So apparently I'm going to be a father. I know, I didn't believe it either, but there was this blog with my wife's name on it and I know the internet would never lie to me, so... yeah. Evidently babies are one of those side effects of sex, much like the urge to do a victory dance and then fall asleep, that they fail to tell you about in high school. I blame my father most of all. I mean, the man's a health teacher, you'd think that might have come up. "Drew, I want you to mow the lawn this afternoon, don't forget to lock the door if you go out, oh, and sex leads to babies. I'm late for work, have a good one." Way to drop the ball, Dad.
I'm just kidding, we were definitely trying to get pregnant. (Some of us might have been trying harder than others, but I'm not here to cast judgment.) I do feel slightly misled about the time frame... Ann said all the articles she read indicated it can take up to a year to get pregnant the first time. Apparently I am far more studly than anyone would have suspected, because the second month rolled around and bam! -- there was that pink, urine-covered stick with two lines on it. I blame myself more than anything. Myself, and also milk. It does a body too good, if you ask me.
But anyway, that's where we stand: excited and happy and wondering if it's possible to develop self-esteem issues in utero by constantly being referred to as "Sea Monkey." Hopefully not. Fortunately for Ann, I'm not as cool or attractive as Jason Bateman in Juno, and thus won't be running off to pursue my music dreams and score groupies anytime soon. That's okay, I understand Guitar Hero is pretty much the same thing.
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