You're On Notice, Mr. Gall Bladder …

There are three extremely important characteristics that all dads must have: strength, health and the ability to slide around a tag at home plate. Without these attributes, you may as well trade in your DadCard (and complementary stained white t-shirt) for a bucket of Jim Belushi DVDs (and yes, I meant Jim). Luckily, I've been fortunate enough to be blessed with all three gifts. But then came Monday.

I hate Mondays.

It was four days prior to Ella's official birthday. My wife and I were planning a big birthday of fun—a trip to the zoo, a trip to the pool, then back home for a candle-lit cupcake celebration and harmonized version of Happy Birthday, which we'd been practicing for weeks. From the minute I set foot into my work cube, it was all I could think about—until Chuck, a coworker, friend and rock star, called about lunch.

"Dude. Mall. Now. I'm starving."

"It's 9:45 a.m."

"You're a buzz kill."

When I hung up the phone, I noticed an unusual pain in my side. I'd felt it twice before but had written it off to cramps, gas or residual effects from Brittany's middle-of-the-night elbow jabs. But this time was different. The pain was constant and more severe. I'd never felt a pain like it before, unless you count listening to this. The mall was out. The hospital was in.

After eight hours of waiting rooms, x-rays, ultrasounds, poking and prodding, morphine and an unusually friendly nurse who told me to take off my clothes but didn't give me a hospital gown, the doctor finally came in.

"Well, we can't find anything conclusive, but we have a strong feeling it's your gall bladder. Nothing really to worry about. We'll run a few more tests in the morning and then probably take it out."

"Take it out? Are you sure? I guess you're the doctor, doctor. That sounds funny. On a side note, that nurse in the hallway forgot to bring me a gown."

"That person doesn't work here."

(Long pause)

"Please up my morphine."

While this was a simple and common procedure, it did worry me some. I'd never had major surgery before. In fact, the closest I'd come was having a cyst removed from my wrist. And trust me, that doesn't impress the ladies nearly as much as you'd think it would. I also worried that I wouldn't be out in time to celebrate Ella's birthday. But the sooner they fixed the problem, the sooner I could go home. After careful consideration, I sent my gall bladder a pink slip. The letter went something like this:

Dear Gall Bladder,

First of all, I'd like to thank you for the 29 years of service you've provided me and the rest of the team. As you are aware, we are all suffering from the current economic downturn and, unfortunately, the hard times have hit KlemsCo. Our resources are limited and budgets are tight. It is with a heavy heart that we have to let you go. I wish I could say it wasn't performance based, but after checking past reviews it's come to my attention that no one in the company knows exactly what you do. In fact, several members of the team thought you'd retired several years ago while others just thought you were lazy. And it wasn't until recently when you began causing a stir that we realized you were still on the payroll.

Anyway, we wish you the best in all future endeavors.

Sincerely,
Brian A. Klems
CEO and President, KlemsCo.

The next morning, I rolled in and out of exam rooms. I spoke with physicians. I spoke with surgeons. I watched an episode of "Saved by the Bell" where Zach needed surgery to repair his knee and, like me, he was scared of going under the knife. (Thankfully he got over his fear and survived to go onto "Saved by the Bell: The College Years.") When the final test results came back, my prognosis changed.

"All the tests came back negative so it doesn't look like there's anything wrong with you. We aren't going to take your gall bladder. We'll just monitor you for another night and, if all goes well, send you home in the morning."

I believe that was just a polite way of calling me a faker.

I could have stayed and pushed the issue (after all, I was still in pain), but I was ready to go—not to mention that my gall bladder was threatening a wrongful termination suit. So I left the hospital—body intact—and made it home. My side may still hurt, but it's much less painful than the idea of missing my CinderElla's first birthday.

… but seriously, Brittany, quit elbow-jabbing me in the middle of the night. It hurts.

The Life of Dad is updated every other Friday (barring the call of family duties). Thanks for stopping by and following my attempts to be a good dad, husband and co-ed softball player. I hope you visit again. -- Brian

The Irony of Parenting

It's normal to occasionally question your parenting skills—like when you realize that in the brief 4 seconds you glanced at the TV for the sports scores, your little darling has disappeared into the bathroom and is splashing toilet water everywhere. Or when you're leaving for work and, as you pull out onto the street, you see your babe comfortably sitting in her car seat … waving to you from the porch.

I'm usually confident that I'm good dad, but lately I've been doubting myself. It was easy to raise an infant. There were books that told you exactly how much they should sleep, how much they should eat and how much money you should prepare to spend on sleepwear, formula and books guiding you on how much they should sleep and eat. But once that baby hits nine months, everything changes. The books are less specific and more general. Three naps turn into 1-to-2 naps—or five naps. Gates are needed to block the stairs. You can introduce solid foods into her diet, like bananas, cottage cheese and Chipotle, but not eggs. It's a whole new ballgame.
So I asked the doctor, "How much regular food should we give her?"

"Whatever you feel comfortable with."

Whatever I feel comfortable with? What does that mean? I feel comfortable with a well-educated doctor telling me precisely what to do. But after 8 years of medical school and $100,000-plus in student loans, the doctor would prefer to leave it up to me, the guy who took one half-semester of health class in high school. Sure I got an "A," and if you need statistics on what percentage of high schoolers used steroids between 1988 and 1993, I'm your guy. But we certainly didn't cover topics like What To Feed Your Baby At Nine Months.

I know what you're thinking: You must have turned to your parents and in-laws for advice, right? My answer to you, of course, is ARE YOU CRAZY? Parents of new parents are knowledgeable about a lot of things, like how long you should bake a potato or how to get projectile vomit stains out of your carpet. They are also helpful in the early stages by bringing you food and watching the baby while you get a few minutes of sleep. They are also … well … if we followed their ways, we would be feeding Ella gallons of apple juice and letting her roll around in the back of our station wagon with nothing strapping her in. And before you shake your head, remember that your parents probably did both too—and likely much worse.

The irony in all this is: While I'm constantly questioning my skills as a parent, the newly anointed grandparents (like all newly anointed grandparents) are 100% confident in theirs. They seem to "know" what to do at all corners. They can "advise" on anything. They don't "appreciate" your use of quote marks. Why? Because they raised wonderful children. And when the facts are laid down like that, it's hard to argue.

But the real fact is that times have changed. There's more information available today than there was a decade ago. Kids need car seats. Sugary apple juice is not good for them. Kids' growth could be stunted by secondhand smoke, alcohol and the song "It's Raining Men."
When it comes down to it, we love our parents for raising us to the best of their abilities—and are thankful we survived. You can't fault them for the now-outrageous parental guidelines they abided by years ago; they used the best information available at the time to do the best that they could. Now my wife and I are doing the same. Ultimately, we're all parents-in-training and that's OK. It's how we're supposed to be.

I guess it's that thought that has rekindled my self-confidence as a parent. What's good for our kids is always evolving. Several decades from now, when Ella has children of her own, I'm sure she's going to look at how we raised her and say things like:

I can't believe they fed me cottage cheese that early! (and)
Car Seats? How did we survive without Fully-Padded Car Bubbles? (and)
They let me splash around in toilet water!—you think I want THEIR "advice"?

I just hope that when she has her kids, she'll be able to forgive us like we've forgiven our folks. And when she does something that differs from what I did to her, I hope I can remember these five key words: Whatever you feel comfortable with. I guess those 8 years of medical school were valuable after all.

Oh, and the answer is three. Three percent of high schoolers have tried steroids.

The Life of Dad is updated every other Friday (barring the call of family duties). Thanks for stopping by and following my attempts to be a good dad, husband and co-ed softball player. I hope you visit again. -- Brian

Home Remedies ...

Some days you wake up walking on sunshine, while other days you wake up fit to be tied. And some days you wake up with your child's snot crusted to your face.

A number of weeks ago, Ella came down with a cold—the first cold of her life. It was endearing in so many ways. She had a cute little cough, teeny tiny eye boogers and a small drip running from her nose. Her sneezes were as soft as her cheeks, and when you tried to wipe the remnants away she'd wiggle like a bobblehead. And, throughout it all, she never once stopped smiling.

Then early one morning, after letting her sleep on my chest, I woke up and noticed her entire face was covered in snot. Worse yet, so was mine. And like any logical, well-educated dad would do, I handed her off to her mother and tried to keep the calm by uttering this combination of words:

"Oh my God, what's wrong with her? Infection? Pneumonia? It's West Nile, isn't it!?!"

"Calm down," said my wife. "It's just the congestion escaping from her… What are you doing?"

"Seven, Six, two … Wait, what's our doctor's number again?"

Brittany gracefully took the phone out of my hands and shoved the receiver where receivers shouldn't be shoved. And it hurt. She then calmly explained why the doctor wouldn't appreciate a call at 5:30 in the morning over the sniffles. If it got worse, she said, we'd call and schedule an appointment during business hours. Until then, we'll try all the home remedies that we know.

I hate it when she makes sense.

So we tried each home remedy to help our suffering babe feel better. We sat her in the bathroom with the hot shower running. We laid her in an upright position when she napped. We even put on back-to-back-to-back reruns of "Saved by the Bell" (always made me feel better when I was sick). Unfortunately none of those seemed to work, so we scheduled an appointment with the doc.

Turned out she not only had a cold, but was also suffering from a double ear infection, which I'm told is about as painful as an angry wife on Valentine's Day. To get Ella back on the healthy horse, the doctor prescribed medicine, rest and more "Saved by the Bell" (who knew?). He also told us that it's very common for children under the age of one to get colds and earaches throughout the winter, and we should be thankful our kid takes it in stride with a grin. And we are thankful.

Meeting with the doctor helped calm my nerves a bit. I still plan to overreact to all future sicknesses, but I plan to overreact in smaller doses. It's just what parents do. I've forgiven my folks. You've probably forgiven yours. Hopefully Ella will be able to forgive me as she grows up. If she's like her father, she certainly will.

But if she's like her mother, I'm going to have to remove all phones from the house.

The Life of Dad is updated every other Friday (barring the call of family duties). Thanks for stopping by and following my attempts to be a good dad, husband and co-ed softball player. I hope you visit again. -- Brian

The Envelope Please …

There are a lot of things I don't understand in this world. I don't understand why scaring someone cures the hiccups. I don't get why beer tastes bad when it's warm. And I certainly have no idea why my wife makes me shower after softball, even if I didn't slide. But I'm perplexed most in this world by people who claim to "see" or "predict" the future, also known as psychics.

Let me state for the record right now that just because I don't believe in psychics doesn't mean that you shouldn't or that they don't exist. It just means that I think you're crazy. After all, if psychics exist, then why don't you see newspaper headlines like "Psychic Wins Lottery" or "Psychic Stops Steve Bartman From Ruining Cubs' Playoffs." I believe in cold, hard facts and nothing could really change that—except for a cold, hard fact disproving it.

Why am I talking about psychics, you ask? Well, three days ago Brittany handed me an envelope.

"What's this?"

"A coworker asked her psychic whether we were having a boy or a girl. She wrote the answer down and put it in an envelope. While I don't want to know what it says, I thought you might."

Now, for the record, I've met this coworker before and she is anything but crazy. She's kind, smart and funny. She once told Brittany that I was a very handsome husband—that's proof of smart, not funny (you jerks). Getting her psychic to project the sex of our baby because I desperately want to know is also a very, very kind thing to do.

Now, this puts me in a bit of a predicament—which my wife loves. If I open the envelope, I'm essentially saying that there may be teensy, weentsy chance that I actually believe in said "magical" powers. In my mind, this is as miserable as admitting to my softball buddies that I believe in the designated hitter (which I do NOT!). If I stick to my guns and don't open the envelope, I'll prove that I don't believe in this hocus pocus once and for all.

So, using my best judgment, I left it on the coffee table—unopened—and went up to bed, resisting temptation and sticking by my principles. It was one of the proudest moments of my life. Of course, the minute Brittany fell asleep I was back downstairs, envelope in hand, trying to steam the seal open—which, by the way, does not work nearly as well as it does in the movies.

I couldn't bring myself to do it, though. And now, three days later, I'm still agonizing over it. Why do I care what some psychic thinks? I didn't care when the doctor told us he thought we were having a girl. I also didn't care when, three months later, the same doctor said that he thought we were having a boy (This way, as he sees it, he can't be wrong). Just like the doctor, my sister, Brittany's sister, Brittany's mom, my mom and anyone else who cares to take a stab, the psychic has got the same 50/50 shot as anyone.

The truth of the matter is, while I don't actually believe the psychic has insider info, I am curious of her opinion. Maybe it's so when the baby is born I can say, "A-HA! See, no one can predict the future." Maybe it's because if she's right, I need time to prepare my "What a lucky guess" speech. Either way, I think one thing is evident: I'm going to open this envelope.

So, as I sit here typing, I start to tear through the flap. I made sure no one is looking, looking both ways as if I was crossing the street. It's finally open. I see a piece of paper. I unfold it. And, according to the psychic, we're having a …

Hmmm…that's interesting. I guess we'll just have to wait and see if she's right.

My Father's Son ...

My mom likes to tell the story of when I was born, but I think it's important to hear it from my point of view. Most of it is true; though the names have been changed to protect their innocence.

It was the most beautiful day that there ever was. OK, OK. It wasn't "the most beautiful" but it was a nice day. She was sitting at home, watching soap operas—I mean, doing something smart like The New York Times Crossword and reciting her state capitals—when all of a sudden I started to kick.

"Oh #*$@, I think those are contractions!"

She called my dad, who worked 20 minutes away, and, in an extremely calm and pleasant voice, said, "If you don't get home in less than five minutes and drive me to the hospital I swear I'll name this kid Garfunkel." Four minutes later, he was unlocking the door and grabbing her overnight bag.

The ride to the hospital took even less time. Stop signs were ignored. Speed limits didn't exist. Pedestrians did not have the right of way. They pulled up to the front of the hospital and rushed inside. After only a few minutes of waiting, they got upstairs and into the birthing room.

Now my mom has her opinion on how long and painful the experience was, but she obviously was drugged and delusional. I like to think that the labor was as comfortable as a weeklong massage, as smooth as a Ken Griffey Jr. swing and as exciting as a Donnie Osmond solo. It may have been the second greatest moment in history, just after the invention of the Pop Tart.

As I made my way down the water slide known as the birth canal, I said goodbye to my neighbors, Keith the Kidney and Belinda the Bladder. "World, here I come!" When my head popped out, I winked at the doctor letting him know that I was ready. Moments later, I was born.

They cut my umbilical cord (or umbiblical cord, as I apparently have been calling it for years) and handed me to my mom. I had a round head, a full noggin of hair and a face that would make your average Gerber baby jealous. Both my mom and dad stared at me with tears in their eyes, proud as could be. I responded the only way I knew how—by farting.

"Definitely his father's son."

The next day, plenty of people visited me in the hospital. So many new faces. So many people holding me. So many fingers pinching my cheeks—both facial and non-facial! My features quickly began to change. My eyes became darker, my smile brighter and my hair began falling out (a trend that would make a revival later in my life). Some folks thought I looked like an angel. My mom, on the other hand, thought I looked like Ed Asner.

I was getting acclimated to the new world as much as the new world was getting acclimated to me. At the time, I didn't know what my life would hold. I didn't know that my parents would raise me to be a smart and loving adult. I didn't know that I'd have a sister who'd idolize me (oh yes, Jennie, you do). I didn't know I'd have friends that would pick me up when I was down. I didn't know that I'd meet the most amazing girl in the world, marry her and then get her to carry my baby.

I just didn't know how wonderful my life would be.

And, as I sit here at my keyboard, contemplating the life-altering event that's less than eight weeks away, I thank my lucky stars. Not so much because my life is wonderful, but more because I wasn't named Garfunkel.

Everybody Loves Brian …

After reading nearly seven books on parenting, two on baby names and a weekly newsletter devoted to everything pregnancy, I can safely say that I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing. Sure, I know better than to name the kid Saddam or let him drink alcohol before he's smart enough to get a fake ID, but I'm not sure I know what to do in the ever-important emergency situation.

And I mean REAL emergency situations.

Any doctor can tell you what to do if you child is running a fever, but he can't save you from leaving the pumpkin seat on top of the car—with the child in it! He can tell you how to properly bandage up a scraped knee, but can't tell you how to cover up the incident (grocery cart race) that caused the scraped knee. And, don't even think about asking him what to do if you leave the kid at the casino.

Seriously, what do we pay doctors for, anyway?

That's why I've decided to turn to the experts in this field: TV Dads. While I know this may sound a bit unorthodox, it's not as absurd as you'd think. "Everybody Loves Raymond," "According to Jim," "Homer"—these guys wrote the book on parenting for the real emergencies that fathers face. So I started studying them all in-depth, learning the ways of the absent-minded father. I took notes. I highlighted those notes. I sniffed the highlighter for several minutes.

Wow, I really am going to make a great dad.

Brittany wasn't nearly as convinced, so she asked if she could put me through a rigorous quiz. I agreed because 1) I like quizzes and 2) I had no idea what "rigorous" meant. We decided that she would present me with three tough scenarios to put my TV Dad skills to the test. How did I fare? I'll let you judge for yourself:

Scenario #1: You're enjoying a pleasant afternoon with your child, lounging around the house, doodling in a Spider-man coloring book. You turn your head for two seconds (OK, more like the entire 5th inning) and, when you look back, your child has conveniently shoved a red crayon up his nose. What do you do?

Answer: This is no time to panic. Take another crayon, say the green one, and stick it up the other nostril. Grab two straws and shove them up your nostrils. When your wife returns, tell her that the two of you were pretending to be walruses. This will not only come off as cute, but also will score you bonus points as it will make for an excellent Christmas card.

Scenario #2: Your buddy Roger buys your little girl a permanent marker as a joke. The joke will obviously wear off when your wife, who is taking a nap, eventually wakes up with a wall full of squiggly lines—and a mustache. What do you do?

Answer: Find every empty beer can in the house and strategically place them all around your sleeping wife. If you have to, chug a few cold ones to make sure you have enough. Draw a mustache on yourself then place the marker in her hand. When all the pieces are in place, fake a police siren to wake her up. When she gets up and asks you what happened, just shake your head in disgust and tell her that you can forgive her for drawing on the walls, but it'll take awhile for you to get over her "Mustache Party." [Also, remember this when Roger becomes a parent: "Hey kids, who wants a bucket of paint?"]

Scenario #3: The baby has dumped a load on the carpet because you (dad) were too busy using his diaper as a beer coozie. What do you do?

Answer: Quickly buy a dog, give it to your wife as a present when she gets home from work, and let her hug and kiss you for the generosity of finally giving her the dog she's been begging you to get for years. Moments later, pretend to notice the mess on the floor, scream at the dog, announce that you will not tolerate such behavior and immediately return it to the pet store.

I must have really aced that quiz, because when we finished Brittany was speechless. In fact, she even put a sticker on my shirt that said "I'm special." It was a really proud moment for me.

In retrospect, I'm not sure if shows like "Everybody Loves Raymond" offer the best parenting advice. The dad is always doing something stupid, and I don't want to be a stupid father. I want to raise the bar for dads everywhere. And I promise that I will.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got more highlighters to sniff.

Our Tiny Dancer …

Last time we visited the doctor (week 15), he told us that Brittany could start feeling movement at any time. It’s exciting news to hear, considering up until this point the baby has essentially been about as active as a thumbtack. But once you get this type of information you spend every waking second wondering when and where the baby is going to strike.

So like any self-respecting, good-hearted, good-looking father-to-be would, I began poking Brittany’s belly. Not hard, but just hard enough to let the baby know that we’re here and waiting. After all, this freeloader has already cost us several hundred dollars in doctor bills, forced us to keep weird combinations of food around the house and increased the level of whining of one of the two people who live at Casa De Klems (I won’t name names).

Two weeks of this poking passed and nothing. Zilch. Nada. Now I don’t remember much about being a fetus, but I’m 99-percent positive that I spent the majority of that time eating, growing and chicken dancing. In fact, I think my mom has pictures.

But this little booger hadn’t even been born yet and was already disobeying my every command. I said, “kick,” but no kick. I said “wiggle,” but no wiggle. I said, “O-H,” but no “I-O.” This kid’s greatest trait to date was the ability to stay still, be lazy and irritate me. Obviously he (or she) got those genes from his mother.

When we weren’t getting the results we wanted, we thought maybe Brittany didn’t know what a kick felt like. I mean, it’s not like it’s ever happened before. So she called a few friends who had gone through the process. Most folks said the first few times feel like butterflies swirling around in your belly, which was interesting. (Note to self: Brittany needs to find new friends who don’t eat butterflies.) Everyone else gave us the typical, “Oh, you’ll know” response, which was about as useful as a foot fungus.

I was beginning to think that our kid was never going to move. Then, one fateful Wednesday afternoon while I was at work, I received an important e-mail that would brighten my mood and alter the rest of my day:

“Hey dude, did you know there are donuts in the break room?—Chuck.”

What? I really like donuts.

Anyway, later that night, when I got home, I received a call from Brittany.

“I feel the baby kicking! I feel the baby kicking!”

It turns out that on her drive home from work, she casually flipped on the radio and WHAM—the baby started dancing. How did she know? For three reasons: 1) She had never felt anything like it before; 2) the movement was constant and 3) the band was Green Day—and any child of mine would choose Green Day as its first dance. Now it wasn’t all roses, as Brittany feared that they baby was moshing into her organs. In fact, she claims to have heard her typically polite spleen yell out, “Hey kid, watch those elbows.”

For days I stuck to Brittany like glue with my hand on her belly, but I couldn’t feel anything. I accompanied her everywhere—the grocery store, the library, the bathroom—and there was no movement. Finally, one morning as we laid in bed, the baby got restless. I placed my hand just below my wife’s belly button and there it was: a kick. It was faint and quick, but it was there. With that, fatherhood seemed less like idea and more like a reality.

I was grateful I got to share in that moment. I was also grateful that this excitement caused Brittany to overlook the fact that her shirt was wide open. Not many mornings start out that perfect. If the baby could talk, I’m sure he would agree.

He’d also be saying “I-O.”

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.