What's in a Name, Part IV (The Final Four)

Today I submitted for consideration four potential names for my daughter. I will not divulge them. The baby-naming process is drawing to a close, though I think that nothing will be final until August.

We pored over several books of baby names: some containing a mere 10,000, others up to 50,000. Following my self-imposed parameters (not to mention the near-constant "reminders" from my wife), I whittled our baby name list down to four. My Lovely Wife will select our daughter's first name from that list.

Finding one, let alone four, names that I liked was harder that I thought. Whether you are aware of it or not, I think we all have pre-conceived notions about certain names. I immediately discarded a name my wife really favored because I couldn't shake that it rhymed with "Bedelia" and wanted my daughter to live free of that connotation.

It's easy to pick a name that is cute for a baby, but tough to remember that my daughter will grow older with the same name. Can I really picture the name "Lexy" on a business card?

From 50,000 we are down to four. One of those four will be what I call my daughter for the rest of her life (unless she's in trouble, in which case she will be called by her full name).

The hardest part is going to be keeping quiet about the name after we pick it. One reason I tried to delay the naming process is to limit the chances I have to let the name slip out.

No matter which name we give our daughter, it will be perfect and, over time, we'll be hard pressed to recall the other three possibilities or even entertain calling our daughter by a different name. Though to be perfectly honest, I'm still partial to "Lefty."

What's in a Name, Part I
What's in a Name, Part II
What's in a Name, Part III

Becoming a Varsity Dad

It was, in a roundabout way, because of sports that I decided to start an expectant-father blog. After reading and admiring the work of a few bloggers/writers in particular, I was inspired to write down my own thoughts and feelings while trying to maintain a sense of humor. In particular, three writers stand out and their blogs are linked on the right: Big Daddy Drew, who is funnier than me, Will Leitch, who knows more about sports than me, and Dan Shanoff, who wakes up much earlier than me (oh, and that whole Harvard MBA thing, too).

I bring this up because Shanoff, after his stint at ESPN and on his own, officially debuted his newest blog this week: Varsity Dad. Varsity Dad can be found at the intersection of parenthood and fanaticism and, in its own words, "is dedicated to raising a great sports fan." Who am I to welcome a guy like Shanoff into the world of Daddy Blogging, but welcome anyway, Dan.

Stories about fathers pushing their children harder as a vicarious extension of their own athletic fantasies are passe (besides, in my family, my father was a far better athlete than I ever have been). But stories about fathers passing along sportsmanship, fandom, and fanaticism? It is a great idea that got me thinking about the values my daughter will hold.

Just Say No To Pink
This goes to the top of the list, mainly because it is my wife's biggest pet peeve. There is nothing cool about off-color team memorabilia. With rare exception ("Green Sox" St. Patrick's Day attire), any piece of clothing or accessory must adhere to the team's current or former color scheme. And I don't care how much of the $1 profit goes to breast cancer research or how cute it looks, pink Phillies hats are a sin.

Like Father, Like Daughter?
By my last sentence above, it seems I assume that my daughter will grow up to embrace the same team loyalties as her father. I would like that to be true, but it will be difficult. I wrote about this before. I'm a Philly guy living in a DC world. I have two decades of living in Philadelphia and all those accumulated memories to fall back on. To my daughter, Philly might only be known as the smelly city where grandma lives. I don't want to insulate my daughter from the Washington sports scene, heck, her father is a Nationals' season ticketholder. But if she came home one night wearing a Redskins jersey, I don't know if I could handle it.

Basic Knowledge
If I can't bring my daughter up to bleed Eagles green or Phillies red, the least I can do is raise her with a basic understanding of the rules of each sport. We might have to wait until she's a little older for her to grasp the intricacies of the infield fly rule or the tuck rule, but I plan on putting a premium on her understanding which sports have runs, points and goals. Such information should be as ingrained as the knowledge of colors and shapes.

Be True To Your School
Phillies red isn't the only color daddy bleeds. Sometimes it's Terrapin red. Growing up in Philadelphia, I was surrounded by quality college athletics (Penn State football, Temple basketball) and some pretty terrible programs (Penn State basketball, Temple football). Despite this, I had no real college allegiance. Maybe it's because my parents' alma maters never get any airtime outside of Ohio. That changed in the fall of 1996, when I became a University of Maryland student and devoted fan. (Devoted = I continue to pay for that education to this day, so I better take some pride in the sports programs).

I plan to expose my daughter to college athletics at a young age, to instill that school spirit (let me re-phrase that, to instill that in-state tuition school spirit). She is, however, free to choose whatever institution of higher learning she wishes to attend. So long as it isn't Duke.

Be a Good Sport
Daddy isn't much of an athlete. Yes, daddy played some sports through high school, but it's not really like that. During lunchtime at baseball camp, while others ate and horsed around, daddy read baseball books. Daddy was the one who always volunteered to coach first base. Daddy's career batting average is below .250 and he threw out approximately 8% of all baserunners stealing second.

There's a good chance that my unborn daughter will continue my athletic tradition of enthusiastic participation with subpar execution. I can tell you, at any given moment in any situation, where the baseball should be thrown. My problem was always getting it there. But through it all, daddy kept a smile on his face.

And if I can impart one thing to my daughter, it would be to keep that smile on your face. Sports may be big business, but they are still glorified games, and are meant to be enjoyed. Nothing stirs emotions like sports and few secondhand payoffs are as glorious as a team victory. Just so long as that team isn't the Redskins.

Can I Kick It?

According to all I've been reading my daughter is having quite the time inside of my wife. She's small enough to move freely and rotate through various positions. She is also developing her senses and is able to hear sounds. And, according to my wife, my daughter is very lively, often disrupting the workday to do a somersault or grab the umbilical cord for an in utero double dutch competition.

The thing is, this is all hearsay to me. My baby could be breaking out her Fisher Price My First Jackhammer inside my wife but, the second my hand slides down to feel, she stops. She kicks, I feel, she stops. She flips, I feel, she stops. My daughter is either afraid of me to the point or paralysis or has already figured out how to mess with daddy's head. Either is an unsettling thought.

My daughter might be scared of my hand because I'm still a stranger, but that's no fault of my own. For whatever reason, my wife isn't too keen on me speaking into her belly button. The parenting manuals tell me I should be speaking to my daughter in some special bonding experience. I can't even lean in to whisper to my wife without her thinking I'm trying to talk to her belly.

I guess I'll have to wait connect with my daughter. Pretty soon, she'll be too big to even suck her thumb in the womb without it being visible. And pretty soon, she'll get tired of hearing my voice. I thought that I'd at least make it to age 12 before she started ignoring me!

A New Week Dawns

So there are just two new episodes of "The Sopranos" left. A Sunday night tradition ends on June 11. During the three months or so a year that "The Sopranos" was on, cooking up a big dinner and settling in for a good hour of television was the perfect way to end a weekend. No matter if your Saturday and Sunday were filled with errands, activities or general malaise, "The Sopranos" was always there for you at 9 pm.

I'm not going to draw a forced parallel between the finale of my favorite mob drama and the end of weekends like the one I just had. Unlike most of the past few weekends, and surely unlike most of the upcoming, the past two days had a errand/play balance that was quite relaxing and nearly 100% baby-free.

I don't want to sound selfish or cynical, but a good amount of free time has been spent on baby-related issues, particularly of late. But the past two days -- if you can look past my wife's waddling and my obsession with studying every stroller I pass -- were a weekend I haven't had in a while. And ya know what? It was pretty nice.

I know that the coming weeks will be hectic and the coming years more so. I'd like to think that I'm able to reflect on a semi-spontaneous weekend, one that saw my wife and I in two different places, 20 miles apart, for a few hours without coordinating who was going to be where and when. Today I spied a few couples, walking behind a stroller, laden with diaper bags and other accessories. I know that pretty soon - twelve weeks to be exact -- I will join their ranks.

In twelve weeks, leaving the house becomes a multi-step process; getting in a car comes with instructions. Twelve weeks from now, popping into a coffeeshop means having to find stroller parking and enough space to put a carrier. In twelve weeks, I'll no longer be travelling alone. And I eagerly await that. But this weekend, it was nice to be just a couple.

Everyone's Excited. I'm Excited, Too, I Swear.

Somewhere along the line, I became a worrier. I can trace it back to the end of my sophomore year of college; I distinctly remember worrying about my living situation and a feeling of impending dread and homelessness as I was unable to fill all of the rooms in my group house. Despite all of my sky-is-falling feelings, the house was filled, and life moved on. But I think that's the first time I really started to sweat some small stuff.

I don't worry about everything, there's probably a few things I should worry about more. But from time to time, there are things that get me worrying, get me stressed, and hinders my ability to truly revel in a situation. Take that group house in College Park. For all the worry and stress I put into that situation, I probably could've salvaged a few free afternoons and evenings where I could've been doing something much more -- or much less -- productive.

That pattern of worry and internal stress has repeated a few times over the years, and I have to admit, I'm going through it again. Now, all of the Daddy Books I've read have chapters devoted to this. It is only natural that an expectant father's thoughts turn to providing for his wife and child during this time. It is only natural to feel anxious about this life-changing event. But sometimes, it's mentally paralyzing.

Let me state this first: I know, am absolutely certain, that everything is going to work out. I'm a fairly smart guy, with decent common sense. I make a decent living and somehow managed to snag myself a beautiful and brilliant wife who brims with logic and common sense and also makes a decent living. I know that everything (what an encompassing word) will be fine. But that doesn't ease the worry. Three months from tomorrow, a baby girl will be looking to me and my wife to provide her with everything. It's scary.

While I didn't invent the phrase "mental paralysis" that I used above, I think I've begun to typify it during this pregnancy. Mental paralysis is, simply, a brain fart. It's being temporarily unable to make a basic or simple decision. Often, it's triggered by numerous choices or a seemingly large task. Becoming a father falls into the latter category, but the former is present, too.

Between all the books to read (some I have, some I haven't), between all of the products that need to be researched and purchased (which stroller is best for my lifestyle and safest for my child), and between all of the random questions that pop up (how do I change a diaper), I've managed to combine mental paralysis with the worry and internal stress. A fine cocktail, indeed.

While I am sure that everyone is interested in my internal strife, what has become a problem is how this is affecting me externally (speaking of, maybe that's to blame for the big zit between my eyes, too). The worry, the doubt, the questions, the stress, they all counterbalance the excitement. And that's bad inside and out.

I had a difficult time separating the joy of my first home purchase with the weight of responsibility (and the size) of my first mortgage. I really think that worry and stress kept me from fully enjoying the experience. That dichotomy's back and, as the saying goes, it's bigger than ever. Which means that I have a hard time keeping the worry and stress out of sight any longer.

My poor wife. I'm sure she thinks I'm more excited about the mundane (baseball scores, finding a penny) than our child. The truth is that I have a tough time thinking about my daughter without it turning into a Mr. Subliminal sketch. I can't wait for my daughter to be born (hospital bills), it's a day that my wife and I will cherish. I can't wait for the first time I see her (please be cute, but not too cute), touch her (are all her digits accounted for?) and even hear her cry (oh god, what does she want?). The wonders don't stop after the first few months, in time, I'll watch her learn to smile (she'll need braces for sure), laugh (just not like Janice from "Friends" ok?), sit up (straight at the dinner table, Miss), roll over (gymnastics lessons at 6 am? Get in the car), talk (and talk back), and learn (better get a second mortgage for college).

It's both fun and funny to watch my girl's future grandparents. They are so excited about the birth, so much looking forward to their grandchild. It's fun because I love to see my mother and in-laws this happy, having a grandchild must be one of the more fulfilling experiences. And it's funny because I know that they are enjoying it so much because they've worried enough about us, so now they can relax.

The worry and the stress crept in early during the pregnancy, but I hadn't succumbed to it until recently. I've got three months to go. I don't want the worry, the stress, the fears to block the joy of the coming twelve weeks, but it might be too late. I am excited and anxious about becoming a parent. It is something I've known I wanted to be for a long time and it's finally going to happen. It just might not be readily apparent on my face, or in my words, or even in some of my actions from time to time. Usually within 15 minutes or so of me checking my bank account.

I'm self-aware enough to understand this is happening, and I'm optimistic enough to think it will pass. I'm smart enough to know I should probably smack myself around and get over it. But I'm enough of a realist to know that I won't get over it, at least not on my own. I won't get over it until not one, but two sets of eyes are looking at me. The two women that I love more than anything else in the world, looking at me, smiling (or defiantly sleeping with eyes pressed shut). Knowing, between the three of us, that everything will work out. Knowing that life, love, and family relationships aren't always easy, but always worth the effort. And to those women, I hope they know how truly exciting, blessed, and special this time is for me. And, I hope they know I worry a bit, but it doesn't mean I care any less.

The Ides of May

Yesterday was the 15th of the month and you know what that means...

• Check bank account online to ensure direct deposit has been deposited directly
• Pay outrageous condominium association fee so those geriatric-home style carpets in the hallway are cleaned regularly
• Mentally prepare for baby arriving two weeks sooner than last internal freakout
• Write e-mails to day care centers extolling virtues of unborn child

So about that last one.

Identifying and touring day care centers was the easy part. Actually being moved from waitlist to accepted by said centers is a modern-day equivalent of the "Ooh, ooh pick me" days of elementary school dodgeball.

Apparently, cutting a check for $50-$125 or facing an uncertain future wherein I bring my daughter to work in my briefcase, then quietly rock her to sleep in my file drawer, isn't enough to prove to day care centers that I am serious about their services.

Every single place I toured recommended regular e-mails or communications, about once a month, to "just stay in touch." Apparently, some overzealous parents take this a step further, offering baked good bribes and more to the center. (Hey, any of you caretakers have an employment issue with the federal government? How about a pending zoning request in front of the Parks and Planning Commission? I got the hook up).

I understand that expectant parents blanket any available infant care center within a five-mile radius of their home and their office. I understand that these facilities do not want to waste their time with parents that are not seriously intersted in placing their child in that center. I'm not sure why it costs me money -- more money than it did to apply for college, when someone had to read and process my credentials -- to write down my name and phone number on a list.

But, as is protocol, I happily cut the checks, and cheerfully send an e-mail on the 15th of every month. Sometimes, there is an actual point to the e-mail, like last month's, which revealed Baby TBD is now Baby Daughter TBD. This month's e-mail was more focused on the recent string of nice weather in the DC area.

So the e-mails have been sent, and a few even wrote back ("thanks for staying in touch!"). In the meantime, can focus on other things for 29 more days, until June 15, when the same day care centers will receive the same e-mail from me. Seems silly, since we're not even looking until the first of December, maybe even January.

By the time my daughter enrolls in a day care, she'll have spent more time its waiting list than inside my wife's uterus.

Ten Simple Rules...

Know that person in your office, or maybe it's an extended relative, that loves e-mail forwards? Well, today I am masquerading as that person, but injecting a personal touch to the well-travelled words below.

Ten Simple Rules for Dating My Daughter

Rule One: If you pull into my driveway and honk you’d better be delivering a package, because you’re sure not picking anything up.

Rule Two: You do not touch my daughter in front of me. You may glance at her, so long as you do not peer at anything below her neck. If you cannot keep your eyes or hands of my daughter’s body, I will remove them.

Rule Three: I am aware that it is considered fashionable for boys your age to wear their trousers so loosely that they appear to be falling off their hips. Please don’t take this as an insult, but you and all of your friends are complete idiots. Still, I want to be fair and open minded about this issue, so I propose this compromise: You may come to the door with your underwear showing and your pants ten sizes too big, and I will not object. However, in order to ensure that your clothes do not, in fact come off during the course of your date with my daughter, I will take my electric nail gun and fasten your trousers securely in place to your waist. I'm more liberal on this issue. Unlike the middle-age crank who originally wrote this, I am from the Droopy Drawer Generation, so this behavior doesn't shock me. I believe in fairness and equality, however, so if you come into my home looking like that, you will be subject to the same rules as my daughter: If I can see your underwear, you are not leaving the house.

Rule Four: I’m sure you’ve been told that in today’s world, sex without utilizing a “barrier method” of some kind can kill you. Let me elaborate, when it comes to sex, I am the barrier, and I will kill you. This is well said.

Rule Five: It is usually understood that in order for us to get to know each other, we should talk about sports, politics, and other issues of the day. Please do not do this. The only information I require from you is an indication of when you expect to have my daughter safely back at my house, and the only word I need from you on this subject is “early”. We will have one discussion relating to history. See Rule Six.

Rule Six: I have no doubt you are a popular fellow, with many opportunities to date other girls. This is fine with me as long as it is okay with my daughter. Otherwise, once you have gone out with my little girl, you will continue to date no one but her until she is finished with you. If you make her cry, I will make you cry. To reinforce this point, we will have a discussion on Hammurabi's Code, making sure that you are crystal clear on the concept of "and eye for an eye."

Rule Seven: As you stand in my front hallway, waiting for my daughter to appear, and more than an hour goes by, do not sigh and fidget. If you want to be on time for the movie, you should not be dating. My daughter is putting on her makeup, a process that can take longer then painting the Golden Gate Bridge . Instead of just standing there, why don’t you do something useful, like changing the oil in my car?

Rule Eight: The following places are not appropriate for a date with my daughter: Places where there are beds, sofas, or anything softer than a wooden stool. Places where there are no parents, policemen, or nuns within eyesight. Places where there is darkness. Places where there is dancing, holding hands, or happiness. Places where the ambient temperature is warm enough to induce my daughter to wear shorts, tank tops, midriff T-shirts, or anything other then overalls, a sweater, and a goose down parka – zipped up to her throat. Movies with a strong romantic or sexual theme are to be avoided; movies which feature chain saws are okay. Hockey games are okay. Old folks homes are better. While you are there, feel free to visit my mother. I am sure she will approve of your behavior and attire.

Rule Nine: Do not lie to me. I may appear to be a potbellied, balding (thanks genetics!), middle-aged, dimwitted has-been. But on issues relating to my daughter, I am the all-knowing, merciless god of your universe. If I ask you where you are going and with whom, you have one chance to tell me the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I have a shotgun, a shovel, and five acres behind the housea jury of other fathers will understand. Do not trifle with me.

Rule Ten: Be afraid. Be very afraid. It takes very little for me to mistake the sound of your car in the driveway for a chopper coming in over a rice paddy near Hanoi . When my Agent Orange starts acting up, the voices in my head frequently tell me to clean the guns as I wait for you to bring my daughter home. As soon as you pull into the driveway you should exit your car with both hands in plain sight. Speak the perimeter password, announce in a clear voice that you have bought my daughter home safely and early, then return to your car – there is no need for you to come inside. The camouflaged face at the window is mine. Listen, all that stuff in Rule Ten, I cannot relate to that. I have never seen combat. Not in Vietnam, not in Iraq, not anywhere. The closest I've been to war is watching Apocalypse Now. I do enjoy drinking whiskey and listening to Rage Against the Machine, which is something to be considered.

Livening Up the Dog Days

I interrupt this blog for a special announcement. Cancel my plans for Sunday, August 19. Clear my calendar. I'm going to meet my daughter that day.

Or possibly the next day.

We found out yesterday that my wife's doctor recommends inducing labor two weeks prior to her scheduled September 2 due date. This means many things.

First, it means My Lovely Wife, who has never shied from any circumstance in life will likely avoid her greatest fear: natural labor and child birth.

Also, it allows me to think of my daughter being "inducted" into the world, which sounds much more formal than "born." Think about it, most of us are simply born into life. But you are inducted into the Hall of Fame. Now, which is the more impressive verb?

Finally, it means that this - this whole having a baby thing - is really going to happen. And I now know when.

Yes, there are other ways in which the pregnancy felt "real." I didn't always spend my free time on the Babies R Us Web site, my wife didn't always have boobs the size of small asteroids, and the last time I used a camera to spy on an unsuspecting woman, it didn't happen at an OB/GYN office. But having a date - a real set date - that's real. (on a related note, that previous sentencec? that's deep.)

What I didn't know until my wife was expecting was that due dates are not much more than educated guesses. Do you know anyone who was born on - or delivered on - their due date? After the airlines and weathermen, prenatal doctors are the worst prognosticators by profession.

But on August 19, 2007 - National Aviation Day - there will be three of us. It's like the opposite of a wrestling match: The Maternity Ward: Two Will Enter, Three Will Exit.

Depending on circumstances, that night, Sunday, August 19, could be the last quiet night in my life for two decades.

On one hand, it's comforting to know that our doctors will be in control of the labor and delivery process; hopefully there will not be any surprises. With the other hand, I can point to that terrifyingly delightful moment when family goes from concept to reality, and I, quite literally, have a mouth to feed. It is thrilling and frightening at once.

I think it's better to know the date than not - one of my mantras the past six months has been "I want to know as much as possible, because there will be so much I don't know." (another mantra: "Holy fuck, how do I do this?"). I'm also glad to know that that delivery will be August 19 because the Phillies are in town the week before, and I have tickets. I have to babyproof the stadium.

Registration

Know what I didn't enjoy but didn't really matter that much?
Wedding registry.
Know what I don't really enjoy but is very, very important?
Baby registry.

This time last year, my wife and I thought it a fantastic idea to have 12 red wine glasses,12 white wine glasses, and 12 champagne flutes. Unless we throw dinner parties like royalty in the next few years, I'm thinking that we got a bit overzealous with our wedding registry.

At the time, I didn't like registering for wedding gifts because it combines the dull bore of shopping with the soulless void of not actually purchasing anything. I didn't like registering for wedding gifts because sometimes, I don't have an opinion on what water glasses should look like. I know this is difficult for some people to understand. If it is difficult for you to understand, you are a woman.

Building a baby registry is completely different.

Instead of debating what threadcount sheets I should put on my bed until a late-night wine accident renders that gift moot, I now have to consider the crib my baby will sleep in, the car seat she will travel in, and most importantly, the stroller that she will cruise in.

Know why this isn't the right stroller?
Because it's for dogs.

As a semi-urban family, we do not have a car and rely on the DC Metro or our own two feet to get around. This time next year, the safe money is on us having a car, but maybe not in the next six months. So, for us, the stroller will be where our baby is secured most often and is the most important thing we can buy.

And guess what, I'm supposed to be researching strollers right now. And I'm not. If only I could see the look on My Lovely Wife's face tomorrow, as her happiness that I posted for the first time in many days gives way to reading that previous sentence.

Now, there's a chance that I will look at strollers following this post. And I'll likely take some time tomorrow to do it as well, but right now, I'd rather be discussing it than doing it. Researching a stroller - and researching most baby products - is like nothing I've ever done before.

I don't know much about cars, but I can tell you which models are the best buy. I haven't been following the NBA playoffs, but I know enough to keep up a conversation. But what am I looking for in a stroller? Well, I'm not sure. What should I be looking for?

We've both read books and leaned on some friends for support and information, but I remain fairly clueless on what to do. I don't think I've seen the light at the end of the ignorance tunnel so far away since I was in college -- and my daughter will be here in less than a semester.

Guess I better hit the books.

All Thumbs & Two Left Feet

"The best part about being a father," one of my friends recently confided, "is that you have this little person who looks up to you and thinks you are a freaking superhero."

From the time she's little right up until she becomes a jaded teen, I'm hoping my daughter thinks that highly of me. It's easy when they are little:

"Ohmygosh, Daddy, you disappeared right behind your hands. Ohmygosh, then you re-appeared. Again! Again!"

It gets trickier as they grow old:

"How'd that quarter get behind my ear! Hey, gimmie my nose back!"

By the time they reach double-digits, the magic curtain of parenthood gets tossed aside:

"No one cares what's behind your back, just take me to the mall, and drop me off in back."

I bring this up because there are things that parents - and fathers in particular - are expected to do, just like magic. A well-rounded father is equal parts joke-machine, bank teller, camel, field doctor, and all around handyman. It has become obvious to me that one of these titles will forever elude me. I cannot fix anything.

As any good child of my generation, my inability to do handywork is not my fault, it is my parents'. Growing up, some boys were lucky enough to have plastic hammers and fake workbenches and fond memories of sitting in their father's workshop while he built a spice rack for mom. Me? I got a bench with my name in blocks in it to play with and my father's "workshop" was a shelf in our laundry room where he kept the decades-old leftovers from when he tried to fix up his new place.

My list of items to fix or address in our new condominium is impressive. It is lengthy, written in legible handwriting, and folded neatly into my padfolio. Maybe because I own a padfolio, you can tell that the only item crossed off the list is "Buy numerous expensive tools at hardware store so you feel manly. Stare blankly at tools upon arrival home."

This all comes at the great annoyance of my wife, who probably thinks she was sold a damaged bill of goods when we were married. If I can't manage to hang some curtains, what hope have I of ever putting a bicycle together or re-heading decapitated dolls?

Simple fix-it jobs are a staple of parenthood, taken for granted by adults, taken as magic by awestruck children. I hope that my child will one day have that sense of magic and awe when I pick up that broken Barbie Dream House with one hand, the telephone in the other and call for a contractor.

Oh, and about the title of this post? I can't dance for shit, either.

Quick Hits

Yes, my boss is away this week, why do you ask?

• All that fun I've having about my daughter being left-handed just stopped being fun.
• Quiet baby = quiet home, crying baby = international fame?
• It's May first, so April's Ugly Baby Contest is over. Better luck next month.

Facing the Camera

If you are like my wife, your heart will flutter and your soul will yearn when you see the photographs below.

If you are like me, you will swell with pride, but struggle to hide you find the photographs below bizarre.



During my wife's most recent visit to the doctor, the technician performed a routine ultrasound and reassured us that all was well with our daughter. Before leaving the room, she flipped a switch on the ultrasound machine, and we got the photos below. Apparently, expectant parents who are really into prenatal looks can buy high resolution color photographs using the below technology. We're going to skip that, but at the very least, I am happy to see my daughter has a face.