And Down the Stretch(mark) They Come!

by SonDog

Yesterday, I had the following brief email conversation with my good friend, mentor and colleague, Marybeth Showalter:

MB: Where is a good funny post about you and your life? I'm tired of sports. Get on it!

SonDog: I went to the doctor last week and was diagnosed with "slackassitis." It's a technical term, so don't worry too much about the definition. At any rate, my creative juices recently have been about as refreshing as a sand storm in Iraq and I haven't really been able to come up with anything that I think people will enjoy. Some people call it "writer's block," while others call it "fucking numbnuts plague."

However, since you requested it, I'll get one up in the next couple of days titled, "Down the Stretch(mark) They Come." I'll give you about one guess about what this one is... about.

So, thank you MB, not only for your delicate prodding, but for the last four years of company. I've said it before and I'll say it again, you will truly be missed.

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The belly and ass regions are expanding by the day.

The exhaustion is at times crippling.

The morning sickness is making a surprise re-appearance.

The nervous energy is starting to take over.

Yes, that's right, I'm a wreck.

Fortunately, LeseDog and R.J. are doing just fine.

We're only about a month away from the soon-to-be celebrated birth of our son, but it feels like D-day is coming faster than anything I've ever encountered. I came to grips with the result of my incredible power of pro-creation months ago (I like to think of myself as an X-Men character at times -- The Procreator), but it still doesn't seem like this is really happening. Here's a few things that I've thought about, learned, or otherwise encountered over the last few weeks:

1) I will need to incorporate the words "poopy butt" into my vernacular very soon.

2) I can't wait to hold my son in my arms for the first time. On the other hand, I have trouble holding a whiskey in my hands from time to time... soooo... I'm scared to death about holding my son in my arms for the first time.

3) I will need to drastically reduce the frequency of the commonly used noun (or adjective, or verb) , "fucker."

4) I can freely admit that my son will be the savior of my liver. I haven't been sober for five months. I'm trying to get it out of the way now so my son can learn to speak by listening to something other than the non-sensical gibberish that comes out of his father's mouth on a nightly basis.

6) I've read three self-help books on sleep deprivation just to be safe.

7) I put together a crib without breaking one part. This, my friends, was one of the most incredible accomplishments in the history of my life.

8) I know more about strollers than I ever wanted to know. In fact, I fear it is taking over my mind. Sometimes I slip the word "stroller" in casual conversation without even stroller knowing it, stroller.

9) The reality of the situation really hits you when you take two, authentic, framed Irish Guinness posters off the wall in order to put up two, authentic, giant teddy bear with diapers wall decorations.

10) I know more about breast pumps than I ever wanted to know. Sometimes I slip the word "breast" and "pump" in casual conversations without even knowing it. For example, "By the way, your breast pumps look great today." The sad part is that this explanation for my perceived perversiveness never seems to work.

11) The primary debate at the moment between LeseDog and myself is deciding whether we should call the boy R.J. or Jackson. Thoughts?

12) And finally, I am coming to grips with the fact that I will soon need to trade in my manly truck for a more practical family vehicle. A lone tear comes to thine eye. However, if you ever see me driving a mini-van, I want you to shoot me. Shoot me right in the head. Then do it again.