Could it be my mother really isn’t faking? That she’s not crazy, but just afflicted with the serious disease known as eccentricity-itis?
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Why is it that guys always wear pain like some fashion statement? It’s a source of pride, a bragging right. “Ouch, yeah. Feels good. I’m cool.”
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OK, so I’ve announced I’m going to be a dad. It’s pretty exciting to tell people and hear their reactions. They’ve ranged from joy and excitement to the occasional burst of laughter followed by, “Dude, you are NOT ready for diapers. Can you even change a garbage bag?”

Yes, I can.

But now that most have found out about my news and I return to the much-less exciting real world, I’m quickly learning that the real world revolves around preparing for Baby T. I’m sure there was a time when pregnancy was easier. Don’t lynch me: I’m not implying childbirth IS or ever WAS easy. (That’s my legal disclaimer to avoid lawsuits.) I know it’s tough, incredibly painful and frankly dangerous. I got an oversized jaw breaker stuck in my mouth once as a kid and it took a lot of heavy breathing, screaming, pushing and finally a crow bar to “birth” it back out the way it went in. I lost three teeth in the process and got a small sampling of what childbirth must be like.

So when I say it must have been easier, I’m only referring to the fact that it couldn’t have always involved so much, you know, baby stuff — cribs, bassinets, strollers, car seats, changing tables and “How Your Baby Can Score 1,500 on the SATs” books.

It’s not fun stuff like toys. That’s what I’m looking forward to getting. But this is functional and necessary stuff.

And there’s a lot to learn. You don’t just go out and buy things, I’m finding out. That’s my natural reaction. Give me the grocery list and I’ll be back in 20 minutes.

But the truth is you must first study and research. My wife told me the other day she was going to check on car seats. So she packed enough food for two weeks, went off with a book and a backpack and I haven’t seen her since, except for a crudely scratched note I found a few days ago that read, “Research good. Encountered bears. Lost a limb. Should be back by November. Don’t wait up.”

You have to research, do your homework, meditate on these things, and ask for wisdom and guidance from the gods of baby stuff who look down and impart their wisdom through sacred sayings like, “He who buys cheap stroller will have child with missing teeth.”

Safety is very critical with kids, and words to the wise for any future dads out there: When your wife’s argument for buying the safest crib is backed up by a statistic on infant injuries each year, never say anything remotely like: “Is that it?!? Shoot, that doesn’t sound like much. Probably more likely to get hit by a car.”

I speak from personal experience.

Safety is critical, and apparently just as important are styles and colors. They might be more important judging by the 28 different colors and patterns that one car seat manufacturer sports, including Central Park and Ivy League.

Again, tread softly. Blurting out something like, “Well, let’s just get navy blue,” could bring back, “Are you kidding? In this hot Florida sun, Navy blue could scorch a kid. Go sleep in the shed!”

Again, personal experience.

But times must have been simpler long ago. Health was an issue and death much more prevalent, but did the caveman worry about registering at Babies ‘R Us? No, and he was much luckier for it. Back then a kid might get a buckskin, a stick to play with and the occasional rock. And nobody researched that rock to see if it was the correct diameter or had lead paint. They just handed it to the kid and hoped he didn’t eat it.

Simpler times. Granted, most dads didn’t live that long or were eaten by cave tigers, but rarely did they ever have to pick between Newport Bears and Metropolitan fabric.

I don’t know how else to say it except to come right out and put it down on paper — I’m going to be a dad.

Yeah, that’s right. The world shall receive another Thompson, quirks and all. The due date is Dec. 23, and a masterstroke of planning for two people who like to think out everything, but could mis-schedule French toast. This should be one heck of a holiday season.

I want to tell you everything, but these writing waters are treacherous. Why? The woman is pregnant, man! You don’t make her mad in a column. I might die. Careful, I must be.

So where to begin? Not the beginning, I’ll tell you that. How about this …

It all began with a scream.

It did. I thought there was a mouse loose in the bathroom, or that she had dropped something important (like the title to our house) in the toilet again. Little did I know the pregnancy test stork, the modern day harbinger of good news, had arrived.

I ran into the bathroom, with tongs ready for the fishing expedition, only to find I’m going to be a dad. What a pleasant surprise. The eloquent stick made a proclamation worthy of Shakespeare — “Pregnant,” it said. Glorious!

I wish they sold tape recorders that can capture emotions, the feelings of a moment. I want forever that joy, that excitement, the overwhelming sense of pride, the crumb-size bit of fear, the surge of energy through the room like it had been struck by lightning, and that … wait a minute, so you didn’t drop anything in the toilet? I get easily distracted.

But there is nothing in life I’ve experienced as exciting as this. And I hope there never is. I’m sure there will be times I will need a gentle reminder, but for now, it’s all blue skies and white fluffy clouds.

Life is changing quickly at the Thompson house. I am busy wrecking a room that was perfectly fine before, but substandard now that a kid is coming. Oh, I’m going to make it wonderful so she has the best room in the house. The wife, the dog and I will stare in like poor people gazing into an upper east side mansion. We’ll wonder why we don’t have heat, smooth walls and nice window treatments.

Oh, yeah, did I mention? We know it’s a she.

Yet, we still call her by her informal name, “Baby T.” My wife came up with that and I like it because it makes me think of Mr. T, as if there is a little gold-chained, muscle-bound, mohawk-topped black man in there saying things like, “What you talkin’ ‘bout, fool”?

That aside, it’s incredible how this all brings clarity to your life, and puts everything in perspective. I tear-ed up at the first sonogram I saw of her — so tiny, so fragile, so scary at certain angles. Is it a baby or an alien?

She grows quickly and time races by. They say it speeds up when you have kids, and I don’t even have one yet. What’s it going to be like when I do?

So much to think about. So much to plan for. I’ve never changed a diaper in my life. The sight of a breast pump makes me feel woozy. I think I will be fine in the delivery room, but if my wife doesn’t take the epidural, I will. There are birthing classes to go to so I can learn to breathe, and cribs to research. We have 22,000 books on pregnancy, and I’ve only made it through the jacket covers. There’s so much to learn and do!

But it’s all so exciting. To tell parents they will be grandparents, or siblings they will be uncles and aunts, and therefore are now officially old.

Oh, and to know the little one is coming. How exciting, how exciting.

Life is about to change for the Thompsons. Nothing will ever be the same again. And my column well already overflows with material. Too bad it’s all designated off limits.