T-minus 10 … 9 … 8 … 7

Just waiting for blast off here at the Thompson house. Today, Dec. 23, is the due date El Doctor set all those months ago for young Baby T’s arrival. As you read this, one of three things will have happened.

Could be I’m at home with the little one, learning how to change diapers and swaddle, as well as saying things I’ll get punished for like, “She spits up like a drunken sailor!” and “Would the baby like some roast beef?”

Could be I’m in the hospital uttering the often repeated, “Now, honey, remember what we learned in birthing class … ‘cus I forgot everything.”
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“Wow! You’ve done a lot already,” my wife said. “Did you try plugging them in before you put them up?”

Blank stare.
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Forget about the avian flu, people. Just forget it. There’s a much bigger threat we need to be thinking about — worrying about — and it’s not a chicken with a runny nose.
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