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.”

Why is it so-called “home improvement” projects always on look like little dances through the tulips. So easy. So uncomplicated. Swing your right foot this way, raise your arm, adjust your hips, smile and then spin. Weeeeee!

Is it a bad omen if your first birthing class is canceled by a bomb threat? Just asking. Just wondering. Don’t think I’m one of those paranoid nut jobs who believes every little thing is a sign — “So when the pigeon with the white feather flew north, that’s how I figured the tornado would wreck the mobile home park.”

It was bound to happen. Inevitable is the word. You can run hard from the inevitable, but it will always track you down, trip you up and laugh at your skinned knees. Why fight it? Instead, embrace it. Enjoy it. It is inevitable. And so it went this past weekend, designated officially on the calendar, in federal offices and schools, as baby registration day. Oh, not for all of you people. Simply for the Thompsons. Time for us to go into the baby stores, stare in awe and say things like, “Holy pickled peanut butter, I’ve never seen a breast pump before!” I love the audacity of some places, giving you handy little lists of things they suggest you register for. Get a day stroller, and a night stroller, and possibly a formal stroller, for when you take baby to the ball in black tie. Stock up on formula, especially if you’re going to breast feed, and buy one pacifier for each day of the baby’s life for the first 15 years, just to be sure. My wife and I are serious shoppers. We marched into stores with notebooks and baby-stuff books, dog-eared and highlighted. She quizzed store employees on merchandise with questions like, “So, you say this stroller is all-terrain, but has it ever been tested on the boulder-strewn trails of Mt. Kilimanjaro?” or “In 25 words or less, explain to me why on July 22, Cindy Shumacher was unable to release the easy-go latch while grocery shopping at […]

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. […]

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 […]