I Can Barely Raise a Ruckus

(If you have been reading this blog and wondering why there are infrequent updates, you are my wife. Hi, honey. You should also know that tomorrow is our first doctor's appointment, followed by opening the public floodgates with baby news, so stay tuned).

The name of this blog is misleading. I may think that I'm on a nine-month odyssey, but that is just wrong. My life essentially took a left turn a couple weeks ago, and there is no turning around.

Lost in all the hullabaloo of conceiving a child and reading about the wonderful things that will happen to my wife over the next nine months is that shortly after my child pops out, I'm going to have to raise it.

It falls to me to provide invaluable guidance for my child like, "Don't touch that," "Don't put that in your mouth," "No," "Stop," and "Daddy likes his whiskey with lots of ice, not just two cubes."

Here's a little secret: I can't raise shit.

Aside from a fish I once kept alive in a fraternity house for a few months, I've never successfully kept anything alive or substantially improved the existence of anything I've lorded over. This includes:

• A large spindly houseplant I was assured that was so immortal "even the most negligent bachelor can care for it"
• Several turtles I had as pets between ages 12-17
• My quarterbacks in Madden - sorry guys, I know I draft you and then lead you to 25 td, 25 int seasons, you make the playoffs and all, so what if your rating plummets.

So let this be an advance warning to all and especially my unborn child (who no doubt steals my wifi in my wife's womb): I am bigger than you, older than you, more experienced than you, and will do my best to raise you. I hope that I have enough moments of clarity between whiskey hazes that you turn out relatively normal.