Our Tiny Blob ...

Going to your regular doctor is typically one of the most horrifying experiences of your life. He’ll tell you you’re overweight. He’ll tell you your cholesterol is too high. He’ll tell you that Jessica Simpson is actually intelligent, ruining your entire belief structure and crushing your false sense of superiority. If that’s not enough, he’ll charge you for it. Not much is worse.

Going to the OB/GYN is worse.

It was time for our first baby checkup, the one where someone with a medical degree and $100,000 worth of college loans will confirm what we already learned from a $3 stick. When we first arrived, I couldn’t help but notice the other guys sitting in the office’s lounge, waiting for their wives to return. Each one was slouched in his chair with a similar bored look on his face. I hadn’t seen a room full of guys this depressed since the third time they cancelled “Family Guy.”

I joined the club and sat down on what had to be the world’s second most uncomfortable chair, while Brittany moseyed up to the desk to fill out the paperwork. Looking for something to occupy my time, I rummaged through a pile of magazines. The pickings were slim, but I eventually settled on a Teen People from 1999. Brittany Spears was on top of the world, people were going nutty for “Star Wars: Phantom Menace” and everyone was afraid of Y2K.

And some people think history is boring.

As Brittany finished the forms, a nurse popped her head out and called her name. We both went back into the office, as I wanted to be a part of the experience. The nurse weighed her and asked her to pee in a cup—standard nurse moves—and then showed us to our room. It was there that I finally saw the world’s most uncomfortable chair. I’m sure it has a technical name, but I’m going to call it the Lay-Z-Girl.

So Brittany dropped her pants and hopped up in the Lay-Z-Girl. Suddenly, a man with perfect hair, a chiseled chin and a body that would make Brad Pitt jealous walked into the room. Was this her doctor? Was this the guy she let poke around inside her fun zone? Was it my imagination, or did his smile actually twinkle?

He introduced himself as Dr. … something. I would have listened, but I was too busy thinking about how this man was about to defile my wife. No matter how I spun it in my head, this just didn’t seem right. When a woman pays a guy to poke around down there, it’s called a checkup. When a man pays a woman, it’s called prostitution.

After several minutes of prodding, examining and small talk, he finished up by using the phrase—and I am not making this up—“Lookin’ good down there.” I’d say this was my most angry moment of the day but it wasn’t; that would come later when I had to pay the bill.

Just when I thought I couldn’t take anymore, he led us to a room with a do-hickey that looked eerily similar to the small black-and-white television my parents once owned. He opened a jar and rubbed what looked to be hair gel on Brittany’s tummy, asked her to “unbutton her pants” and whipped out a microphone-shaped rod.

That was it. I couldn’t take it anymore. I rolled up my sleeve and prepared to punch him in his twinkling teeth …

But then I saw it. Right there on the screen. The round tiny blob of white that was the beginnings of our child. It was the most amazing tiny blob of white I had ever seen. Years from now scientists may dispute this, but for that moment—that very special moment—I could swear the blob was wearing a Cincinnati Reds jersey.

With that sonogram, all had been forgiven. The entire drive home all I could think about was how much I’m going to love this child, even more than I love pizza. That’s right, folks … even more than pizza. And, if it comes out a left-handed boy who can throw 98 miles per hour, it’ll move to the top of the list—ahead of bacon.