Natalie was almost a single mom ...

Photo courtesy of Natalie, who likely wishes she married a smarter husband at this point.

Doesn't my hip look like Australia?

This is a picture of my left wrist and hip after riding through a puddle on my triathlon bike 4 days ago. First, I *don't* shave my legs, it's just my Danish heritage, I'm told. Second, this happened because I'm an idiot.

I have a Cervelo triathlon bike that I purchased for my Ironman 2 years ago and recently have had some time on my hands. While awaiting my Texas medical license, without which I am unable to work, I decided to re-enter the world of the fit. After joining a running group and a fitness club, it was time to put the bike to good use. So I've been riding for about 1 month now and decided that I wanted a change in scenery.

Throwing my bike atop my car I drove west and into the Hill Country (so named because, well ... it has hills.) After 50 minutes of driving I decided that Marble Falls seemed like a nice community to ride in. I parked by the high school, threw on my shoes and helmet and took off.

Now it's been a heavy rain season in Texas this year, to the point that the faithful and psycho (we live only a couple of hours from where the Branch Davidians were) probably have contemplated rebuilding the ark. It's Texas, after all. So my route had a few high water spots and streams that crossed the road. 30 minutes into my ride there was a small stream crossing. Rather than play it safe, I sped up and plowed through like I was Evel Knievel. At age 40.

As I was plummeting to the ground, it was amazing what clarity I had. No ... didn't see my life flash before my eyes or remember where my skateboard key was, but I do remember rapidly thinking "That was dumb," "This is going to hurt," "You'll probably break some bones," and "Natalie's going to kill you because you don't have any health insurance yet." At the same time, I was thinking "Jason ... this is a $1600 bike."

When I hit the pavement I felt my flesh burn and my head (with helmet, thankfully) slam to the ground. Both of my hands ached and I quickly removed my wedding ring, as I knew there would be some serious swelling soon. Otherwise I wasn't in much pain, just a warm, uncomfortable feeling. Laying in the middle of the asphalt highway like some unfortunate armadillo, I was afraid to move because moving would likely reveal broken bones. Remaining still seemed like a good option, albeit only a short-term one. Finally, I slowly scootched to the side of the road and staggered to my feet. Getting to my feet was the first accomplishment. Looking down, I noticed that both my shirt and bike shorts were ripped. Blood covered my left arm and slowly dripped to the ground. Inspecting my helmet, I saw that it was cracked and dented. The chin strap was torn off. Most importantly, however, my $1600 bike was mostly intact and seemed ridable.

Unfortunately, I was about 8 miles from my car and I had to ride my bike back. Riding a bike isn't nearly as much fun when you have to do it, just like anything else. It's especially not fun when you can't really grip the handlebars with one of your hands. Still, I managed to get back okay, and one rider in a car gave me a thumbs up sign. Either he was a fellow cyclist or he obtains glee out of seeing them suffer. Not sure.

The final damage was what you see in the picture, a possible broken (but non-displaced, I think) finger on my left hand and a $70 bike repair bill.

6 days to Munchkin's arrival. All is well. Except for all of that stuff I just told you.

What's in a name?

All is well at the beginning of week 38. I'm now sleeping on the futon as Natalie's pillows have multiplied like Tribbles and there's no room on the bed. Besides, the little alien lifeform in her moves around so violently that it shakes our bed all night. It's like plunking a quarter into the bed of a cheap motel, if that still exists anymore. God, I'm getting old. Still things are well and I've left the bed mainly to let Natalie sleep a little better. It'll be nice when this pregnancy is over.

I've been censored. At least partially.

It seems my wife believes that my somewhat sarcastic sense of humor will not be, shall we say, "appreciated" by some of her friends and family. In the interests of marital harmony, I will continue to be myself. And I will not let her family know about this blog. Nor will I let them know that I'm now afraid to go to the bathroom as Natalie has placed the latest issue of Marie Claire atop the toilet. This may not frighten many of you, but this issue has Ashley Olsen (of Full House fame) on the cover. Her big cow eyes stare at me while I pee. This bothers me beyond belief. So I fluid restrict myself now.

Switching gears, I forgot to comment on the hurricanes and hurricane season. Bear with me (not "bare" with me, which would be scandalous as I am married ... a common mistake in writing, I'm told) here ... it has some relevance to the whole fatherhood thing. Kind of. We in Texas were somewhat concerned when Hurricane Dean was battering seemingly unconcerned people in The Caribbean, afraid that it would come our way and ruin our barbecues. Gotta love those people in the islands. They aren't evacuating, worrying or complaining. "If the hurricane comes, it comes ... I ain't afraid." Of course, they're whining like little boys who have had Sponge Bob taken away from them if it hits, complaining about silly little things like, "I don't have enough water" or ... "My child has been swept to sea and I cannot find my mother", but that's another topic.

Before Hurricane Dean - a strong storm with a strong sounding name - there was a Pacific hurricane called, uh ... Flossie. Hurricane Friggin' Flossie.

Right. What kind of name for a hurricane is Flossie? To make things worse, the folks in the Hurricane Center have named over 10 storms named Flossie/Flossy in the past, with the one in 1956 killing 16 people. (Thank God for Wikipedia.) Why is this obscure, ugly name which reminds most people of tooth decay so prevalent in the annals of hurricanedome? Who was the bright guy in the National Hurricane Center who decided someone would have the indignity of a family member being snuffed by Flossie?!

Which ties this to the fatherhood thing. One of the man's sacred tasks during pregnancy is going through a book of 45,000+ names - most of which are ridiculous - with your wife to find an appropriate name for a child. Flossie (which means "Flourishing, Blooming, Prosperous") is in there. And Natalie and I looked at it as well as a slew of other horrid names to find the right name for our impending son/daughter. I'm not sure how much time was devoted to this task, but since we don't want our child being beat up on the playground for his/her formative years, we are taking this seriously. Rule #1: No names in which your child is forced into a career as an exotic dancer. Thus "Trixie", "Bunny" and "Sky" are out. No "Bambi", "Dick Cheney" or "Destiny" either, unfortunately.

We haven't arrived at a single name yet, but we have compiled a short list from which to choose. And you can bet "Flossie" isn't anywhere on the list.

The Latest News and Rants

Greetings. Natalie is now at 36 weeks and 1 day. D-Day (scheduled C-section) is 9/5/7.

It sucks to be the expectant father. I know ... a lot of people would scream that I'm a bad husband for saying this, but deep down I suspect they feel that way as well. Why? Well, first, you really have a minimal bond with the baby/fetus. You don't live with the baby, feel it kicking in the same way or have to deal with the burden. It's not difficult to turn on your side. Your sacroiliac feels fine. You don't feel fat. Well, unless you are fat. Then you should get your butt to the gym.

Natalie's a trooper and has been remarkably low-maintenance during this pregnancy, don't get me wrong. But it's hard to be into the baby when you hear are "Hey! He moved again!" all of the time. Great the first time, even the 20th time, but when you're in triple digits it just doesn't have the same impact. You just want to watch the game, especially if you have high definition TV. Life is much better with high definition TV. You really understand the artistry of "South Park" much better. And then you feel like a bad husband. Again.

I think all husbands feel this way during pregnancy, mainly because our sacrifice isn't even remotely what our wife's is. My body has stayed the same and I never thought the cat's litter box smelled like the depths of hell. Morning sickness? Only when I watched "The View". So I feel even worse for not being excited about every little kick. Hell, the kid's probably going to be kicking us around (figuratively, I hope) for the next couple of decades. Why get excited about it now? See? I'm a bad expectant husband.

Otherwise things are all going well here in Austin. Neither of us are on death row yet. Natalie is waiting for her malpractice insurance and I'm arranging some nephrology and hospitalist work on the side. We try to keep our minds busy before the impending nuclear attack on our sleep this coming 9/5.

So ... what does Natalie look like these days? She said the other day that she was "enormous". Trying to be supportive, I disagreed, trying to boost her fragile spirits.

"You're not enormous. I'd say titanic, but not enormous."

Ugh. Doghouse. Bad husband again. I need to work on that. But here are some pictures ...

Natalie 7 weeks ago in Burlington and our old house ... (actually, still our house as we are still making mortgage payments)

And now 3 days ago ...

"I'm King (Queen) of the World!!!" (Doghouse again ...)

Excitedly Terrified

Excitedly Terrified.



When spending all of 5 minutes pondering a clever title for this blog, which has been created to supposedly update family and friends about our pregnancy and eventual child (but in reality in being done to occupy my time and preserve my sanity) many titles came to mind. I settled on the phrase I've been using to describe my enthusiasm and terror about becoming a father.



I believe this feeling is universal, at least if you care about being a "good" dad. Excitement about bringing a new being into the world. Enthusiasm about unconditional love, at least until the pre-teen years. Fear of dropping the baby. Fear of not being a good enough role model. Fear of not being there when you need to be, and being there when you shouldn't. Fear of a changing world and of explosive diapers.



But I know my personality, and I know this will not just be a "baby blog". Sarcasm and cynicism are just too hard to pin down for long. Hopefully it'll be a fun ride.