This is the first in our new weekly feature "Matilda in Famous Scenes from Famous Movies."

Today, Matilda plays Heather Donahue from "The Blair Witch Project."

Oh man am I in trouble. I’ve been warned in the past that living with a pregnant woman (aside: as if anything else in my house would be pregnant . . . except for pauses, of course) was a dangerous endeavor but, they never really told me the extent of that danger. And boy, let me tell you . . . I’m scared.

There are two stories.

1. We tried to watch a movie last night. Our consumption of media has been steadily dropping, and I envision that trend continuing. We’ve been tired without the squirt. I can only imagine how tired we’ll be with an 8-pound baby exclaiming that it needs to be fed, changed or loved RIGHT NOW! He’ll understand that there’s something going on with his bowels but . . . he won’t know how to control it. “Hang on, I don’t know what’s gonna happen but it ain’t gonna be pretty!” That’s what baby cries mean, by the way.

So, we’re watching the movie. It’s an intense movie, dealing with dark issues that my wife probably shouldn’t have been thinking about during gestation, lest we raise the next Marquis De Sade . . . or Marv Albert. It’s a confusing film with many layers and a slow, deliberate pace. I’m watching intently, trying to uncover the mysteries that are far below the surface of the presentation. Don’t bug me now; I’m channeling Roger Ebert.

Meanwhile, my wife is doing back flips on the couch. One position, another. On the floor, in a chair. Standing. Sitting. Rolling. Attempting to levitate. All the while, she’s huffing and puffing, cursing the couch.

”What’s wrong,” I stupidly ask.

“I CAN’T GET COMFORTABLE. I HATE THIS STUPID COUCH AND I CAN’T STAND IT ANYMORE. REMOVE IT FROM MY SITE.” (She no longer has the ability to speak. It’s all force at this point. I mean, I would be too if my intestines had been moved up to my lungs to make room for a wiggly little baby.)

“Do you want me to move? Maybe you’ll be more comfortable if you sit on the whole couch.”

“NO. THAT WON’T HELP. DON’T YOU WANT TO SIT NEXT TO ME? WHY DON’T YOU LOVE ME?”

“I didn’t say that. I . . . “

”FIRST I CAN’T GET COMFORTABLE. NOW YOU HATE ME. JUST START THE MOVIE.”

I do this. 18 nanoseconds pass.

“I HAVE TO PEE.”

The fact that I have written this down, and am trying to make it funny means I will be eviscerated when I get home. Please understand this and pray for me.

2. We have a horrible habit of not developing film. A few weeks ago we picked up pictures from Halloween . . . 1999. I was Darth Maul. Looked kick ass too. Wifey did the make up.

Because of this inherent flaw in our systems, we’ve decided that we better get a digital camera before Baby Elvis comes along. That way we don’t have to develop the film. We can just load the pictures onto on the computer and ignore them there.

Normally I am the keeper of all electronic material. I may research and purchase on my own. This is my job. I do it well.

Not this time. Wifey joined me in the quest for the ultimate camera. I have endured the eighth level of hell.

Don’t get me wrong. My wife has wonderful taste. She understands electronics and knew exactly what she wanted in a digital camera. She just took all the fun out of it.

Sample conversation at an electronics store:

ME: This one has 3.1 megapixel resolution, plus night vision and it has a bunch of cool color modes.

Wife: For that price, we should be able to get a camera with a better ICES-003 rating.

ME: What?

Wife: It’s too expensive. It doesn’t have all the features we need.

ME: It has night vision!

Wife: Doesn’t matter.

ME: It can photograph people's souls.

Wife: Why would you want that?

ME: It will help with interviewing babysitters.

Wife: It’s not needed. (She waves it off as if it is of the lowest caste in India.)

Sales Guy: It also photographs magnetic fields not visible to the human eye.

Me: SOLD!!!!

Wife: NO!

And on and on. She thought we were actually buying the camera for the purpose of taking pictures. I never intend to take pictures with the damn thing. I just want to show it to my friends and say, “Yeah, well, my camera can take pictures of events that not only have already happened, but that I've long since forgotten and only now I want to remember! It's the regression mode.” That’s the fun in electronics! Functionality and practicality don’t matter. No. It’s the impression factor.

“Holy crap! That’s a cool camera!” That’s all I want to hear. Just as long as they don’t ask how it works. I only understand the camera in concept. I’m an electronics esoteric.

It doesn’t matter. We picked a reasonably priced, high-resolution camera. It’s quite nice and has some interesting, if not pedestrian, features. I’m sure it works wonderfully.

But I’ll have to peer into your soul the old fashioned way. With voodoo.

Amazon.com: buying info: Hyperspace : A Scientific Odyssey Through Parallel Universes, Time Warps and the Tenth Dimension

Hm. Apparently the three dimensions we’ve been dealing with are only the tip of the iceberg. According to Michio Kaku, there may be as many as ten dimensions. That leaves seven we aren’t aware of. Seven dimensions in which other dimensional beings are doing things we may not approve of. You just think about that mister!

Kaku wrote a book (link above) with an insanely long title. Key words: Hyperspace, Scientific, Parallel Universes, Time Warps, Dimension. Therefore, he is a qualified scientist and we must consider what he has to say.

I don’t know what he has to say because I haven’t read his book.

However, that does not mean I cannot proselytize about the implications of ten dimensions. Being as I don’t understand the three that I’m supposedly aware of, I’m certainly qualified to discuss seven additional incomprehensible concepts. It’s the American way.

But really, what if there are several planes of existence we don’t understand? Suppose there are other beings, other layers, other ideas floating around out there. We can’t feel them, or see them, but they are there. Passing through us. Present when we type, walk, sleep, go to the bathroom. Eew.

So . . . what does this mean? It means we should consider getting a better cleaning service. Though I can vouch for my personal cleanliness, how do I know the Echinoids from the seventh dimension are showering daily? For all I know, they’ve been mistaking my cereal bowl for their toilet and I can’t see their waste because it’s done on a plane of existence I can’t understand! Eew.

But, more importantly, Mr. Kaku’s book contains an explanation of how to escape the collapse of the Universe. Yes! I knew this thing came with a fire escape! I now plan to devote my life to preparing for the collapse of the Universe. Make sure the batteries in your Universal Collapse Detector are fresh. I’ve survived the collapse of a Dot Com, so a collapsing Universe will be a breeze. And, probably better managed.

I suppose it’s bound to happen sometime. Children do grow up. You can’t stop nature.

Thinking back to when I met her (then just a potential mate’s daughter) I get a feeling of whimsical nostalgia. She was two, a few months away from turning three. She still had that wispy, spotty hair of a toddler. Though she was in advanced stages, she had a bizarre relationship with walking and talking.

The first time I met her was at Grandma’s house. The wife and I had been dating for a few weeks and, I suppose, my background check came through clean and I was given the go-ahead to come face to face with the kid. She looked at me strangely, perhaps a little suspiciously. Who’s this? What is he doing here? Why is he touching my stuff?

Though she could speak, she clammed up. She still regarded me with suspicion. I would pick up a toy and try to engage her in a game of some sort. The response was a look that I’m pretty sure we’ll give to aliens when they touch down on earth. “What they hell are you doing HERE?” Then we hit the magical common ground: Barnyard Bingo. Neither of us understood the rules, nor did we care. We laughed at the hearty “Sproing!” the game gave off when you selected a piece. We enjoyed playing using the animal pictures and just matching the colors.

And she laughed her ass off because I never won. I wish I could hide behind some sort of adult sacrifice that I let her win to build her confidence, but it would be a lie. To this day I still think she hustled me. Maybe she hid a game piece up her sleeve. I don’t know. Still, I have never won.

I further solidified my stature the first time she came over to my apartment with mom. We had come to an early decision that, while mom and I needed alone dating time, time with the little one was essential to finding out if the relationship would work. After all, I doubt mom would have moved forward at all if the kid couldn’t stand me. Luckily, we got along.

They’d come over every Saturday morning. Mom and I would sip coffee while playing with the toddler. Then we’d all decide on something to do for the day. You know, playgrounds, picnics, the zoo . . . the usual. Mom called me before they came over the first time to see if we had solidified any ideas. We hadn’t, of course. She said she would pack up some toys and be on over. I told her not to worry about the toys. She was dumbfounded.

They arrived and the little one decided that mom and I would get married. I had my own pile of stuffed animals for her to play with and shelves full of Disney movies. Not only that, but I had Green Eggs and Ham on the computer! I was a hero. I was the coolest person on Earth.

Mom was a little worried. But, I think she got over it. Though, sometimes when the girls leave, I wonder if I’m under surveillance. “Did you play Don’t Break The Ice while we were gone? Huh? DID YOU????” Answer: probably.

When we got married, it was me who insisted we subscribe to the Disney Channel. It’s my subscription to Disney Magazine. It was me who started the conspiracy with the little one to get a trip to Disney World (guess who won THAT one?). And, it’s me who has been banned from grocery shopping for bad behavior and conspiracy to throw rolls of toilet paper down aisle 9.

Now, though, I look at the daughter . . . I can’t even call her “the little one” anymore. I look at her and don’t see a child any more. She’s officially a “kid.” She plays outside with her friends. We can drop her off at parties and she doesn’t want us to stay. She has the vocabulary of a Rhodes scholar.

And I’m not cool any more.

It’s okay, I suppose. I still have all my toys to play with. Plus some new ones. And Baby Elvis is on the way. I still have time to corrupt him. But, the golden days with the daughter are coming to an end. Yesterday she made a parachute out of plastic, string and a Styrofoam cup. Next thing I know she’ll be sending the cat into geo-synchronous orbit. She even rolls her eyes at my jokes. She’s starting to assert her independence and is no longer following the stupidity of her stepfather blindly. Now she’s scolding me for it. “Gary, I’m not sure you should really put those action figures on the ceiling fan.”

I guess it should be expected. But it’s frightening when your pre-adolescent child exhibits more common sense than you do.

It’s not that I’m unhappy with her growth. I’m thrilled. I’m proud. It’s just . . . I feel left behind. I want to go running off down the block with her. I want to dig up rocks with her. But she has to do that with her friends now. She just doesn’t have as much time for me anymore. And she certainly doesn’t have patience for my silliness at times.

Oh well, it just gives me time to plan for the inquisition her first date. I probably only have ten more years to plan. I have to start stocking up on black socks and sandals.

SECRETS OF A SUCCESSFUL MARRIAGE REVEALED!

Okay, so maybe not. But today is my second wedding anniversary. I think that’s pretty significant. Upon reflecting on the two years thus far, I’ve realized that our relationship hasn’t changed. Sure, it’s become a better machine, as we’ve come to understand each other better. But, I still see us as the giggly newlyweds of September 18th, 1999. We’re just really happy being married. Why? Well, I guess we kind of like each other.

It’s a shame that so many married couples try to dissuade young couples from the union. Judging from conversations you hear from “veterans” you’d wonder why anyone would ever get married at all. “Might as well give up your freedom.” “Get to know your friends now, because she’ll make damn sure you’ll never see them again.” “Just don’t lose your independence.”

Newsflash: If you are truly worried about any of these issues, you aren’t prepared for marriage.

What I think my wife and I have been successful at is our ability to work as a team. We know what each of us is bringing to the table and we work it to our advantage. Sure, we have arguments over money or property or cleaning the house, but that’s natural for anyone who lives in close proximity to one another. At the end of each night, we’re still together as a unit. And we like it that way.

It’s hard to believe it’s been two years. It’s flown by, and I’ve been happier than hell. Granted, I could use a 65 inch HDTV ready Plasma Television (ahem), but aside from that (and the fact that I could also use a professional grade digital video camera) I think I’m pretty pleased with the relationship. (Could also use a combination DVD/CD/MP3 open region player.) We’re a good match.

One thing I’ve learned (Could use a G4 Mac to help edit those videos) about us is that we’re compatible. (Speaking of compatible, I wouldn’t mind Final Cut Pro for the G4. That would help with non-linear editing.) We gel on everything. Even when we disagree, we know that our combined experiences will get us through it.

I think we have an advantage too. When we started dating, she had a daughter. That put a pretty serious tone over the relationship. I couldn’t very well light-heartedly date a woman with a child. Essentially I would be dating both of them. Any decision I made regarding the relationship would also affect the little one. Their lives depended upon each other.

The point is, before we proceeded to any step in the relationship, we considered the impact. If we had a serious relationship and it didn’t work out, how would that affect the kid? Tough questions. Luckily, I fell pretty hard for both of them. Despite the fact that they both pile things, instead of putting them away. (Whack! OW!)

So what are those secrets that I alluded to? Well, if you want a successful marriage, consider what we do. No matter what sort of day we have, no matter how busy, we still convene to the couch for a little while. We sit close, often holding one another, and consider our day. We talk about our lives. And we talk about the future. But most of all, we hold each other. Sometimes you just need to shut up and let the love wash over you.

Honestly, I’ve never been happier (a custom build home theater would help me found out if I’m at the happiest state of my life). I’ve married a wonderful woman, and am thrilled about the next 80 years.

I look forward to our children growing, our retirement and the day, when I’m sitting in my wheelchair sucking down oxygen, that I get to chase my lovely wife around our retirement community while the nurses yell at me to consider my heart.

I guess they just don’t understand that it’s my heart that I’ll be chasing.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled broadcast.

Phrase your wife really doesn’t care to hear: “When you turn the stereo on in the basement, you get perfect sound in the upstairs bathroom!”

How do you plan for a birth? One would assume that you could assume one of two things. 1. No matter how much you plan, you cannot prepare for that actual moment, or 2. you’re an idiot.

We’re currently writing our Birth Plan for when my wife is in labor. Which is to say, we’re deluded. We’re under the assumption that the hospital will look at our plan and say, “Wonderful! You know, we get so many couples who walk in here off the street and just want us to do everything, but you! You even thought of nipple stimulation, thank god!”

No, they’ll probably just laugh at us and say; “We understand that you want a relaxed atmosphere with no interns, no yelling and no time constraints. We also understand that you want no drugs. You do realize that ‘no yelling’ and ‘no drugs’ contradict each other, right?”

Birth plans are part of the Bradley Method of childbirth. It is a document that we create, in conjunction with our OB, to state our wishes for every stage of our hospital stay. It’s helpful because we have a written proof of our wishes, and it won’t all fall on me at the moment of birth. “THIS ROOM SMELLS LIKE CHICKEN! WHY DOES THIS ROOM SMELL LIKE CHICKEN? I TOLD YOU THE ROOM SHOULD NEVER SMELL LIKE CHICKEN!??!?!?!?!”

But it also gets us talking about some very important issues, such as episiotomies, breastfeeding and more. However, I’m not sure how helpful I was in certain situations. Below is a transcript of the conversation my wife and I had about major points in the birth plan. I hope to move back into the house sometime this week.

Q: How long do you want to labor at home?
A: Do they have cable at the hospital? I think that would help me make the decision.
Q: If I have to have an episiotomy, I would prefer to do it without anesthesia.
A: You’re nuts.
Q: How do you feel about circumcision?
A: Well, what’s the trend? I don’t want the little guy to have a funny looking penis.
Q: Do you want to cut the cord?
A: Do you want to see the contents of my stomach?
Q: What should we do with the placenta?
A: Never speak of it again.
Q: I want a squatting bar in the delivery room.
A: I’ve wanted one of those for years.
Q: I don’t want the baby to have any rubber nipples, including a pacifier until its happy with breastfeeding.
A: Good. Accept no substitutes for real nipples.
Q: Do we want a mirror to be able to see the birth?
A: Sure. You can use it to see if I’m still breathing when I pass out.
Q: Are you bringing an extra pair of clothes in case you get hit when my water breaks?
A: Hit? You mean I could get hit with it? No one told me this in the beginning. If I had known this, I may have gone to bed earlier a certain night a few months ago. No one told me at it was projectile!
Q: What alternatives to drugs are we using?
A: Hey, you’re the one committed to this drugless birth. I’m going to be stoned out of my gourd.
Q: Is it too late to get a new coach?
A: Yes, if you want one as understanding as me.

You know I’m excited about this birth. I’m just terrified of the biological implications of this whole thing. There’s blood, fluids, stretching, sometime TEARING (no bodily process should involve tearing), and a whole host of complications that could complicate things for both mother and child (God forbid).

The further I get along in the birthing classes, the more I learn. The more I learn, the more I wonder, “Isn’t there an easier way than this?”

The answer is “no.” But if men were in charge of birth it would last around six minutes. And you could read the paper the whole time.

INTERCOT: National Day Of Prayer & Remembrance

A few updates today. Different thoughts about different issues written yesterday during a day of remembrance.

I still want to tell the story of Intercot and the community that encompasses. Proof that an online community can be a true community.

Above is John's new front page. It should be noted that John, the Intercot webmaster, has done an amazing job of keeping this online community together and focused. He stands head and shoulders above the rest of the Disney community and is a shining example of a compassionate human being.

After all the planes were grounded on Tuesday I suddenly realized how I viewed the sky. As a traveler I see it as small. An avenue to get me to where I want to go. But Tuesday, driving home from work, I did not see a single plane. There was no traffic in the sky. It was huge.

And it was quiet. I’ve never realized the ambient noise the planes that constantly flew overhead made, and how I had become accustomed to it.

But that’s not all that was quiet. Driving, with my window open, I never heard the thump of teen-aged bass. Drivers weren’t gunning their engines. There was no yelling, no kids screaming in the neighborhoods. There was a strange calmness. Most radios were tuned to talk radio. Sporting events were cancelled, Brownie meetings, malls were closed. People were staying inside to listen to the news. Would they find any hope? Glean any good?

No. There was little, and there remains to be little.

Wednesday night, after it seemed all hope was lost, I wearily trudged to bed. I had a lot on my mind, as does everyone else. It was a nice night, so the windows were open. I lay in bed, trying to calm down my mind so that I may relax and fall asleep.

I finally began to drift off. Then my heart was seized with an icy shock. There was a jet in the sky. The unaccustomed silence had been sliced with a familiar sound. But now it had a new context.

Our airport hadn’t been reopened yet, so I felt a moment of fear. The sounds I was hearing was clearly a jet with its flaps up, slowing its forward velocity in preparation to land. And it was big. It was a military jet, to be sure. But it sounded huge. I don’t know where it was going, or what it was doing, but I have an idea I’ll hear more in the coming weeks and months. And, I have a pretty good idea that I’ll know exactly what they’re preparing for.

Yes, it seems we are at war, though no enemy has been declared. No enemy is known right now. The biggest enemy is fear. And this war is nothing we’ve ever experienced. It may be long, protracted. How many countries will be involved? How many neighbors will be asked to risk their lives?

Will we ever recover? Will our lives ever be the same? No. But we must go on.

Because there is no nation to target, people seem to want to point fingers as a racial group. Arab-Americans. Muslims. Please, do NOT attack Arab-Americans. They are here to escape the terror that we are now experiencing. They too want to live a better life. They, too, are Americans.

These terrorists, bastards that they are, no more represent the religion of Islam than David Koresh represented Christianity. They no more represent Arabs as a whole than Hitler Milosovich represented the whole of the Slavic people.

Think straight. Look in the right direction. Please.

So what can you do? What can we do? Donate money of course, blood, time. Focus whatever spiritual feelings you have towards good will and a world of peace.

But the best thing I can say is raise your children to reject hate. Teach them tolerance, understanding. Teach them to be good human beings and not to embrace beliefs that preach pain, hurt and hate. Teach them that human life, above all, should be cherished.

Horrible people will always exist. We cannot get rid of them. But we can teach our children that the world doesn’t have to be a horrible place. That they don’t have to accept this sort of terror. That they can rise above horrible acts and show the world that peace can be achieved through understanding. That you can accomplish amazing things without the need to shed blood wantonly.

Grief. Anger. Fear. Disbelief. Shock. After the images, stories and information we’ve all learned over the last few days those words just don’t seem to have the power to convey the mixed emotions all of us are feeling these days. It feels as though the world we put to bed on Monday night will never awaken again. We now have a world that looks similar, though scarred, but it feels different.

No words can express how we all feel. Or what we don’t feel. The images we have seen over these last few days, the death, destruction, the fear, will never leave us. As our children grow, what we have seen will become a distant memory. Yet, we will never forget the moment we learned that an airplane hit the World Trade Center. And then another. Then the collapse. Then another. And the Pentagon.

It felt like a full-scale attack. One event after the other. It kept happening more destruction, more death. More pain.

There is no precedent for this attack on the American people. People have compared it to Pearl Harbor. To Oklahoma City. But those are only similarities. Those events were different. They had different circumstances.

The point here is that the people of America have been attacked. Not the government, not the Armed Forces, but the people. You. Me. Our children. Any one of us could have been in that building. The people who have died were doing no more than earning a living. Getting their morning coffee. They committed no crimes against the world. They made no contribution to America’s foreign policy. They did nothing more than hope they could make a living, feed a family, get home that evening to whatever sort of comfort they had.

The people on the planes were going home, on business trips or vacations. There were families on those planes. I’ve even heard that one plane had a group of elementary school students who had won a National Geographic trip. They were with their teachers. That morning their parents kissed them goodbye, felt the sharp tinge of pain thinking they were sending children off alone into the world. They were loosening the strings of protection. As those kids stepped onto the plane, that sadness was mixed with pride. “My child has achieved something. My child has done something good.” They are now mourning their children.

Why? For what reason?

The point is, the attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon touches us all. Not because of the national significance, though there is that, but because of how close it comes.

How many people did you know? Did they get out? Even if you didn’t know someone, you know someone who does. Or someone who was close, or had a close call.

The sheer amount of human life that was lost may never dawn on us. One senseless death is difficult to deal with. Two, doubly so. 100? 600? 1000? 5000? It seems unfathomable.

But the dead and missing are beginning to get faces and stories. But they are only sketches, highlights, moments. Brief lists of accomplishments, family. It’s all we can handle. Only short stories, not full novels. Were we to know more, the complete destruction may be too much for us to handle.

But ask yourself this question. How many children are waking up without a parent? How many husbands and wives are going to bed alone? How many brothers and sisters out there are desperately searching the hospitals and crisis centers in New York and Washington for missing loved ones? How many are on their knees now, praying that there will be some miracle and those rescue workers will find their loved ones. How can they give up? They need to hope. Hope allows us all to survive.

There may be as many as 5000 dead. But there are millions wounded.

Not going to be much of an entry today, though I've got a big one for tomorrow. I've been watching the events around the attacks unfold and have been stewing over them. I was upset at my place of work as, I feel, they treated the events as a local event. Not a national, or global one. No information was shared. No comment was made, except late yesterday to let us know that only our colleagues were unaffected. And then today, there was some rhetoric.

Not that I can fully blame them. Nor can I say their reaction was wrong, per se. They did what they had to do as a business, and in a way, it's admirable in the face of the global circumstances. They didn't allow terror to infiltrate the way they worked. However, they could have allowed compasion to enter a little more than it did . . .

Anyway, tomorrow I'm going to write about the amazing part the Internet played in this whole thing. Particularly my favorite site, Intercot. And, more importantly, how its webmaster and the community banded together. Virtual or not, a huge group of Internet users were together to share information, comfort one another and try to understand what had happened.

To be part of it was amazing.

Talk to you tomorrow, more or less. Tonight, reflect. And help me find the words to explain to those callous few who don't understand why I should be so affected by these events.

Why? Because I am human. New York, DC, America. Human. Families were torn asunder and lives were ended. That is enough. Enough.

Support freedom

In light of today's events, I'm not doing a real update. I'm too . . . sickened.

Rather, I encourage you to hug your loved ones. Be thankful for what you have and revel in the love you have around you.

Life is fragile, and can be shattered at any moment. Be thankful for it. Before you go to bed tonight, look at the stars or the moon. Watch your kids sleeping. Pet your dog. Find a bit of beauty and serenity in the world and hold on to it.

Warning: The below is boring and pointless. Just something that’s bugging me. No insight, commentary or comedy follows. In fact, nothing interesting follows.

Ah, the pain we put our parents through. We never understood, because we viewed them as a sort of indestructible force. Parents are intended to save us kids from the dangers of the world. Even though they could never possibly understand us, we knew that they could comfort us.

I bring this up because twice in the past week I have seen my daughter as this fragile being who must learn the ways of the world. I wish I could protect her from some of the pain I know she must be feeling but I can’t. Sometimes the best lesson in the world is that pain, and learning how to rise above it.

The first time she tugged at my heartstrings was when she was getting on the bus. At the bus stop we were discussing the previous day. She told me, forlornly, how the day before her two friends wouldn’t sit with her and she had to ride the bus alone. Her eyes were filled with the loneliness that no adult understands. A child’s loneliness is a complete, utter feeling of being alone. I could sit on a bus alone, without a care in the world. But a six-year-old? That moment is all she had. She was alone. Her family was elsewhere and her friends had chosen not to be with her. At six, she has no frame of reference to “count her blessings.” That moment was the painful present, with no escape until the future came bumping into it.

When she got on the bus that morning, those two friends again chose to sit elsewhere. As the bus pulled away, this little blonde face looked at me, hurt. Waving as if this bus would take her to an inevitable future where there would never be anyone to talk to. A future from which she would never return. The sadness on her face was complete. She knew she had to leave me behind, but without her friends by her side she wasn’t sure how she would cope with the moments ahead.

Turned out she survived. I, however, had this lingering feeling of desertion. I felt as though I cruelly sent her into an extended period of isolation. I should have held her back and said, “Forget school! Who needs those people when we can have fun and learn all by ourselves!” Sigh.

The second painful moment came when we were discussing the baby. She had told her mother that she was afraid that people would forget about her after the squirt is born. We tried to reassure her, and tell her that we’ll never, ever forget her. But, we had to face facts. The baby will certainly change life as we know it. We can’t lie about that. She knows it. How can you assure a child that a baby isn’t a replacement? That you can share love amongst everyone?

As I sit here I am looking at a yellow piece of paper that I found in my lunch today. It’s from my daughter. It says, “Have a good day. I love you.” You have no idea how it floored me to find it.

This morning she was inspecting her lunch box and found the love note her mother always leaves her. She’s gotten to the point where she can’t wait until she gets to school to see what Mom does. As soon as the car pulls away the daughter is tearing into her lunch box to see what it says. I remember that feeling of excitement about something. Knowing you have something special waiting just for you. And, the crushing feeling when it wasn’t there. I suppose the daughter needs to know that Mom still loves her before she even leaves the house. She can’t wait until lunch, she must know now.

So, this morning I was jokingly lamenting the fact that no one leaves me a note in my lunch box. Sniff. Wounded bear look, etc. As usual, I went back to sipping my coffee and reading the paper.

It’s normal for the daughter to draw or write in the morning. Most often she’s lost in some little project she’s working on and I’m an insignificant bit of white noise on the borders. She’s in the land of childhood focus. The focus so intense that, in her mind, I imagine she sees herself alone in the world while she works. It’s amazing.

When I got to work, I found the note. There was an audible sound of glass shattering. That was my heart breaking and melting. We view children as these little fragile beings who need to be protected from the world. For some reason we see them as easily corrupted or destroyed by any moment that might possibly shake their confidence.

Turns out, it's the other way around. My daughter saw that I was unhappy and feeling left out. She wanted to protect me from that pain. What better way to do it than to provide me with what I needed? Just a little note that reminds me that I’m loved.

And it worked. I made it through today, with no problem. In fact, I’ve had a big grin on my face and wanted to show everyone my little note.

“See? I’m loved. This proves it!”

When Monday rolls around and no one is looking, I’ll check my bag. Maybe I’ll have another note, and for another day I'll have proof that I'm loved.

My wife is sleeping with someone else. Someone who is more sensitive to her needs, more attentive to her physical discomfort, a more reliable partner. His name is Bob.

She’s doing this out in the open because . . . she doesn’t care. Sure, it hurts me. I feel pained, but I figure it’s best for her pregnancy and, perhaps, she’ll come back to me after the baby is born.

I doubt that.

Bob is a body pillow.

This is one of the subjects they don’t teach you in fathering school. (They don’t have one? Well, they should.) Pregnant women have an innate need to be surrounded by pillows at all times. It’s for their comfort. Or, in case a roving movie crew needs to film her jumping off our roof and they forgot their airbag.

Our bed currently looks like one of those Indian fantasies where the Raj is sitting in a room of pillows, surrounded by harem girls. He’s getting fanned, while exotic women dance around him in gauzy silk. He thinks, “Perhaps tonight I will take Maryanne over Ginger. Hmmmmm.”

In my house we have the pillows, but no fanning. No gauzy silk. No exotic dancers. Only my wife, Bob and the cat. Yes, the cat has her own space on the bed. Bob is in mine. Currently, if I’m allowed in the bed at all, I have to cram myself into the upper corner, because the other three inhabitants are hogging the rest of the bed.

I’ve tried to move the cat. This is a bad idea.

It wouldn’t be so bad if Bob stayed in the bedroom, but he doesn’t. When we watch TV at night, my wife is wrapped around Bob like Mary Lou Retton around a Chippendale. Again, I’m relegated to the upper corner of the couch. The upper corner seems to be my area. At least I still have an area.

One of these days, I’m expecting to go home and find Bob wearing my clothes, sitting in my chair, eating my dinner. The kids will be calling him daddy and he’ll just sit there, in his feather pillowed indifference. My wife will divorce me for the perfection that is Bob. He has no needs. He has no wants, he has no desires. He’s never asked for a plasma television 18 times in one day. He doesn’t require 18 DVD and CD purchases a month. He’s low maintenance.

Eventually, their relationship will falter. My (ex)wife will wonder why Bob no longer speaks to her. Why he seems so flat and distant. She’ll find that after a few years of use, he isn’t as supple as he once was. And he never helps with the kids or does the dishes. The bastard.

Then she’ll come back to me. After endless sleepless nights, she’ll need a new body pillow, and she’ll seek out the original. Me.

Perhaps I’ll take her back. Maybe I’ll find it in my heart to forgive her cuddling infidelity. Maybe. If I can get a plasma television.

DPAMac - Intro - Power Pop!! Members Page

Also added this to the world that is the web. I hear it's wide. Double wide.

Intercot: A Virtual Guide To Walt Disney World - Disney Studios

Updated this page this week, by the way. Everyone should look. And enjoy.

No update today. Except this, which is technically an update.

I had a rotten, rotten day. Horrible. Beyond words. Except, of course, those words that I just used.

Tomorrow will be better.

But probably not.

Maybe.

Ack.

Whatever you do, don’t tell my wife she’s tiny. Because she’s not. Of course, this doesn’t mean that you can call her huge either. It’s quite the conundrum.

You know she’s pregnant, so her size is the topic of daily discussion. Usually, she’s happy with it and she gestates away, content with her constantly changing shape. She’s good-natured and seems to have a bizarre relationship with the fetal invader that is currently occupying a good 80% of her abdominal area. It’s a cute little pouch that sticks out in front of her, making her look like the perfect pregnant woman. Compact, glowing and round in all the appropriate places.

Or so I thought.

My family had an innocent get-together this weekend where we all ate, drank (water for the wife) and mingled to our hearts’ content. Of course, wifey was a huge (oops! Sorry, constant) topic of discussion. How is she feeling? Is she excited? Is she having any problems? (Some offered advice . . . we won’t go there.) Everyone commented on how tiny she looked for being six months pregnant. One woman (who isn’t part of the family), when hearing Wifey say she felt bloated said, “Oh honey, you have so long to go! You’re just tiny. You don’t even know what bloated is!” (Husband’s interjection: We met this woman two hours prior to this comment. I guess she was comfortable saying whatever she felt to whomever was in earshot. I should have shot back, “With an ass like yours I’d feel bloated too. Honey.”) Despite my wife’s relative small size (she started small, so it only stands to reason that she remains small), I imagine that a huge portion of her internal organs have been shifted by the gargantuan, constantly shifting uterus and growing being inhabiting the small area. All things considered, if I had something the size of a cantaloupe in my stomach, I’d probably feel bloated too. (Okay, let’s face it. I’d feel bloated and uncomfortable if something the size of a neutron was there. I’d bitch and complain endlessly.) The point is, my wife looks amazing pregnant. Healthy and appropriately sized.

Still, in comparison to other women who have been pregnant in history, perhaps my wife’s stomach isn’t as large as others at the six-month mark. So? I figure that anyone who tells her she’s tiny spent the whole of their 9-month pregnancy camped out at McDonalds drinking cold, congealed fry grease while sucking on raw meat. When labor finally struck (which they thought was gas) these nameless women had to be hauled to the hospital via a forklift. To even get them out they had to remove an entire wall.

Yes, my wife is eating a healthy diet, which has resulted in a woman who has gained a good amount of weight. She looks pregnant and happy, rather than like Jabba the Hutt with a tumor on his stomach.

Still, a woman’s stomach size during pregnancy seems to be a strange sort of status symbol among other women. (Much like penis size in men, but women don’t have to lie.) The larger it is, the better job she’s doing. So, in saying that she’s tiny, she’s hearing that she’s not gestating well. All she has to do is grow a baby and she’s under performing! Of course, this isn’t remotely true, but you can’t tell a pregnant woman that she’s being irrational and survive. It just doesn’t happen.

This presents an interesting conundrum. Normally if my wife asked me if she looked fat, a simple “No honey, you look fantastic” would suffice. Now, I don’t know what to do. She doesn’t look fat at all, but she wants to in order to fulfill the fetal growing requirements impressed upon her by the unwritten code of women. It doesn’t matter, anyway. If I tell her she doesn’t look fat, she cries because she’s not pregnant enough. If I tell her that she looks amazingly fat, perfect for baby growin’ she cries because she is unattractive. It’s a no-win situation. So I have devised my own answer, which I think she will accept. I am trying it this evening; I’ll let you know how it goes.

Tell me what you think of it:

“Why honey, you look gestationally appropriate.”