parent’s online, books filled with anecdotal evidence and even the occasional pick up the item and examine it.  There was no question, she was informed.  To her credit, she often tried to impart the information on to me, but there is only so much information on the gas-reducing properties of one bottle over another or the shape of pacifiers I can absorb before all I hear is white noise.  There were only two instances where I disagreed with her findings, this is the story of one of them (the second one wont be too far behind).

One day my Wife announced that we needed to get me a diaper bag.  To her credit, before I could get the “why?” out, she interjected that this was so because the diaper bag she had was much too frilly and dainty for me to be seen with (live with a lawyer long enough and you learn to anticipate counter-arguments).  I agreed with her frilly/dainty postulate, but insisted that her conclusion was nevertheless flawed because I didn’t need a diaper bag; I could easily use a messenger bag (specifically, a way cool Timbuk2) as a diaper bag.  The thing was big, water-proof and sufficiently un-frilly/dainty-free.  Apparently, I was wrong because.  That sentence was not truncated prematurely, by the way.  “Because,” as far as I can tell, was the reason.  Well, not exactly just “because”, there was some other stuff, but it might have become white noise at one point or another.  The following is what I can remember.

Oh, and in case you were wondering, one should not argue with a pregnant woman about what is and is not needed for adequate child care in general.  One should never argue with a pregnant woman that is armed to the teeth with statistical information and five-star Amazon.com product reviews.  Yes, I realize statistics on which diaper bag is purchased more often over another, and what items are most often found in a diaper bag, does not establish anything beyond that certain people buy certain bags and put certain things in them (not to mention the ease with which any rating system can be skewed); this is, unfortunately, irrelevant.  Here, instead, is what is relevant (according to my Wife):

1) A diaper bag has a designed slot for a changing pad.  What is a changing pad you ask (because I did), well, it’s a pad that you can fold up/out and lay on a surface so you can change the child.  Why not simply lay down a towel on the aforesaid surface, because a towel is easy to roll up and carry? Because a towel is not padded and cannot be easily wiped down, like a changing pad and if the towel gets pee or poo on it then you can’t use it again while you are out, and then you’re going to have to wash it when you get home and who has to do the laundry? not you certainly and finally why do you want your child to be uncomfortable and on a potentially dirty towel!?  So … changing pad.

2) A diaper bag has slots for multiple diapers.  But, why can’t the diapers just go inside the bag with the rest of the stuff you ask? Because, the diapers go on the baby and the other stuff might be dirty (yes, poop goes in diapers, but just let it go … trust me) or they might get mixed up and hard to find in the bag and why do you want your child in a contaminated hard to locate diaper?!  So … diaper pockets.

3) A diaper bag will segregate the multiple sets of spare clothing and all the various cleaning, wiping and moisturizing products you need.  By the way, in case you are under the impression that you don’t need to carry around 3 different types of wipes, 2 types of moisturizers and at least 4 sets of clothing because, I don’t know, humanity made it from cave to industrial revolution without any of them, and one set of each of these things is enough for our enlightened and civilized age … well, you’re wrong.  Why are you wrong? Because don’t you love your child you savage?!

4) A diaper bag is a diaper bag, and that is a messenger bag.  Have I mentioned that one does not argue with a pregnant woman on certain topics?  Yeah.  That.

5) A really cool diaper bag costs half of what a Timbuk2 bag costs.  She had me here; these things are, in fact, reasonably priced.  Sure, they may not be as durable as a messenger bag, but then again, all you’re carrying around is the changing pad, diapers, different wipes and moisturizers and the four sets of clothing, it’s not like any of  … oh for crying out loud, this stuff makes it through white noise.  I give up.

So … yeah … I own this really cool diaper bag.

On Quantum Pregnancy States, Or, A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To Pregnancy

Pregnancy does not just happen.  Whether you realize it instantly, this statement is a bit of a paradox.  The knee-jerk response is one of two: (1) well, of course it doesn't; or (2) what are you talking about, of course it does. The one you go with, as with most things, will be dictated by your experience with the topic.  The fact of the matter is that it is both.  It does just happen, but only if certain conditions (which you have no way of actually ensuring) were met before you even tried.  It's not so much Schrödinger's Blastocyst following the baby-making activities, but you get the idea.  Why the pseudo-scientific/philosophical discussion on the topic? Well, my Wife's perception lead to some comedy on our way to Sidney.

My Wife has always wanted children, as have I.  So it should not be a surprise that soon after our nuptials we started planning our family.  Now, unfortunately, we did not have the same idea of what "planning" meant.  I meant that I knew she'd come off The Pill and trusted pregnancy would soon follow as we continued our marital relations (ie, of course it does).  She meant she would now go about researching and strategizing every moment of our conception attempts so as to ensure pregnancy (ie, of course it doesn't).  Because the culmination of her "planning" will give us the punchline, and more importantly because I don't think many of you are getting the appropriate impression of the extremes of her activities, I will elaborate. 

First, she read every scrap of information on conception that she could get her hands on.  Books, websites, old wives's tales, you name it and there is a high probability she looked into it.  Although I am usually of the opinion that more knowledge is better, in this instance more knowledge meant more things to obsess about.  She charted her periods, tracked her temperature, checked her cervical mucus (don't ask, seriously) and peed on ovulation detection strips (...often).  All of this charting, checking and graphing lead to her scheduling out our "optimum windows" for conception and directing that we hit as many of these windows as physically possible.  Now, I can hear some of you asking, "how is this a problem Ed? Your wife was demanding marital congress on a regular and vigorous basis; hello, win fall!"  The problem is the reality of what it meant versus the fantasy some of you are entertaining, and conveniently part two.

Hitting the "optimum windows" as often as physically possible actually meant "hit every window I have determined exists the moment I declare it exists, regardless of circumstances." Red Alert, Battle Stations, General Quarters, arm all warheads and forward ho NOW. This is not a sensual seduction by a desirable and loving partner, it is a battle between you and the forces of WHY ARE WE NOT PREGNANT YET.  Operation Make Sidney was deployed and being tired, sick, injured or otherwise not in the mood for baby making activities at that instant was not an option.  And god help you if you had ... uh ... manually tested the weapons systems earlier that day.  There were successful maneuvers, interrupted marches and the occasional deployment called off by reason of actual battle (nothing like fighting about why not being in the mood for sex at that second does not really mean you're a horrible human being that hates your wife).  As eventful as this sounds, the important thing to take away is that these engagements in Operation Make Sidney all happened in just over a three month period.  Three months is, in fact, not that long a period when it comes to trying for a baby it turns out.  This fact is important for the denouement of our tale today, but before we get there, there is part three.

Despite all of her research (all of which was directly contrary to her conclusion) my Wife decided that trying for three months and not succeeding meant that something was wrong.  So she did the only logical thing and told her Oby-Gyn our situation ... except for the three month part.  Why leave this part out? Well, so that the doctor would prescribe a sperm-analysis for me, naturally.  Let's just leave it at her doctor was under the impression we had been trying considerably longer, so the test got ordered, and I was under the impression that the doctor knew how long we had actually been trying but still felt the test was appropriate, so I agreed to ... uh ... test the munitions.  This brings us to the morning of the test.  The ... firing range? ... consisted of a drab room in the medical center with 2 VCRs (no idea why 2), a few adult video tapes from the 1980s, a couch (yeah, no chance I was touching that thing) and a box full of sample capturing sterilized cups.  I was instructed to place a sample in one of the cups.  For those of you that remember porn from the 1980s, this was not going to help.  Luckily for me, Sidney's Uncle R makes it a point to surf for porn on my Smart Phone every chance he gets (he finds this humorous), and we had recently had dinner with him and Aunt A.  So, browser history flush with links, I ... discharged artillery ... successfully in this otherwise orgasm preventing room.  Why tell you this story?  The payoff is part four.

That very night, unbeknownst to me, my Wife peed on her umpteenth pregnancy test (seriously, this woman bought out our local pharmacy's pregnancy test shelf) and finally got the "you're pregnant" line.  Of course, this meant that she had to take another 10 tests to confirm.  We're talking pink line tests, blue plus sign tests, digital read out tests ... you name it she tried it, multiple times  (if you are seeing a "peeing" theme in pregnancy, you're getting warm - pun yet again intended).  I am actually shocked she didn't try to find a pet store that would sell her a rabbit (yes, getting this joke makes you old).  The very next day she visits me at work and let's me know.  After the joy of finding out settled in, my first thought was "you mean I went through yesterday morning for nothing?"  It was at this point she broke the news to me that in addition to her already being pregnant, she had actually told her doctor we had been trying significantly longer than three months just because she wanted the test to be prescribed so she could "be sure" nothing was wrong with ... the ammunition.  So not only did I ... oh screw it ... jerk off in that god-forsaken room into that blasted sample cup for no reason, but it wasn't even an accurately doctor ordered wank.  Her response? "Had you not taken the test I would not have gotten pregnant."  After my initial apoplexy passed, two things immediately flashed across my mind: (1) dear god, she's proposing Schrödinger's Blastocyst despite the laws of causality being squarely against it; and (2) dear god ... I'm going to be a father.

The moral of the story? Pregnancy does not just happen, except for when it does.

Things My Wife Has had to Deal With...

I realize that I may be giving the impression that Sidney's gestation has been a source of amusement and bemusement for me alone. Far from that, the truth is that my Wife (obviously) has been the one to bear the full brunt of Sidney's continuing journey to this point (T-minus 16 days or so).  Nowhere near a comprehensive list, here are the highlights (or lowlights) as I have observed them:

1) Nothing fits. Now, the uninitiated may sit back and scoff "well, she's pregnant, of course her pre-maternity clothing stop fitting."  The problem with this line of reasoning is that it misreads my statement, to wit, nothing fits.  Sure, it started with just her pre-maternity clothing getting tighter around the baby bump, and this expanded (you're damn straight pun intended) to her bras, but all that was just the tip of the Sidney Belly Modification™ program.  With regular clothes not being able to handle his co-opted space, maternity clothes were purchased, but, for awhile, these were too big and didn’t really fit either.  Somehow, this kid managed to make it go from “too big” to “nope, too small” in a blink.  Before you could say “end of the second trimester” maternity shirts, maternity pants, shoes, maternity shoes (yes, these exist, I had no idea) and finally my over-sized t-shirts were no longer roomy enough in the “baby is causing havoc here” area.  My Wife is a tiny woman, the concept of her not fitting into clothing that is supposed to accommodate a pregnant belly is baffling ... until you see the baby belly in profile; she’s basically trying to shoplift a 30lb medicine ball.  Our child has decided to install a 3 bedroom apartment, with entry foyer, in a space that originally barely allowed for a studio (no kitchen, and half bath ... this joke will most likely only be funny to city dwellers).  The fact is, however, that she has continued to soldier on and look gorgeous while doing it.  Meanwhile, my pants fit slightly tight after a holiday meal and I start whining about needing to get to the gym.  I am amazed she has not smothered me in my sleep.

2) Heart burn. You know those antacid commercials that show someone grimacing and rubbing their sternum because they have heart burn?  Or, sometimes, they embellish with some fire animation in the chest area?  This is nothing.  From what I can tell, pregnancy turns your upper digestive tract into the bastard child of a steel forging mill, lava lake and the burning city of Dis.  From the discomfort I see my wife in, I assume her esophagus has been turned into a channel of pyroclastic debris.  The poor woman goes through Tums at a rate that I am amazed every cough, sneeze or fart (women fart, get over it; and we’re not even getting to pregnant women) is not accompanied by a cloud of chalk.  Oh, and did I mention she cannot take most antacid medications because she’s pregnant?  That’s right, Sidney turns her stomach into Krakatoa and then prevents her from dousing the flames with anything other than the aforementioned chalk.  This kid is lucky his Mom loves him. 

3) Insomnia.  The old “say goodbye to sleep” adage is slightly off.  It does not start once the child arrives, it starts right around the moment of conception.  Between morning sickness in the beginning, the previously discussed “pregnant women pee a lot” (like it being the middle of the night is going to stop that) through out, and the “for the love of whatever deity you call to in moments of distress, I have a 30lb medicine ball re-arranging my insides” at the end, you’re pretty much up all night.  Of course, the tossing, turning and constant trips to the loo mean that your mate gets to share in your sleep deprivation experiment.  For my part, I grumble, grouse and occasionally ask in a panic "holy crap are you in labor?" to which she calmly says no and reminds me she is simply in discomfort due to my child which she is bearing (ok, occaisonally there is a smidge less calm and a touch of glare when she says it).  Given that she is already up, I am amazed she has not smothered me in my sleep.  An interesting side effect of her insomnia is that Amazon.com has seen a sharp uptick in sales of crap books from the Kindle store.  Suddenly the relative success of many authors makes more sense to me: pregnant women across the world are buying books in bulk, regardless of quality, just to make it through the night. 

4) Everyone is full of advice, and some serve it with an attitude.  Yes, yes … I am sure they are all well meaning, but when the barista “refuses”, with an extra shot of righteous indignation, to serve my wife a latte because “pregnant women should not be drinking coffee”, it’s time to take a step back.  Last I checked, a medical degree was not a pre-requisite for a job making caramel double skim no whip but extra syrup macchiatos (extra shot of pretention standard).  Although the lass’s erstwhile concern is appreciated, and her righteous indignation ignored because … well … seriously?, the treating physician said it was ok to have one cup a day and little miss “I read this somewhere on the internet” should drop the attitude and make with the latte.  In the same vein was the supermarket clerk whom on New Year’s Eve pointed out the “pregnant women should not drink alcohol” sign to my wife, also with an attitude, as she tried to purchase a last minute bottle of champagne for the night’s toast.  Really lady?  It’s New Year’s Eve and you think she’s buying the bottle for herself?  Again, the intent is appreciated, but why not add the “thought” to the “thoughtfulness” before giving a pregnant woman an attitude.  That’s all I am saying.

5) Her husband.  Have you been reading this blog?  Can you imagine the type of guy that would write this blog?  Hell, read the previous paragraph.  I am unapologetically sarcastic, judgmental and honest.  And my wife puts up with me.  I am truly amazed she has not smothered me in my sleep.

My wife dragged me to a parenting class...

One of the many things I have discovered during Sidney’s time in utero is that husbands need to participate in activities that under normal circumstances they would veto outright - all in a very important bid to maintain marital bliss.  My biggest offering on the altar of “happy pregnant wife” was attending the parenting class.

It is not that I personally have anything against parenting classes, or those that attend.  It is simply that I am of the humble opinion that humanity has survived quite some time without sitting through two and a half hours of classroom instruction on how to keep our young alive.  Hell, most of you reading this (all 3 of you) probably were raised by parents whom did not attend such a class, and you turned out just fine (all things, of course, being relative).  This all being said, so as to keep the “happy pregnant wife” happy, I agreed to attend this farce … er … class.

So, what did I learn in parenting class you may ask?  Well, after the aforementioned two and a half hours of “instruction” from an enthusiastic, if not a tad eccentric, lactation consultant (it is what was on her ID badge), I absorbed the following:

1) Pay attention to the child.  This is sooo complex.  Basically, it boils down to if they are crying, try to find out why. Check for: soiled diaper; hunger; need of burping; fever; or something in the environment that is making them uncomfortable.  If all of these check out, and the baby is still crying, he/she may simply have colic.  Good luck.

2) Don’t be a moron.  No, seriously, some of the things that we were “instructed” to avoid doing would only be engaged in by an abject buffoon.  Oh, so I shouldn’t try to feed the baby solid food during the first 3 months of life? Fascinating. Oh, not checking the diaper regularly and changing him may cause diaper rash? Astonishing. Babies cry when they are hungry or need to be burped? Will wonders never cease! I should support the child’s wobbly head until his neck gets stronger? WHO’D HAVE THOUGHT OF THIS, THANK YOU.

3) Fevers are bad.  You know, unlike with adults, where a fever is no source of concern.  Oh, wait, no.  That’s not right, it is a source of concern.  So, basically, just like with anyone, call the Dr. if the baby has a fever and find out what to do next.  Or, put more simply: see Rules 1 and 2, pay attention to the child and don’t be a moron.

4) Picking up your newborn will likely make them stop crying. If it doesn’t, check for the stuff set forth in Rule 1, ie, pay attention to the child.  If that doesn’t work, it’s probably colic.  Good luck.

5) No one has any idea what causes colic.  In fact, anytime a child spends 3 hours crying without any other discernable cause, they call it colic.  If your baby does that despite you following Rules 1 and 2, good luck.

6) SIDS (sudden infant death syndrome) is bad.  It is also not actually a syndrome. To prevent SIDS, have a new born sleep on its back on a firm mattress with tight sheets and nothing else in the crib that may fall on, roll into or otherwise cover the baby’s face and suffocate him/her; if you are a total moron and leave something in the crib other than the baby, the firm mattress and the tight sheet, checking in on the child as they sleep to make sure nothing has covered his/her face may help the child, but you’re still a moron.  I know what you are going to say, “wait Ed, are you saying we have to keep things away from a sleeping baby that might suffocate them? This sounds a lot like Rules 1 and 2.”  And you’d be right. PAY ATTENTION TO THE DAMN CHILD AND DON’T BE A MORON.

7) There are a ton of morons having babies.  In our class alone I counted 4 such couples.  Two highlights, first the geniuses that wanted to know if there was an ”exact fever” the child needed before they called the Dr.  I am not talking “if he breaks 100”, they wanted a decimal point reading. Oh, well, 100.2 is fine, but at 100.3 his brain melts. RULE 2 PEOPLE. Then there was the couple that did not quite understand the directions to avoid SIDS, and to top it off, the wife sounded like Natasha from Bullwinkle.  So we get such gems as: “so, can I put one pillow under baby for to roll him over slightly?  No?  What about soft blanket if he get cold? No?”  I kept waiting for her to ask: “Can we put family bear skin in crib? No? But it was small bear killed by grandpapa. No? Ok, what about baby bottle of vodka?”

8) Your baby likely will have colic.  Good luck.

So, to sum up: pay attention to the child and don’t be a moron.  I am so glad I spent those two and a half hours getting that straight.  Love you honey.

So your wife is 9 months pregnant...

Some of the things I have discovered during my wife’s pregnancy:

1) All roads must lead to, and have multiple stop-offs in-between for, bathrooms.  To be more specific, she’s going to need to pee often.  I don’t mean “often” as in “hey, didn’t you just go a half hour ago”, I mean often, as in “What do you mean you have to go again, didn’t you literally just flush the toilet?!” Going for a drive? You better program every possible pit stop location into the GPS.  Going for a walk?  Familiarize yourself with every publicly available restroom on the route. Going to a movie? She better sit on the aisle seat closest to the door. Going to the bathroom? Too late, she’s already in there. I am amazed the folks that make Depends have not branched off into the pregnant woman market. Of course, they’d have to switch the name from “Depends” to “Certainty.”

2) Commercials are the saddest things on the planet.  You know when the ubiquitous “they” say “pregnant women are emotional”?  Well, “they” understated it.  Commercials will cause more tears than watching the ends of Old Yeller, Marley and Me and War Horse back-to-back-to-back.  And I am not just talking the mushy long distance commercials or that Sarah Mclachlan knife-to-the-heart animal rescue commercial (goddamnit, why is it so dusty in here), I mean any commercial that invokes thoughts of babies, families, happiness, sadness, loneliness, celebration or death.  By the way, “invoke” means “invokes in her hormone enhanced mind”.  Case in point, my wife has decreed that a current Lowes commercial which follows a couple through the years as they build their house is about death.  Why?  Because if they are showing their life together, the inevitable next step is that they die - cue waterworks.  My advice?  Avoid commercials … and home improvement stores.

3) The joke “are you sure you aren’t carrying twins” is not funny … to your wife.

4) Einstein was slightly off.  Not only is time relative, but so is distance.  Specifically, distances between your wife and food are shorter than distances between your wife and anything else.  No, seriously.  The remote and the sandwich only appear to be the same distance from your wife; a fact that will be made salient when she grabs the sandwich, but asks that you hand her the remote because it is obviously out of reach.  I think it has something do with the acceleration of objects through a digestive tract … or the like.

5) The question “do you know the color of your shoes” is not funny … to your wife.

6) No, seriously, pregnant women pee a lot.

Well, this should be interesting...

For some odd reason (not really odd, more likely narcissistic), I have decided to share (albiet likely on a sporadic basis) the adventures I (and my wife, and parents, and in-laws … hell, likely a lot of our friends as well) will get into getting to know Sidney, our presently in-the-oven son.  Hopefully one day he’ll read all of these and realize that his father loved him right from the start.  He’ll also likely realize that his father is a huge dork whom would go through the exercise of creating a blog for this.

Stay tuned.