Free Writing

This is Mommy at 36 weeks. As you can see, she continues to get more beautiful and her glow fills the room (along with her huge... personalities). Brittany asked me today if I was at all nervous to be a dad. I told her that I was not nervous at all because I know she will be in the sh*t waist deep with me. It's like we're in 'Nam together -- if she takes a bullet, I'll kill a village full of innocent civilians in a muderous rage... (did I black out there for a second?) The point is that we're a team, that's all. But seriously, there is a big difference between understanding that it will be very difficult and challenging (which I do) and being nervous that I'm not up to it (not even a little -- wanna fight about it?). I have an ironclad plan for being an excellent parent -- blind mimicry. Whatever Brittany does, I will just do exactly the same thing. Sure, I will have some awkward moments - like the first time I whip out a man boob in the mall and try to get the little one to latch on, but that's a small price to pay to be half the parent I'm sure my big boob lady wife will be.

I just put together a bassinet for the baby so she can sleep in our room for the first few months and last night (at 2:00 in the morning for some odd reason) I installed the car seat in our non-sexy car (I think I've mentioned it previously). I think the hardest part of parenting is actually putting together all the crap you have to buy for the baby. I have a problem reading and following "instructions" (note that in the picture I appear to be reading the Spanish instructions) and although the bassinet and car seat were only minor hassles, the crib almost gave me a heart attack when I put it together a few months ago. It was like building an American car -- complex and extremely likely to break the first time it is used.

The baby will be here soon, which means that no one who reads this blog will see another picture of Brittany, me, our friends, Darcy, non-baby family, or famous literary figures until Sophie turns 14 and enters ... the "dark years." At that point, she will be sent to live deep in the woods with the crab people, and not welcomed back until she has learned to be civil. In honor of the pending arrival, here is the last you will ever hear about the cat.

Darcy was named after a famous literary figure because when we picked him up from the shelter, he had a tattered and dog-eared copy of Pride & Prejudice tucked into the breast pocket of his topcoat. I remember that day not because it was rainy, but because it was the day the London sewers finally succumbed to weeks of strain and flooded the streets of Cheapside with 6 inches of stench. The papers covered the affair as though this were a lark -- a subject of hilarity to be scoffed at from second and third-floor balconies from across the Thames, while flower girls and paper boys trudged through the diseased slime to make their pittance and buy thier loaves of stale bread. The headline in the Herald was pithy, but I don't recall exactly what it said. I stiffled a guilty chuckle, but did not read beyond the first paragraph of the article that followed. There was no time for levity that day, because my boss, Mr. Lovehandles, had sent me to the shelter.... I'm getting a bit off track. Darcy is NOT A GIRL'S NAME!!! That's the only point I'm trying to make. He was named after MR. Darcy from Price & Prejudice. Got it?!?! Good.

Bye now. Time to make the donuts.