And Here...We...Go...

By the title of the blog I'm sure it appears that I'm going to be writing about my little angel.  How sweet and perfect it is.  How it poops pizza and pees delicious craft beers.  Not the case.  This is as much about me and the ripening love goo currently residing in my wife's bread basket, as "'Salem's Lot" is about the state of Maine.  King knows Maine.  I know what's happening in my home.  That's about the extent of it.  The real reason is catharsis.  It's best to talk to people about things, and since my wife, friends, family, and coworkers have all told me that I have been talking WAY too much about this, I decided to put my thoughts somewhere that they would be around forever (I like to be reminded of my mistakes for the entirety of my life).  That, and maybe I'll make someone laugh.  Even if that person is me.  So with that, let me put down a few things before I really get underway.

1. The forthcoming posts will be PG-13.  Which means if you're reading this shit to your 3 year-old as a bedtime story, you're going to have to censor it yourself.  Sometimes words that others consider "bad" are the only real and forceful way to express how you feel.  I'm sure most of the folks who would actually take the time to read this wouldn't care what I say, but hell, I'm considerate.  I wouldn't want make any one's eyes bleed with my dirty typing, so I'm giving fair warning.  Plus, my grandmother's favorite word is "Shit" and she told me since we won't name the baby Shirley, I owed her something.  In my defense, my wife and I were worried if we had a boy and named him after an octogenarian, he'd be some sort of transgender Benjamin Button.
2. I am not a writer.  My English ain't so hot, and my punctuation is even worse so if you have a comment about how I write you can bite me sometimes a run-on sentence is the only way I know how to express myself.  
3. I don't intend to tell you how to raise your children.  Granted, if you do the things I do to raise your kids, they will probably turn out awesome.  However, I don't know what the hell I'm doing.  I'm one of those fly by the seat of your pants OCD planner types.  Which essentially means, I worry my ass off to the point where I'm too tired to do anything to prepare.  What I want is for people to read this and break their worry.  There is too much to worry about if you're having a baby.  It's like dreaming your whole life that you could skydive but you've been putting it off. But suddenly, while you're flying to Hawaii, the plane's door rips off and you get sucked out.  Sure you get to feel the rush of the free-fall, but you also, in the back of your head, realize you're heading toward your doom.  Your glorious, loving, cuddly, bouncing-baby doom.  It's the most bizarre combination of happy and deathly afraid you can imagine.
4. If you don't get satire, or melodrama, or sarcasm this may not be for you.  Normally writers don't have to explain that the things they say are exaggerated.  Unfortunately, in this day and age, people are either hypersensitive or complete morons.  So I'm only spelling this out once:  If you don't get the joke, then the joke is on you.  

That's it.  I'll be posting about what's happening in the pregnancy.  Thoughts, feelings, demented psychotic ravings, worry, references to Pop Culture (Bonus points if you got the reference in the title), and, uh, life (I don't know.  I just needed one more for the list).  This isn't just for parents, parents-to-be, fathers, wives, or necrophiliacs.  It's for all of them, and everybody else.  So, please, read and enjoy my upcoming posts.  Or not.  I don't really care.  I'll still write them and send you reminders on Facebook every other day.  

Next topic....

The Big Reveal