Welcome Asher James Dawson to the world. His mom and I couldn't be more enamored with him. I'm holding my breath to see if maybe this isn't just some strange sleep-deprived honeymoon period we're experiencing. But I wouldn't count on it. Right now, I wouldn't trade this gig fatherhood gig for anything in the world.
Three weeks ago, Meg compiled a list of all the folks that needed to be on the baby announcement email. In retrospect, the best thing I could have done was send a simple, single email to the whole list, right off the bat. THERE IS NO BABY. YET. BUT YOU ARE ON THE ANNOUNCEMENT LIST.
Meg and I spent the better part of five months talking about our now almost-baby in very gender-certain terms. We couldn't have possibly cared less about the sex, though I will admit to experiencing a sudden, exhilarating rush of virile delight when the news finally came. In conversation, though, we posited that a girl might just be...well, easier.
Honestly, it was mostly the clothes.
Despite our best guesses about which part was where, this undetectable-bean-sprout-turned-man-child in Meg's belly actually does have his head down as, I'm informed, he's supposed to. Those are his feet pummeling her right lung, but that's his pooper we've been talking into for the last two-and-a-half weeks. The kid's gotta be getting a good chuckle out of this.