Happy Halloween!

Good morning and Happy Halloween to all.

Essentially, this will be our first Halloween in two years. Last year's holiday was unofficially canceled because of Hurricane Wilma. Although we've now been in our neighborhood for a year-and-a-half, this will be the first time that we actually get to see how Halloween works in our neck of the woods.

Our 9-year-old neighbor has been hanging out at our house quite a bit in recent days. Apparently, having a baby means that your house is now open to children who like to just show up and watch us be parents. While helping us scoop out the junk from inside of our pumpkin last night, she warned us about a neighborhood scam that happens every year at this time. We've been told to look out for teenagers who get candy from us, then go to the end of the street, change into another costume and return for a second helping. Personally, I admire the creativity of these mini-entrepreneurs and I may reward them with a third piece of candy just for the effort. If it gets out of hand, I'm prepared to set up a little CSI lab and fingerprint each child as they receive their first Almond Joy. When they come back, we'll give them a can of tuna so they know we're on to them.

On the other side of the street, our neighbors have asked us to join them at the end of the driveway for chili.

Yes, that's right... chili. This is their Halloween tradition. As an adult, I actually prefer slow-cooked meat and beans to Butterfinger bars. However, I would have to guess that the kids in the neighborhood will be more than a little annoyed when somebody plops a ladel-full of chili into their pillowcase. We'll just play along and avoid making waves. After all, we're still the "new people" in the neighborhood. Maybe we'll bring some Saltines out there as an extra treat for the kids.

I'm told it might be illegal for us to give shots of Jagermeister so we might wait a year before we figure out what our inappropriate tradition will be.

I guess the chili thing works for them, because they seem very excited about it. Maybe I'll tell them that I still curse the old lady who used to give out nickels in my neighborhood. I wonder what ever happened to that horrible old woman. Maybe she's giving kids dimes now.

Wanted: Evil Spider Monkey

I am Purel's customer of the year. I wash my hands with a frequency that would make any OCD patient proud of me. Since October 1, I've turned into a bonafide germaphobe in an effort to protect the 7 pound creature who has taken over our home. Somehow, this has backfired and I now have an ass-kicking cold.

I remember a simpler time, when I could cough freely and throw caution to the wind in these situations. In fact, I live by the "feed a cold" strategy and take those opportunities to eat with less guilt.

Now, everything has changed and I'm tiptoeing around the house hoping not to infect the Undaling or Mrs. Undaground. This is very difficult, considering I'm the go-to person in the household for swaddling duty. So, I will continue to administer the Vitamin C I-V drip and popping Echinacea tablets like they're Chicklets.

But mark my words, I will find the evil spider monkey who is carrying this wretched virus I've somehow contracted. Then, I will nail him with a tranquilizer dart, put him in a dunk tank/display case in my front yard and charge gullible neighborhood children their entire allowance to dunk the monkey. Stupid freaking monkey.

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens

Even though the Undaling is just 3 1/2 weeks old, it's clear that he's already figured out some of his favorite things.

I've found that he doesn't care much for doorbells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodles at this point in his life. Sadly, he's yet to experience snowflakes that stay on his nose and eyelashes. Honestly, how long could a snowflake actually survive on an eyelash in South Florida?

I'm sure some of his favorite things will soon change, once he has a chance to enjoy all the toys he has. Until then, here's what he seems to enjoy most now:

The Female Breast: I'm not just talking about his "meal ticket". The boy loves boobs. Lactation is not required. He will pull and grab and squeeze any breast within striking distance of his short little arms. I wonder if he knows that he has only about two years to live it up, because any groping he does over the next few years will be considered "adorable". From ages two to sixteen-or-so, it will probably be considered an embarassing invasion of personal space. After that, it's definitely sexual harassment.

Flourescent Lighting: Once he's older and his home decor taste develops, he'll probably appreciate more soft lighting that helps create an ambience. Now, the brighter and more profane the lighting, the better. He could sit and stare at a flourescent light for hours, or until he experiences boob withdrawal.

Showers: The boy loves water poured on his head; there is no denying this. Every two days, he gets a sink shower, and the look on his face can best be described as a zen-like trance. It probably doesn't hurt that there is flourescent lighting in our bathroom. Throw in the fact that he's usually being held by somebody with boobs at this time, and he's literally in baby paradise. How often do you get to experience your three favorite things at one time? I'm not sure I could ever achieve that myself. I do know it would involve watching TV while eating a hunk of parmesan cheese, but I'd rather not get into the rest of it.

Baby Talk

I'm not moving from this position until Daddy comes home from work.

Has anybody ever seen E.T.?

How dare you call me a bandwagon fan.

Hey, other babies... Don't hate me because I'm beautiful. I was just born this way.

Researchers Have Found

Researchers in South Florida have learned some important, little-known facts of life over the past three weeks. So far, the single biggest discovery seems to be this:

Grunting is hereditary.

This particular researcher always thought that grunting was learned and nurtured over a period of years as it builds to a crescendo in the golden years. Not so. Grunting actually begins at birth, and in some bloodlines it fills every quiet moment for one reason or another.

While an adult male may grunt when bending to pull on his socks or when trying to lift a couch, tiny newborn grunts have been recorded for many reasons. Most of the time, it means they are trying to poop for the twelfth time in a 24-hour period. Other grunts can be detected when they attempt to free their hand from a tightly-wrapped blanket, or when deciding exactly where to deposit a regurgitated dolyp of milk (Dad's upper torso is a favorite drop-point).

Somebody please notify the industry bigwigs, because I believe this discovery will lead to a few revisions in those pesky "medical journals".

A Baby Story: Part 2 (Electric Boogaloo)

The next 24 hours kind of went like this:

245am: Transferred to the labor and delivery room and hooked up to a monitor.

4am: Mrs. U starts getting very small contractions according to monitor.

430am: Mrs. U makes good use of the bedpan, then eats 4 ice chips for the nausea.

5am: Nurse 1 tells Mrs. U: “Go easy on the ice chips. Oh, and the sky is blue.”

6am: Nurse 1 starts Pitocin drip to bring on labor.

7am: Doctor makes a quick appearance to say hello, then disappears for 12 hours to coach a little league game and enjoy the rest of his Saturday.

730am: Nurse 2 begins her shift and tells Mrs. U: “You have to eat more ice chips. Oh, and the sky is green.”

8am-6pm: Social hour in the delivery room. Many visitors and little, laughable contractions, but no labor yet. In between visitors, the Undaground continually asks the nurse whether the little league game has gone into extra innings.

7pm: Doctor returns from a hard day of being on call and examines Mrs. U for the first time, then breaks the rest of her water.

701pm: Labor begins. After a day of Pitocin, it’s intense from the very beginning.

12am (Sunday, Oct 1): Epidural inserted, all is well.

12:10am: Three nurses run into the room to give Mrs. U a shot of Ephedra and an oxygen mask after a reaction to the epidural. Order and blood pressure restored.

12:30am: Nurse 3 tells Mrs. U and me to take a nap. Oh, and the sky is purple.

4:00am: Nurse 3 wakes us up. Tells Mrs. U she is progressing wonderfully (4-5 centimeters).

4:01am: Mrs. U and I do the math and figure out that we have about 5 to 6 more hours to go before pushing begins.

4:05am: Five nurses run into the room, start prepping Mrs. U for surgery with the Doctor on the cell phone. Throw me a pair of scrubs to put on and tell me to stand in the hallway until they’re ready for me. Then, they wheel Mrs. U out of the room and down to the operating room.

4:31am: The Undaling is born. We wait a split second to hear his cry, then feel the greatest rush of relief that one could ever imagine. One nurse tells me from behind the sheet:

“Dad, look over here at your son.”

I immediately look over the sheet and down at my wife’s surgery in progress. Oops. I guess she meant for me to look over there. Yes, there he is at the table. I see a gaggle of nurses surrounding a tiny little boy with a full head of rock-star hair. Two minutes later, he’s in our arms… and we are officially parents.

And life as we know it will never be the same.

A Baby Story. Part 1

The Undaground is back.

Sorry for the long layoff. I do have a good excuse, though.

I hope to get back to my normal schedule now as it pertains to this blog. I must warn you that I will be operating on less sleep than normal, so I may dangle a few modifiers or confuse “their”, “there” and “they’re” here and their.

The break from the writing was necessary, but now I’m left with a brain full of things that I never wrote about. I’ve probably forgotten a bunch of stuff, but I’ll do my best to fill in the blanks of the last few weeks. Sooner or later, I’ll have to catch up to the present day. My vast experience in using Tivo and navigating the past, present and future by taking advantage of today’s technology should help me in this effort. I guess I could start at the beginning and tell you about the birth.

Friday, Sept 29, Mrs. Undaground and I were entertaining her parents just one night after we all went to the Santana concert (seems like years ago).

Over the course of the evening, I consumed 8 to 12 beers, a bleu cheese burger, mozzarella with tomatoes, Halibut, stuffed flounder, pita chips with lobster dip, Baileys and Coffee, and about 10 other delectable items that I’ve chosen to block from my memory.

After a quick bleary-eyed Tivo session (to watch the Survivor episode that aired during the Santana show), the wife and I retired to bed.

I was just entering the deep, Heineken Premium Light-induced sleep at about 1230am when Mrs. U uttered the following phrase.

“I’ve either peed my pants, or my water broke.”

“Are you kidding? If this is the beginning of a running, nightly joke, please tell me now.”

“Let’s give it a few minutes and we’ll see.”

Because of the food, beer and Irish Crème swimming around in my belly, I guess I was hoping she had peed her pants. We’d all have a good story to tell some day and then maybe her water could break tomorrow. I could properly prepare my body for the event by eating fruits and vegetables and maybe some calisthenics. I closed my eyes again, returning to the game of catch I was having in my almost-sleep with one of the cornfield guys from Field of Dreams. I was jarred back to consciousness by my wife’s voice.

“It’s still happening. I think this is it.”

“OK. I’m awake. Whoa. Hold on.”

At this time, I did what any responsible adult would do when faced with a life-altering moment: I plodded into the bathroom like an injured Yeti, and grabbed the toilet. I wretched a couple of times. Then, I let it all go. It was disgusting. I just started writing a description of what came out of me, and then backspaced over the whole thing. There is no good that can come from those words.

As I brushed my teeth vigorously, I hollered through the toothpaste foam filling the bathroom:

“I’ll be right with you. Sorry about this. Can you hold off on having a baby for a minute until I gather myself?”

We quickly realized that although the water had broken, Mrs. U was not actually in labor. My physical symptoms were more consistent with labor than hers at that point. I was literally having contractions of my own, except my body was pushing up instead of down. I was taking sympathetic pregnancy to a whole new level.

The gruesome scene in the bathroom actually made me feel a lot better. And, voila, I was sober. Now, it was time to focus on the task at hand. Ladies, if you’re pregnant, please go pack a bag right now. Don’t wait until your water breaks. For the next few hours, we did just that. Mrs. U took a shower. I filled up the dog’s water dish and calmly explained to her that she will now be referred to as “Number 2” on our list of dependents.

We woke Mrs. U’s parents and let them know that we were going to the hospital, but go back to sleep, because it may just be some renegade urine.

We arrived at the hospital at about 230am. Once there, we entered through the emergency room. If you’ve never visited an emergency room in the wee hours of a Friday night/Saturday morning, I highly recommend it. It’ll give you a good look at what’s going on in the underbelly of the real world while you’re at home sleeping off a halibut and Heineken cocktail. We were escorted to labor and delivery by a friendly security guard. I guess he was friendly; he didn’t speak English. For all I know, he called us a couple of jackasses in his native tongue. Whatever he said, he said it in a friendly way.

Soon after, we were sitting in a room called “Triage”. As a nurse examined Mrs. U, I was considering asking what I need to do to get hooked up to an I-V. Then, she looked up at us.

“Yep. The membrane ruptured. Congratulations. You’re going to have a baby today.”

More tomorrow.

Meet the Undaling

10/1/06
4:31 am
6 lbs 1 oz
Somewhere between 18 and 19.5 inches long

Bear with me over the next week-and-a-half. I will try to post what I can, but it will be sporadic until my paternity leave is over.

Oye Como Va

Last night was the Santana/Los Lonely Boys concert. It was muy bueno. My in-laws came in for the show and are staying at mi casa until Saturday. Me gusta Santana. Now that the concert is over, we are officially ready to have el bambino at any time. We have no more scheduled plans; we're just waiting for the baby to drop. The due date is now nineteen days away. This weekend, I will install car seat bases in both of our carros, and that will be the last bit of preparation.

Here are some highlights from the Santana show:

• Carlos Santana greeted the audience in English, then Spanish. Even with a rudimentary understanding of Espanol, it was clear to me and the other 20,000 people there that he was saying the same thing in both languages. Well, it was clear to 19,999 of the other people because when he started saying "Hola" in Spanish, the woman in front of us yelled to her friend: "JESSE, WHAT THE HELL IS HE SAYING?" I guess Jesse was the linguistics expert in the bunch.
• At one point Carlos Santana sang along to the music and said "Jump, jump, jump, jump." I would like to apologize to Mr. Santana, since neither me nor my wife actually left the ground at this time, despite his encouragement. First, I looked at Mrs. U and said "Don't jump honey." I didn't want labor to begin. Then, I didn't jump because of empathy for my wife (and an inability to actually jump while standing on an inclined lawn.) I'm not sure that my synapses fire any more when my brain tells my legs to jump. It's just a sign of aging. I do think I could still get some "air" on a trampoline or in a zero-gravity environment, but it's not so easy anymore in a concert setting.
• The Undaling woke up and moved quite a bit when Los Lonely Boys began their set. Then, a beautifully-harmonized ballad put him back to sleep. When Santana took the stage, the baby continued his slumber. Finally, when they began to play "Oye Como Va", I let out a concert yell. To review, my concert yell is a sound that I only make when viewing live music (it really wouldn't be appropriate anywhere else). The folklore surrounding my concert yell has grown, and now the people I attend concerts with wait for it, then acknowledge it when it happens. I'm not sure if it was my concert yell that woke the child, or the first few bars of Oye Como Va, but nonetheless, he was up and rocking the womb once again. It's good to know that he appreciates an eclectic mix of music, since this is the first time we've noticed him responding to a Latin rhythm. I can't wait to help him develop and nurture his own concert yell.

Viva Santana!

Mom in the Express Lane

I'd like to share with you an email exchange between my mother and me yesterday. Seems I'm not the only one having strange conversations in supermarket checkout aisles:

Mom: So, I go to the supermarket yesterday for a variety of items. The check out person is a heavy-set, 19-ish, sweating-profusely male named Gary. He does not say 2 words to me while scanning my items. I handed him my Shoprite card silently – watched him move in slow motion while the theme from Chariots of Fire was going through my head. He never told me my total, I simply looked at the monitor and did the drill on the debit card not seeing the need for conversation. I actually thought he might be mute – until – after my order was bagged and in my cart, he decided to speak and asked me the question that must have been on his mind for a long time – “So, what is hummus?”

The Undaground: Nice. Did you answer? Chickpeas?

Mom: I was so thrilled that I was the chosen one to provide the information that I went into too much detail. “It’s chickpeas, you know garbanzo beans – sometimes people call them chi chi beans. They blend some other flavoring in it, garlic and such. This brand Sbarro is the best. My son and daughter-in-law introduced me to it when they were in town for Christmas. You eat it with flatbread or even crackers. I like the flatbread – not pita, you don’t need the pocket. Grill the flatbread over the burner on your stove for a minute or two. It’s delicious. Try it, you’ll be hooked. If you like this, you’ll most likely love babaganoush”

The Undaground: Good answer. Did you watch "Old Man Bites Tenderly" yet? It's all the rage.

Old Man Bites Tenderly

Somebody sent me a very funny clip of a Japanese game show. I've tried to put it on the Undaground, but it won't seem to work.

So, here's the link

Take 9-minutes of your life to enjoy this. Don't try any of it at home. If you must try it, do it in a library.

And... Exhale.

Lamaze class is over and we are now ready for labor, whenever it begins.

I realize that this little tirade I'm about to go on is selfish. I realize that I sometimes let little things bother me. Mrs. Undaground knew what she was getting into, and may very well be carrying another human being with similar hang-ups as me.

To review, our Lamaze class supposedly runs from 7 to 9pm. The first week, we were held there until about 9:45. The second session ended on time without incident. Last night, about 5 minutes after the clock struck nine, our teacher said something like this:

"OK. Hmmm. What time is it?" (looks up at large clock on the wall).

I looked at Mrs. Undaground. "I think she's gonna let us go. It's over."

The teacher looked away from the clock, as if it burned her eyes. "Alright. I want everybody to get into a nice, relaxed mode now. Cuddle up and get comfortable. There's a relaxation CD I want to play for you called 'Childbirth Relaxation'. Everybody just focus on relaxing. Dads too."

How dare she! What a slap in the face. Are you kidding me? I will not relax. I am fixated on the fact that you are keeping us past our agreed-upon class time. Unless this CD is two-minutes long, I'm not feeling it lady!

The CD began with a song about welcoming a baby to the world. Despite the sweet words and music flowing through the room, I began to think about things the teacher could have done to make me less-relaxed:

• Placed a live cougar in the middle of the room and strung a rope of meat around my neck.
• Lit my foot on fire.
• Told me she was going to steal our minivan and headed out of the room.
• Throw darts at us.
• Play some of those Jetta commercials where the people get in sudden car crashes.
• Give me a hand-massage in front of the entire class. (Oh never mind, she already did that at 8:45)

After the song was over, a woman's voice came on the CD. She began by describing the feet and telling us to relax our feet. Then she described the ankles and told us to relax our ankles. Each body part was taking about two to three minutes to describe. Tapping into my own basic knowledge of human anatomy, I realized that this was not going to end any time soon. I looked at Mrs. Undaground, who knew we were living on borrowed time. "I'm going to the bathroom."

I walked into the bathroom and just stood there. The room was so freaking quiet at this point with people "relaxing" that I knew I couldn't pee. I knew from sitting next to the bathroom for three weeks that it's possible to hear every thing that goes on in there. Why put on a show for these people? I knew that any sound I made in the bathroom would be background music for this woman's soothing voice.

Knees, thighs, buttocks. She kept slowly moving up the body.

I washed my hands for no particular reason and returned to my chair. You know, we may have been able to relax had this happened at 8:30. I looked at my watch again. 9:20 now. I looked up at the teacher. Is she sleeping? What the hell? Mrs. Undaground was pretending she was relaxed but really she was just trying to keep me from making a scene.

The CD continued, "Feel your elbows. Imagine your elbows are pointy pillows. Now pretend your elbows are dripping candles. Feel as the wax of your elbows drips down onto the microfiber couch that is your lap. Now your elbows are floating. You're doing a relaxing chicken dance. Feel your elbows flap and flow and relax. Breathe. Now think of your elbows as fuzzy little bunnies on a bed of lime jello......."

Then, it happened. Out of the corner of my eye. I saw another couple gather their belongings and slip out the door. And then there were 5. Five pathetic couples in the room.

Crap, we missed our chance. Now what? Do we follow the leaders like a couple of sheep?

Two minutes later, another couple began to stir. Maybe this was the lesson the teacher was trying to teach us. Maybe we're supposed to each gather the courage to get the hell out of there, much like we will gather the courage to leave the hospital. Sure, that sounds right.

Before the second couple got out the door, we made our move. We grabbed our pillows and pushed in our chairs with the quickness and precision of a military operation. We both waved through the darkness to our warden, like a couple of convicts making parole. I saw her flinch for a split second, as if she was going to chase us down and tackle us, forcing us to listen to more well-disguised torture. Then, she changed her mind, smiled and waved back. And just like that (poof) we were gone.

Then we went home and relaxed. Good riddance.

Baby Got Back

I'm pleased to announce that the Undaling is facing the right way, and that rumors of a "breech baby" were inaccurate.

Turns out the lump at the top of Mrs. U's belly, that we thought was his head, is actually his rear end. Baby got back. He's estimated at 6 lbs. 1 oz. right now and apparently, he is "very long". During the ultrasound, he was holding one of his feet in his hand (a level of flexibility that I haven't enjoyed since the 80's.)

The bad news is I really have to pay attention in Lamaze class tonight, because it is the last class and it looks like we're going to need to know how to breathe properly after all.

Life in the Express Lane

So I stopped by the supermarket on the way home from work yesterday. We were out of dog food. Naturally, I picked up a few other seemingly random items as well.

My cart was filled with the following things:

• Big bag of Kibbles and Bits
• 12-pack of Heineken Premium Light
• 2 packages of break-and-bake cookies (don't judge me, she's still pregnant).
• 1 bag of Tostitos Yellow Corn chips. (because I have more salsa than chips right now).
• One impulsively-purchased NY Times bestseller. (to have reading material for the hospital).

I did some quick math. 6 items. Woo-hoo. Express lane.

As I waited in a line that was 3-deep, the old lady in front of me began to slowly move her items to the counter. She had some non-descript foodstuff and a jug of apple juice. I watched her closely as she lifted the apple juice, just in case this caused her to collapse. I don't have any emergency medical training, but I'm pretty sure I could catch a falling old lady based on my experience playing softball. She managed to hoist the apple juice to the counter by swinging it and throwing in an old-lady grunt (which is not quite as manly as my grunt, but I digress.) Then, in a methodical, sad, deliberate way she uttered the following phrase to nobody in particular:

"My ice cream is melting."

What?!? I looked again at her items. There were no more than ten products in front of her (it was the express lane, after all). There was no freaking ice cream. In fact, there was neither a freezer item nor a dessert. What did this mean? I don't talk to strangers unless I absolutely need to, so I didn't say a word. Did I imagine this? Is "my ice cream is melting" some kind of euphemism for an elderly ailment? What the hell is going on? Was she talking to me, or to herself? Am I crazy? Why is it that insane people make me question my own sanity? Should I get more salsa just in case the new bag of chips throws off the chip to salsa ratio in my home? Who is this mystery woman, and why does she think her ice cream's melting?

By the time I was finished asking myself questions, she was walking out of the store and on her way back to her rent-controlled condo in Crazytown. Nice to know I'd be sharing the road with her in a few minutes.

I waited patiently as the inevitable cashier switch-out happened right as it was my turn. I swear that those supermarket supervisor bastards wait by the door for me, then intentionally do this right as I reach the register.

The store has new, fancy computer screens there now, so I watched as "Whittney" with two "T's" logged out and "Chase" logged in. Chase had very fast fingers, and the register switch-out went surprisingly quick. Chase was obviously pleased with himself. I translated the smirk on his face to mean "Screw the mean bullies in high school gym class who make fun of my complexion, this is my territory and I can input a 30-cent coupon faster than any of them. Someday, I will be a captain of industry." He snapped back to reality (for just a brief moment) and addressed me.

"Oh, hello sir."

"How you doin?", I said because I felt obligated to greet him.

He looked down at my 6 items.

"Having yourself a little party, huh?" He said it like we were buds... Just two cool guys hanging out at a register.

Dumbfounded, I looked at my items again. Did I accidentally throw some colorful paper plates and a cake in my cart? What's going on here. There's beer. OK, beer is essential to any party. What else? Chips. Sure, why not have a beer and chips party. Dog food. Dog food? Reading material. Maybe it's a book club party. Cookies with some assembly required. Did this eclectic mix of items-for-purchase indicate that I was having a party? I mean, I've gone to the very same store to prepare for many parties and the bill is usually much higher, and the party items are much more obvious. What kind of party does this pimply-faced monster attend? I don't know how to answer that. I guess I'll give it my best shot, since he apparently won't be ringing me up until I answer his stupid question.

"That's right. A beer and dog food party", was the best I could do.

"Hey, whatever works", said Chase.

Just get me the hell out of here. Is it me? Am I the one who's crazy. Do we really have such a fear of silence that we must fill those moments with whatever random phrase enters our heads? For me, there is no such thing as "uncomfortable silence", especially in public. In my world, all silence is comfortable. And apparently, all old people and teenagers are freaking looney-tunes.

Tivo Alert

Tonight, The Office and My Name is Earl have their season premieres on NBC.

At the same time, Survivor is on CBS.

If you're like me, and you have Tivo, watch them both. If not, you have a Sophie's choice-like decision to make. My heart goes out to you.

In other TV news, did anyone check out Studio 60 on Monday? It's very good. Now I have another show to worry about.

I guess I have a finite amount of time to watch these things before the Wiggles and Spongebob take over our lives.

Pregnancy Update

Well, we've reached another milestone. Today, Mrs. Undaground is 36 weeks or officially 9 months pregnant.

Whatever she does in the next month should be carefully documented, so that someday she can tell stories ending with the phrase "when I was 9 months pregnant."

For instance...

"I went to a Santana concert when I was 9 months pregnant"

"I worked right up until my due date when I was 9 months pregnant"

"I went cliff-diving in Acapulco when I was 9 months pregnant"

"I kicked a 43-yard field goal when I was 9 months pregnant"

"I hunted and killed a wild boar when I was 9 months pregnant"

Our ultrasound has been moved to Friday afternoon. That's two more days for the baby to decide to turn around. Since I know he can hear sounds from the outside world, I've been speaking to Mrs. Undaground's belly. Last night, I promised him a pony for his fifth birthday if he gets in a head-down position before Friday. If not, he's getting socks and underwear. I hate to strong-arm the kid, but I haven't watched Supernanny for awhile so I've conveniently forgotten that you're not supposed to negotiate with them when they're this young.

Mrs. U is extremely uncomfortable these days. Her feet are swollen beyond belief. They look like flesh-colored clogs right now. The anxiety of labor is being overpowered by the desire to not be pregnant anymore. I guess that's how the circle of life works.

Speaking of the circle of life, I've been trying to figure out what I'm going to do at the very moment when the baby is born. I'm not sure if the nurses will allow this, but I'd like to hold him over my head proudly on top of a scenic mountain overlook while Elton John sings... like they did in the Lion King. Anybody know of any scenic mountain overlooks in South Florida? I think the closest thing might be the balcony at the movie theater. Then again, I've always complained about babies in movie theaters. See, fatherhood is already changing me.

Seuss Nursery: Why stay cooped up in the womb, when you can chill out in your room?

(click image for larger view)

Good Monday Morning

Woo-hoo. The nursery is officially done... Photos coming to the Undaground tomorrow.

Mrs. U and I took the opportunity this weekend to eat dinner out on Friday and Saturday. We also went to a movie on Saturday and had breakfast out on Sunday. This is the phase where we're getting all this stuff out of our system.

Lamaze #2 is tonight. I hope that she ends on time, because the Steelers are playing Monday Night Football. Tivo is a man's best friend, though.

We have another ultrasound on Wednesday to figure out which way the baby's facing. Right now, we think he's sideways. Wednesday will be 36 weeks, so he still has time to get in the proper position. I read on the internet that playing music and shining a light near Mrs. Undaground's "pelvic bone" might lure the baby to the head-down position. I'm currently scanning the trade magazines for a lighting expert and a sound engineer. No luck yet, but stay tuned. We're still planning to go to the Santana concert on Sept 28, so maybe they'll let us sit on the roof of the ampitheater.

Oh, the movie was "The Last Kiss" starring Zach Braff and I recommend it.

And the beat goes on...

I hope you all had a chance to watch some of the carnage on ESPN last night. My neck hurts this morning and I think it's from watching Steve Slaton run up and down the field.

It's a wonderful time to be a Mountaineer.

As for Survivor, it is resting comfortably on my Tivo and we will watch it this weekend.

Television News

I have many important television news items to pass along. Premiere week is upon us, so get your Tivo's fired up.

1. Survivor starts Thursday night. Teams will be divided by race this year. I've decided I'm rooting for the Hispanic team, because my Hips Don't Lie.

2. Very exciting news... Little People, Big World is returning for a second season on TLC. If you know me, you know I have a great appreciation for little people and I actively support the LPA - Little People of America, although technically I'm 18 inches too tall to become a member of their organization. More info on the show's return here.

3. Rock Star: Supernova season finale is tonight. I think I want Magni to win, but it doesn't matter much. I don't see myself buying their music, but I do enjoy the show. Apparently, Supernova will not be Supernova. They need a new name. Read about that here.

4. NBC has football again, and the theme song rocks. Wanna know why? Because it's composed by John Williams. Cool article on John Williams here.

5. Speaking of football, tape Survivor on Thursday night and watch the Mountaineers take on the Maryland Terrapins. Kickoff is at 7:45pm on ESPN.