My wife is really pregnant.

Now I know that she has been with child for the past 8 months. I have been to all the OBGYN appointments, seen numerous ultrasounds, witnessed the freakish growth of her stomach, taken over the majority of the house work and all in all tried to diligently follow the advice that we espouse in our brand new book “DadLabs Guide to Fatherhood, Pregnancy and Year One.”

But for some reason, it just hit me that SHE’S PREGNANT AND A LITTLE BABY BOY IS COMING TO LIVE IN OUR HOUSE VERY SOON!

The culmination of three separate events this weekend awarded me with clarity.

First, I realized I have couvade. That’s right, I am experiencing sympathetic symptoms of pregnancy. After dropping twenty seven pounds in the FitFatFit Dad Challenge, I am now packing on the pounds like a foie gras goose before a gourmet food festival. Fifteen pounds in one month and each pound is directly related to the pregnancy, or more accurately, directly related to the ice cream that is ALWAYS in the freezer and that I ALWAYS woof down in massive quantities every night before retiring to sleep. It seems pregnant ladies love ice cream.

Second, I have pregnancy brain. My wife asked me yesterday “Honey, are you ok? I appreciate you cooking diner but I just found the salt in the freezer and the ice cream in the pantry. Now we need some more ice cream and little clean up action in the pantry.” I had a little taste of the ice cream as I was making the BBQ chicken and somehow got the salt and the pralines & cream mixed up.

Third, last evening I had my first dream about our new arrival and it wasn’t the rose colored, Hollywood style new baby dream like I had with the first two. It was the real deal.

I dreamt it’s really late, I am holding our new infant and he is screaming his freaking head off. Deep knee bends and multiple lullabies do nothing to soothe his discomfort.

Then I hear it, the low rumble, like an earthquake deep in the mantle racing to the surface to wreak havoc and make life miserable for human kind.

Next I feel it, the forceful warm explosion of mustard yellow, seedy tapioca like pudding poop that rides up the back of the diaper, squirts out the sides and generally just smears over everything when you try to clean it with a wet wipe. It’s 3 a.m. I am totally exhausted, covered in poop and my son needs a bath.

That’s when I woke up and realized it was just a dream but in less than eight weeks it will be a reality. Unable to go back asleep I went to the pantry to get some ice cream.