Clear and Present Peer

Yep, apparently the complex plot lines combined with the on-screen chemistry between Harisson Ford and Willem Dafoe was just way too much excitement for the little guy to handle today, because about 20 minutes from the end of Clear and Present Danger I got nailed again by the little serial whizzer. Same deal, dude was just crusing along laying on my chest and having a great father son moment. Warm and fuzzy again gradually gave way to warm and damp, and I couldn't do anything more than laugh at how badly I am being owned this little buttmunch.

Score: Jackson 2, Dad 0.

Warm and Fuzzy and Stone Cold

It only took 5 days of the boy's young life for him to officially mark his territory. I was sitting on the recliner today, rocking him to sleep while the wife was away at her doctor's appointment. Everything was moving along just swimmingly, I was enjoying a classic episode of Family Guy and little man, who had just recently discovered the marvel of modern oral technology known as a pacifier, was completely passed out on my lap. It was the quintessential moment of newborn/father bonding. I felt warm and fuzzy all over, with a slight amount of warmth poolling specifically around my belly button. It took me a minute to realize that my metphorical emotional heater blanket was actually just the little butthead whizzing so much that he overflowed his diaper, penetrated 5-6 layers of clothing and blankets, and completely dominated my midriff. I knew it was an inevitable occurence, but at the same time, I was still completely and totally blindsided.

This kid must have pure ice coarsing through his veins to be able to completely empty his bladder on a grown man and not even have the common decency to open up his eyes while doing so. I did detect a slight shudder on his part, must have been right at the end. I guess I should have suspected such behavior from a child who is flipping the bird in the majority of his birth pics...

What The Smock?

After 24 hours of labor a variety of factors led the wife to opt for a C-section. Once the call was made our doctor said we would be holding our baby in our arms inside of a half hour and he gave us a few minutes to gather ourselves for the impending surgery. What would you do with these precious few moments before your spouse went under the knife and your life would be changed forever? Of course I reassured her that she made the right choice and that everything was going to work out (in the end it was spooky how lucky of a good call we made), and then I immediately changed into the "special clothes" the nurses gave me for the operating room visit, ran into the bathroom and snapped this self portrait of me as some sort of deranged commercial painter.

At first I was bummed that I didn't get a pair of empowering scrubs to welcome the little guy into the world, but then I realized that there would be no better way to soften the blow of a "we're having a C-section" text message than including a goofy ass pic of me in a painters smock and hair net. Most people would probably remember the unnerving amount of tenstion in the air prior to surgery or the amazing skill and precision with which the doctors delicately liberated the little dude from my wife's abdomen. But for me what really sticks out in my mind was me sitting in the hallway prior to being called into the operating room thinking, "Oh crap, I really have to go the bathroom. No time now, the boy is coming and the wife needs me...I really might crap this goddam painter's smock during delivery".  And that's when I knew I was ready to be a dad. I was literally willing to shit myself in public instead of letting the wife or son down.

Hello, World.

Two quick peeks into everything amazing that is my life right now...

Plenty more words and pics to come. I'm currently the world's happiest zombie. If you want a link to all the pics just email me and you can see all the fun.

hi

Jackson David Villa
2.24.2010  09:12pm
9lbs 2oz, 20.5"

pics coming soon

Just Say YES!

The wife made a valiant fight to 4 centimeters, but the exhaustion was overtaking her and she gladly accepted our nurse's offer for an epidural when it looked like she might literally pass out due to the frequency and power of the contractions. My eyes are slightly itchy from the dryness of air conditioning in the room, so I guess everyone had to deal with some physical adversity today. Gosh, so dry.

So now it's just more waiting. If I were a betting man I would wager that little man should be arriving late into the night tonight or early tomorrow morning. If you know about my betting histoey, which always ends the same way, me buying some dumbass friend a burrito for losing my can't miss wager, then you take my prognostication with a proverbial grain of salt.

Allso, if you are planning on sending something to the hospital, no baloons please. Not because of my completely rational fear of inflated latex in enclosed areas, but because the hospital won't allow any balloons due to latex allergies.

Get It On!!!

Spent the night in the hospital. Everything going according to plan. Just began induction and everything should start moving along at a fever pitch very soon here. Wife is doing awesome, easily the best patient in the history of pregnancy. 


Aaand the wife's water was just broken. How many times can I type or say surreal today? Crazy time.

Big Wednesday

One last night for me to live as a free man, or at least to sleep soundly through the night without a miniature human permanently invading my house.

Groundhog day has gotten pretty old and we're ready to finally see the little guy. Tomorrow evening we go into the hospital to start the induction process. It's a drawn out process and we probably won't actually see the tiny dude until sometime late Wednesday. So if you are someone who has my phone number, pleeease hold off on the phone calls and texts for a few days. I promise as soon as the midget emerges I will document his existence photographically and begin the exploitation process by texting you and posting at least one photo on the internet. If you know me at all you know that I don't like putting any sort of actual personal info on the internet, so this is a huge step for me, but if you're reading this it means you have put up with my endless amounts of childish prose long enough and you deserve at least a partial payout. So, no, I will not be starting a cutesy wootsy Facebook page for little man, but I will at least show you what he looks like. Or maybe I'll just find some really cute baby pics on the internet and just paste his name onto them. Ohhh the suspense.....

Big Nothing

Do you remember that scene in the movie Big where Tom Hanks calls home to talk to his mom, but unfortunately he is trapped in the body of a 30 year old man and can't exactly explain to her who he is and why her son is missing? He ends up reassuring her that her 12 year old boy is doing just fine and they end the conversation on a bittersweet emotional note. It's an oddly poignant moment, where her missing child is both dangled in front of her and then taken away again in the course of a very short phone conversation. The first time you watch this scene it probably struck you as a special moment between a boy who literally grew up too fast, and his mom, who will never be able to understand (on multiple levels) what happened to her son. But watching that scene 20 years later you will probably wonder aloud, "Why the hell didn't you call the cops and track down the wildy immature grown man who was not only crazy enough to kidnap your son, but he is now calling your dumbass and having heart to heart chats with you!"

Anyway, that phone coversation has been my average workday, everyday, over the past few weeks. I show up every morning to see my coworkers' wild excitement in their eyes burning for just a fleeting moment, and before I can even answer their "anything yet?" question you can see the reality sinking in as they realize that if I am standing there in front of them, it's fairly obvious that the wife hasn't given birth yet. I am essentially 6'2" of walking blue balls for everyone I see throughout the day. Keep in mind that I work in an office with about 60 people, have this conversation with a large majority of them, and that my cubicle mate has this conversation at least a few times everytime I go to lunch or leave my desk for any length of time greater than 10 minutes. The funny thing is that it's not annoying at all, I just see it as a challenge to see how many new self-deprecating ways I can come up with to turn the situation into darkly sarcastic fun. So far my favorite retorts are "Nope, nothing yet. Kid's not even here yet and he's already a huuuge disappoinment", "No baby after all ....turns out she was just fat", and, "Yep, but we weren't happy with the results so we're buying a Chinese one instead". It's a pretty sweet humor litmus test for the coworkers. I even had one friend send me a congratulatory text last week...too bad the kid still hasn't been born yet. I know I could be much more solemn and serious about the whole thing, but you try going through it a couple hundred times a week and see how you respond.

Prepare To Be Creepy

Still playing the waiting game, but the end is in sight. Doctor says if the wife's womb ejection button isn't pressed by Tuesday night, then let the induction begin! That means by this time next week I will be a father...aaaaaaahhhhhhh!!!

Of course this feeling of semi-closure has really lit a fire under my ass to make sure I'm preparing myself for the onslaught of crying and what not in a most practical manner. I've been hounding all my friends with kids under the age 5 to get their advice on how to cope with the first few months of absolute madness. It's kind of funny, I have resigned myself to believing so much in the unavoidable chaos of parenthood that I feel completely at ease with whatever is looming on the horizon for me. It's kind of like when I saw the movie Snakes On A Plane. I went in with my friends expecting the worst, most painful experience possible and ended up laughing our asses off because not only did the movie meet our incredibly low bar, but once you remove all hope and just let go it makes it so much easier to enjoy these things. Also, the sake bombs probably didn't hurt either, and after annoying everyone in the restaraunt, having hours absolutely vanish in a total blur, and having to be responsible for my semi-retarded friends practically drooling with laughter, in hindisght, it seems to be at least a mildly good analogy for parenthood.

Back to thoughts actually directly related to parenting. Among the most intriguing advice I got from friends was the 5S methodology being spread by followers of the slightly creepy bearded pediatrician in the video below. He seems like a good enough guy, and his method makes an amazing amount of logical sense, but the only thing more amazing then the light switch like results the method garners, is just how creepy the kind-hearted pediatrician appears while "jiggling and shushing" people's babies to sleep...


If you had just seen that video without knowing that the guy was an actual pediatrician, and what his methodology was rooted in, would you not be about as creeped out as the first time you realized that your parents had to have sex in order to make you?

Along the same train of thought as the previous video, the video below was passed onto me by my friend who came across this similar technique while living in Europe. It uses a piece of, uh..."furniture" I guess you could say, instead of just your bare hands and creepy beard and shushing, but again, without the explanation wouldn't you just think that this was a video produced by Dick Cheney's "How To Get The Answers You Want Out Of Your Baby" video line?



After doing all my research I have decided I will just let the pug be responsible for raising the kid. Even if it doesn't work out so well for the boy's development, at least all the mistakes he makes will be adorably framed by a pug lens.

Oh What A Night!

I bet that blog title made you think I was already a dad, didn't it? Not just yet, but soon, very soon. In fact, the doc says that if little man doesn't make his Shawshank style escape by Tuesday, then we are going to induce labor and bust his ass outta womb jail. So, at the very latest I should completely cease all sleeping by Wednesday, February 24th. I'm living on borrowed time and savoring every second of it.

I would now like to personally thank the little dude for deciding to delay his groundhog day act for at least one more day, thus providing me with one of my greatest nights of sports ever. Against the backdrop of the Winter Olympics my beloved Manchester United able to travel to hostile lands (Italy - sweaty, tight pants, terrible hair) and defeat the mighty David Beckham's hair...

In truly spectacular fashion my child's predetermined sports idol, Wayne Rooney, was able to carry the mighty Red Devils to victory over their swarthy Italian foes, AC Milan. I still don't understand why everyone scoffs at me when I suggest Rooney as a perfectly adorable middle name for the boy. I mean, who wouldn't want to name their first born son after a prematurely balding, squatty, ill tempered little English footballer?

And to cap off my night of non-hospital couch sleeping, I ended up playing my scrawny little ass off (some might describe it as an extended lower back) in my racquetball playoffs and miraculously came back from a 9-1 deficit in the final game to win the championship 11-10. Surely, defeating a variety of middle age men at your local gym might not register high your personal achievementometer, but for me it was huge because I don't think I have ever won anything sports wise on an individual level, besides sportsmanship trophies in coed boys & girls club basketball at age 10, which loosely translated to, "'Kid can't make a layup to save his life, but at least he shakes everyone's hand at the end of the game". Anyway, after I won I was pretty euphoric, partially because the whole time I was playing I was thinking I don't know when I will be able do this again and I wanted to have a good story for the boy in case he was born last night. He obviously wasn't born, but at least now I will have a totally sweet Racquetball Champion t-shirt he can look at, but never touch. Only champions can wear that kind of shirt. Of course, he'll probably end up whizzing on it (while I'm wearing it) inside of 6 months.

The Final Countdown

 

I woke up this morning with more than a tinge of excitement for the huuuge day that could possibly lie ahead, so I decided to go watch tv in the living room while doing some stretches to prepare my back and legs for the hours of standing and not sleeping in a normal bed that most likely will crush my scrawny frame of a body at the hospital. As I grabbed the remote to flick on my morning news I heard some loud machinery outside, and then a lightning bolt of clarity hit me...shit, trash day. Needless to say, in all my "last night as a semi-free human" preparations the previous evening I forgot to roll the trash cans to the curb. I grabbed my slippers and dashed outside in my offensively small Manchester United soccer shorts only to see the garbage man go whizzing by my house. I grabbed my giant rolling trash can and sprinted down the sidewalk hooting and waving my arms frantically while lugging a week's worth of heavy trash behind me. Of course, the garbage man had his windows up and his truck is loud enough to set off car alarms, so there was no way he could hear me. Luckily my slippers are the cozy fleece jobs with rubber traction on the bottom and my shorts were intended for all sorts of running and cutting motions (even if they were intended to be worn by an adolescent child). I caught the truck at the corner of my street and waved him down. But as I sat there waiting for the giant mechanical arm to pick up my refuse bin I realized that I was standing outside, panting, after just running down the street screaming and waving like a madman while leaving little to the imagination wardrobe wise. Wow, the boy isn't even here yet and I already had a pretty clear picture of my life for at least the next 18 years.

I know what you are saying, how could this day possibly get any bigger for me? Well, why don't you sit back and let me bullet point exactly why this may end up being the biggest day of my life, besides the obvious whole first born child thing that might happen...

 

• Manchester United - The world's greatest futbol club taking on the a bunch Italy's version of the Yankees in the UEFA Champions League. Millions (billions?) of people across the world (and probably about 35 total in the USA) will be watching this epic battle as my beloved Red Devils. This would already be one of the biggest days of the year on my calendar, but sprinkle in the fact that dirty David Beckham's hair is now playing for AC Milan and I don't even know what to say anymore. Get it on!!!

• Racquetball- I have been playing racquetball against all sorts of old sweaty dudes for the past 6 weeks in a league at my local gym. To my surprise I not only made the playoffs, but ended up with the number one seed. Even better, I get to play this bastard that drilled me in the back the first time we played, tries to cheat constantly, and is generally loathed by the whole league because of his unsporting manner. I couldn't have drawn up any better. Take into account that this might be the last real sports acitivity I get to take part in for the forseeable future and I really don't know how I will be able to keep my composure, unless I am already at the hospital. In which case I will be the legend of the number one seed who blew off the playoffs. Which sounds kinda cool to me for some reason.

• Lost- Blah blah blah, I like Lost a ton and you are sick of hearing about it. I don't care, the end is so near and I start getting excited to watch this Tuesday night show sometime around 4pm on Sunday. Is there something wrong with me? Yes. I don't care though, what better way to prepare myself for this epic journey of anxiety known as "expecting a child" then spending time planted on my couch searching for answers and overanalyzing every freaking minute detail until you phsyically feel your brain begin to melt? I'm sure there are better ways, but screw that, I am still watching this damn show. I need my stories! And all praise to Lord DVR...

Probably no more post for me until the little dude shows his face, at which point I will post pics up here for everyone to see and hopefully save hours of endless emails.

Thanks for playing!

It's Gonna Be Just Fine

Not a whole lot of blogging going down over the past week, mostly because I was convinced the little bundle of boy would pop out over Super Bowl weekend and blogging felt extremely redundant since I have been giving roughly 83 pregnancy updates per day to friends and family. Not stressed at all, not overwhelmed, and am not even annoyed about talking about it everyday. Hmm, I think I just subconsciously described my feelings towards the final season of Lost. Wow, just when you think you couldn't possibly be more pathetic, you go an inadvertantly compare what is probably the most amazing experience in your life with tv show. So...close...to....finale.....

What is even more pathetic is this CD I found while checking out a baby boutique with the wife today...

I'm not sure what is most troubling about this CD, the fact that some greedy bastard thought to himself, "How can I possibly dilute an artist's hard work and passion enough to make it appeal to humans that still crap their pants?" or the fact that anyone would consider playing Coldplay for kids. But on the bright side, I did have a good chuckle imagining the type of overprotective gelding would purchase this product for their child. "Coldplay, now that's just a little too rock n' roll for little Cody's maturity level. Gosh darnit, is there a version of this CD that is a little more 'Two and a Half Men'?"

If you are ever feeling anxiety over whether or not you will be a decent parent, just go to a baby boutique and you will immediately realize that you will be just fine. It's the yuppie dorks buying fake Coldplay for their kids that Social Services should really look into.

Pug Purpose

Many moons ago, when we lived near the beach and were a one dog family, I used to take our pug to the dog park near my work every other day. If you know anyone who has a pug, you would understand that as soon as the little wrinkly lump of fur and snorts enters your life you instantly lose your grip on reality and become a psycho pugtard. Of course, this syndrome is characterized by a natural gravitational pull towards other pug idiots of a similar ilk. One day while hanging out at the park with my little dude I was talking with another pug owner and asking him how he got his little porker to stay so close to him without a leash. He said the key was a backpack that pug wore. I laughed it off as sarcasm, but the guy went on to explain how someone told him that pugs crave purpose and are really good at staying focused when they have a task. So he would get a tiny backpack and put a rock or a soda can in it, strap it to husky nugget, and then just go for a walk. Apparently the little lumpy bastard would stay right by his side and hang on his every word because he felt the need to stay on task. Needless to say, my mind was sufficiently blown. Even though I never actually got a pack for my pug, I did figure out he is very task-oriented. His favorite tasks over the years have been stealing my food when I'm not looking, jumping from high points on the couch and landing squarely on my crotch, and for a few years he would pee on me in public every six months or so.

Now you're probably thinking my little pug-centric anectdotes were intended to demonstrate my years of awkward doses of pain and public humiliation somehow prepared me for the less fun aspects of fatherhood. Sorry to disappoint, but at this point in my life I feel more like my buddy's pug. I wish I could say I felt more like my pug, freely whizzing on friends in public, eating everything in site, and using farts as my morning alarm clock. But ever since I found out the wife was pregnant I have felt a much greater sense of purpose. This is not to say that my life somehow had less meaning or brought me less satisfaction prior to conception, but I am the kind of ADD riddled human that is infinitely more productive when I have time restrictions and a very clear goal. For example, my home improvement efficiency has increased exponentially over the past few months, just because I know it is the last thing I will want to address when the little guy arrives and I don't want it stressing out the wife in any way. Whereas prior to this baby madness all those tasks were just items on a long list of things I would do when I didn't have anything better to do. I have also noticed an increase in my physical activities, movie watching, and work productivity. Now that I have a metaphorical backpack to keep me focused I am like a pug that ate all the Christmas Snickers in the house and can't be contained (yes, that one was my pug).  

Squirt Guns Continued...

Sure, just posting a clip from a sitcom is lazy, but that damn show is making me crap up like crazy lately. Probably because every scene is like looking into a crystal ball for me. Also, I'm starting a basic auto class tonight so I can pretend to know everything about cars by the time the boy is ready to start asking questions about such things. I don't actually need to know everything, but I need to know enough about most things to fool my son into thinking I am the smartest man alive. At least until he's say 5 years old, and realizes I'm just a goofy idiot.

Improving Home

Having trouble blogging as the big day approaches. Only 20 days (maybe less) of sanity and calm left in my life, and I think my body is sensing the storm on the horizon and is urging me to spend more time either doing home improvement projects or just zoning out on the couch. Last night I chose the former and spent a few solid hours cussing out my bathroom sink as I attempted to install a new faucet and handle some minor plumbing issues. Sure, I could cuss less when I work on the house, but it makes me feel better when I do curse at inanimate objects that piss me off. You try fitting your 6'2" gangly frame inside a miniature vanity and getting years of residual hair water dumped on you, repeatedly bashing your elbow on cabinets, and being unable to fit wrenches in the appropriate places to tighen nuts and bolts without freaking out a few times. If you are able to do all this while maintaining verbal innoncence, then congratulations, you are the world's most annoyingly optimistic douchenozzle. Me on the other hand, I listened to all sorts of inappropriate rap music (thank you Droid and Pandora) and got my macho on.

What do I have to show for all this misplaced rage and elbow pain? A spiffy looking new faucet, and just one more thing for the wife to check off her nesting list and something that will hopefully slightly brighten her days over the next few weeks. Ultimately, all these "manly" things I do around the house to hopefully improve our our living environment are really just me lobbing up optimistic attempts to constantly distract her from the fact that I'm the real reason she has to pee 9 times per night and will soon have to shove a soccer ball out of her body. Maybe I will hang that towel rack tonight...

Slippy, Slappy, Swanson....Samsonite!

Packing your hospital bag for the big day is a pretty surreal thing. Maybe it's mostly due to my seperation anxiety from my favorite sweat pants or my oh so comfy Patagonia boxers, but at least a portion of the weird experience is the feeling of packing for something, and not having any real sense of when the trip will occur. I'm sure it is even crazier for the expectant mother, since she is the one actually supporting a life in her gut and the act of stuffing a little roller suitcase with comfy pants and slippers only further cements the reality of the situation for her. But from a guy's point of view, I haven't had to deal with any biological or hormonal changes over the course of 37 weeks and I'm not on the verge of having to endure the most physically and emotionally trying event of my life. So, for me, packing my bag to spend the night at the hospital at any given time over the next month is a total trip. The only thing that I compare it to in a guy's life is that point in high school when you stuffed a condom in your wallet. Sure, you had no real idea exactly when you would use it, but putting it in your wallet and knowing that you might have to use it at any given time (outrageously optimistic) was a pretty crazy feeling. And then the subsequent lack of use just made you feel like a douchebag until you finally take the condom out to make room for your Moviewatcher card.

Can't Hardly Wait

I am honestly not the least bit nervous right now. Next month will bring about a life altering event that will surely change my view of the world forever, just like watching Footloose for the first time. I would be lying if I didn't admit that I am freaking out with excitement and anticipation for what lies just around the corner. Is it all smoke and mirrors? Will the reality of the situation provide its own amazing answers, or will we be stranded on a island of emotional peril?

The wife and I have known for a couple years now that this time would come, all our questions would be answered, but we had no clue how exciting the journey along the way would be. And here we stand, on the precipice of something bigger and more exciting than anything we have ever done before, but there really is only one option, total commitment. Sure, we will be totally overwhelmed by a flood of overstimulation and excitement, but it will all be totally worth it, even the scary awkward parts.

It's really weird to look back now and think of a time when this huge event wasn't looming on the horizon. I mean, just a couple years ago we had a few friends that were downright experts on the subject, and completely focused on seeing this whole experience culimate in a magical finale, but we weren't even really talking about the possibility. I mean, we weren't intentionally avoiding it, but it just wasn't for us yet. But once we made the decision to move forward it was like everything in life was thrusting us towards this February. It's crazy, you never think you will feel this excited and just purely thrilled about anything this huge, like maybe the others have built it up so much because they want their experience to seem so special to everyone else and it won't actually be as cool as they say it will be.

I guess it's all pretty much out of our hands now. The only thing we can do is let go and see what happens. Ultimately, the entire outcome isn't really totally up to us, but making the most out of the path we take to get there is really what is important and meaningful. I just hope that the wife's delivery doesn't adversely affect this awesome string of events that is about to play out. The pregnancy has been pretty smoot overall thus far, and it's cool that we're having a kid the same month that all this awesome madness is about to explode upon us, but if the boy is born two weeks early, on February 2nd, his delivery could totally get in the way of the whole premiere night, lame!

Not Even A Squirt Gun

My mom was so anti-child violence when I was a wee lad that she wouldn't even let me have any sort of realistic looking squirt gun. For my 6th birthday my friend from school, a girl no less, bought me this awesome looking Uzi squirt gun. It was black and motorized, and if you were a boy in 1986, then this was your dream aquatic weapon of choice. I was really surprised and excited when I got it, and then equal parts shocked and heartbroken when my mom told me I had to take my Uzi squirt gun back to school to give back my friend. "Thanks for the sweetest pro-NRA gift ever, but my mom says I can't play with guns."
I wasn't even allowed to watch GI Joe because of the violence, but for some reason Beverly Hills Cop and 48 Hours were deemed acceptable viewing. I don't question my parent's seemingly conflicting choices in regards to entertainment, because in hindsight I was exposed to great comedies laced with semi-realistic violence, and I didn't turn into a bellicose little pudge, watching military based cartoons all day and fighting for the sake of fighting. But dammit I wanted to keep that freaking uzi!

Lucky for my boy, I have learned from my parents unique parenting techniques. I also have learned of the great parenting tool known as "deal making". Therefore, just like that annoying little gremlin Toby Maguire (aka, the poor man's Jake Gyllenhall) learned in every Spiderman movie, I will teach the boy that with great power comes great responsibility. I will aim to create a system of trust and respect based on reward and consequence for the boy. The clip below pretty much sums up my plan...

Carry On My Wayward Son

After the dust had settled from 3 baby showers in one week it was time to do some soul searching and start testing out baby carriers. I will admit, for some reason Baby Bjorn's have always cracked me up, the idea of strapping your kid to your chest in a reverse backpack fashion it just plain comedy gold. If you have seen that movie The Hangover you know exactly what I'm talking about. Without proper use of the Baby Bjorn by the wildly talented Zach Galifinakis that movie is nothing more racist frat boys with video camera.

Anyway, we got the Baby Bjorn just like we asked for and my imagination began to run wild. Think of how useful this thing is. I mean, in all those downer MTV documentaries and after school specials about teen pregnancy the worst thing about having a kid is obviously the disproportionate strain it puts on your triceps because you have to lug around this little lump of unexpected responsibility at a shin-high level to all sorts of real world situations, even though going to the doctor, therapy, and McDonald's are the only places people actually go on the MTV doc's. Now with the Baby Bjorn I could do all sorts of regular daily activities with my child latched onto me like a midget tandem skydiver. We could go get frozen yogurt (I could eat it). We could go look at cool surfboards at the surfshop (I could check them out). God forbid we ever get into an emergency situation while out cruising around on foot, I could even use a urinal without fear of splashback for the little guy. Ahhhh, technology!

The only downside of this modern marvel of baby slinging technology is the box. I don't know who picked the models, their clothes, or facial expressions, but I thought the wife wasn't even going to let me try the damn thing on because the cover or the box is so weird looking. The girls is making a face that leads me to believe she regrets adding that shot of wheatgrass to her jumbo Jamba Juice (cha cha cha), distracting her from the fact that her the harness on her chest appears to be swalling her child whole and possibly smothering it against her obviously non life-giving chest. And the guy is so obviously gay and Euro that he doesn't even have the common decency to remove his slim flit blazer before the photo shoot began. Any male who spends that much time on their hair and clothing has no interest in, or need for, a chest-based baby carrying device.

Where Has The Time Gone?

Guess what, until about 30 seconds my dumbass thought we still had roughly 5 weeks left until D-Day. Apparently the last 10 days or so have flown by so fast (including 3 baby showers in a 7 day span) that I completely forgot to acknowledge that the wife's due date was actually rapidly approaching, instead of remaining frozen in time while we unwrapped copious amounts of onesies. So here we stand,T-minus 3.5 weeks and counting until the little man emerges from his tiny mighty slumber and makes sure I am never able to sleep through the night again. He's apparently already 7 pounds or pure man baby, and if he lands on or after his due date he will be roughly the same size as Ryan Seacrest. I fear for the wife's well being, since the boy seems to be taking after his dad who entered the world as a 22 inch, 9 lb 9 oz megababy. At the same time, I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel a sense of misplaced macho man pride about the fact that the boy already seems to be a lock to not be the last one picked in P.E. class. Maybe all those chewable prenatal steroids I have been mashing up and sneaking into the wife's cereal are finally paying off?

Delicate Balance

Last weekend I was doing all sorts of manly stuff like climbing on my roof and in my attic to reroute a bathroom vent and clear out a dryer vent line. All I was lacking was a tool belt and a tall boy of Coors Light and someone might just have mistaken me for a real adult male. Luckily nobody important witnessed my high flying acts of domestic testosterone, and I was able to preserve my status as an overgrown manchild. Once all the work was done the wife even pitched in to help me clean up the inevitable mess that accompanies any "work" I do around the house. I know, she is only 6 weeks away from her due date, but the slightest amount of sweeping behind a dryer didn't seem like to arduous of a task. Who knew that it would lead to one of my all time favorite pregnant moments?

As I cussed at the dryer for being so heavy and awkward (I have found profanity to be the most effective method for accomplishing any home improvement task) it slowly wiggled it's way out of our laundry closet. I pulled out just enough so the wife could reach behind it with a broom and dustpan to sweep up a small amount of lint and dust. As I walked outside to return my tools to the garage I heard a large thump from the hallway followed by silence, then some laughing/yelling for help. I immediately ran back in the house fearing the worst...somehow the dryer had fallen and crushed the cable remote control!

Luckily, when I made it back to the laundry closet I found the wife leaning forward, left leg planted firmly in the ground, right leg sticking nearly straight up in the air and looking like she was reaching into the far corner of the closet to pick up something. Basically she looked like she had froze mid cartwheel when she realized there was a wall blocking her path. I asked her what was going on and through intermittent laughter and grunts she was able to chuckle out, "I'm stuck!". Funny, right? She was in no physical danger, but the laws of physics had imprisoned her in the most awkward of yoga-ish poses. Only adding to the comedy was me trying to figure out how to pull her back upright from this head over heels position. I tried yanking on her leg, her hips, and eventually we were able to use a little leverage and quickly yank her up by her non weight bearing arm. It was essentially like the opening scene in Cliffhanger, only I vastly outperformed Sly Stallone and I don't have a hairlip.