Welcome to period.com - Information on Week by week pregnancy pictures

A month and a half away from the birth of my first baby, here's the extent of what I know about fatherhood: We're having a boy. That much is certain. That much has been made clear by the ultrasound pictures. Very clear, if you catch my drift. Either it's a boy, or the kid's bringing a purse.

But that's one of a very few certainties for me right now (well, that and the knowledge that if she wants it badly enough, a pregnant woman can consume a full pound of pepperoni in one sitting). Oh, I've read baby books, I've scanned Web sites. I've finished off What to Expect When You're Expecting and I've watched TLC's "Maternity Ward" show. And by "watched it," I mean "sort of watched it." As in "with my hands over my eyes, the way I used to watch 'The Incredible Hulk' when I was 5." Everyone's all worked up about "Bad Santa" and 50 Cent, but is anyone aware of what they can show you on "Delivery Room"? I'm terrified to flip around my TV anymore, on the off chance I'll mistype ESPN on the remote and accidentally catch some hollering lady producing an infant while squatting in a baby pool.

As you have likely gleaned, I am still working my way around parts of the impending baby experience -- mentally, that is. Physically, I'm ready. I can't wait to meet this kid. I stare at the ultrasound pictures daily, every single morning, look at the fuzzy, mysterious form there and think, my God, that's my kid. And I wonder what his hair will look like, what color his first bike will be, what cereal he'll like and how I, at this early but crucial point in his development, can ensure that he'll be a left-handed starter with a wicked slider.

Things are different already. A year ago, entertainment for my wife and me consisted of exploring new restaurants, finding a band playing in town for cheap, lounging around coffee shops. Now, we sit and watch her stomach do tricks. Last week, Junior endured either a small seismic event, or decided he needed to be in the EXACT OPPOSITE position he was initially in. It's just absolutely fascinating enough to not make you terrified, and it brings home the reality that there's a baby boy coming.

(Yes, we found out it's a boy, and no, I don't regret it. Why, in fact, are people who want to know the baby's sex so persecuted, as in "Why could you possibly wish to ruin the surprise of the greatest day of your life?" I figure 1). It's a surprise if you find out 20 weeks into the pregnancy or 40; and 2). If our childbirth classes are to be believed, we will be enjoying plenty, plenty of surprises when the child is actually born. I'd like to minimize as much surprise as I can.)

Still, here in Month 8 there's no time to waste, and preparations have begun. Junior now has a crib, which actually seems more like a small fortress, although a fortress would have probably been less expensive. Junior also has a stroller, although it's not like any stroller I ever had. For instance, my stroller was plastic and, for safety, featured a Velcro belt. Junior's stroller is called -- I am not making this up -- a Baby Travel System with LATCH (all caps), weighs about 4,000 pounds, has spokes in its tires and two windows and, I'm pretty sure, the capability to transform into an Autobot. I'm particularly impressed by its afterburners.

I also now own my first CD by this curious collective known as the Wiggles. So far, I've only briefly encountered them -- my friends' daughter, Marie, could be performing shuttle runs around the living room, and putting the Wiggles on the TV is much like throwing on her air brakes -- but I know this: Mere mention of the name "The Wiggles" has the power to send dozens of my co-workers into spontaneous, impulsive renditions of Wiggles songs at bizarrely high volumes; songs that seem like they are rattling around inside their very skins, independent of their control, just waiting for the moment to burst forth in a candy-colored explosion of simple melodic glee. I can only imagine the number of people reading this right now and robotically breaking out into unified, rousing choruses of "Fruit Salad."

I should confess that all of this tangential preparation is being done at the expense of thinking about the hospital trip and the birth itself because that's the part that really catches me. I'm not so much used to the high-pressure situations. Oh, I'll be in the delivery room -- this much my lovely and adamant wife has already made clear. Brutally, brutally clear. I'm just not sure I'll be conscious.

But that's one of many facets of the child experience that I'm told, becomes automatic, instinctual, something so direct and rewarding that you can't possibly remember what life was like before it. There lies the fundamental basis of my preparation, getting ready to do whatever the boy wants me to do. I know there are sleepless nights ahead, crying jags and a great, great deal of poop. And I know that at some point it'll be my job, my responsibility, to teach him to read books and count animals, steer him away from prejudice and dishonesty, help him mature into someone who is eager and curious and clever and wise. I stay up later than usual these days. But then I stare at the picture, and think that already, I wouldn't trade this for anything. I'll be completely insane by the time he gets here.

(That said, at this point, the purchase of a minivan still seems wildly, unfathomably ludicrous. So I've got that going for me, which is nice.)