As I lay on the floor looking at the newly-assembled crib, I realized just how much things have already started to shift. Nothing dramatic, nothing even conscious. Just a handful of tiny undulations who’s seismic center, I would imagine, could be traced back to this impending fatherhood thing.

A month or so ago, while The Wife™ was out of the house, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and knew it was time. I went to the garage, got a pair of vice grips, and ripped out my earrings. To some, this might seem trite, insignificant. I knew it was a big deal, but it hadn’t hit me yet. I’ve had piercings for over ten years now, and for the last eight have worn the same jewelry, never once taking them out. They’ve traveled with me all over the world, and in a silly kind of way, have shared in every experience I’ve had since trotting off to college in the late nineties. All of a sudden, something I’ve carried with me for close to four thousand days, something that in one way or another has helped define me (or at least my outward appearance) had been removed. It was simply time to move on.

And what had started with a Lenten sacrifice has now become a signifier of further change inside. No longer are my days filled from beginning to end with music. Instead, I have been commuting in silence for several weeks, my car’s stereo dimmed each morning. And what I originally thought would be a terrible, yet temporary, oblation has turned into a strangely welcomed exercise in silence. A year ago I would not have believed it myself.

So as I sat there yesterday morning, sun shining briefly through the nursery window, I became aware these recent, muted changes. Sure, it’s nothing substantial or shocking. But they are significant. And I’m beginning to see that while these two things might not be heralding the arrival of a baby-ready Brian just yet, subconsciously things are indeed shifting, and perhaps in a way that means that I’m more ready for what changes are coming soon.

I still don’t know what to make of the third new trend with me, though. Perhaps “falling asleep after one beer” is related to something other than getting older. It’s got to stop, though. This would be an utter slap in the face to my Irish heritage if I became the drinking equivalent of a 19 year old college chick.

1. Why Can’t Adam Duritz Get Any Respect? - Nice article about Counting Crows’ frontman. I will forever hold dear August and Everything After, and therefore don’t hate Duritz as much as most people do. He seems cool. I’d have a beer with him.
2. TripIt - Traveling and have plane, rental car and hotel details? Simply forward your confirmation emails and TripIt aggregates it all for you, with bonus data. Cool idea. (be sure to catch the demo videos.)
3. “Bush’s War” on PBS - Peeved that I missed it on the teevee, Kottke graciously linked to it this week and it reminded me I could watch it all online. I’ve only made it through a few chapters, but whooo. A doozy.
4. Having a life while I still can - With the baby on the way, we did it up big last night. I watched basketball. At a bar. Past 9pm. And then came home and watched (part of) another game. That’s right, who’s a wuss now, Andrew?!
5. “Royal Flush” by Big Boi of Outkast - My Last.fm stats will be skewed this week. I’ve had it on blast for five days.

After three and a half months of reading, researching, ranking and hand-wringing, last night we started registering for baby crap. I imagined that this would make a colonoscopy seem like a weekend in Boca Raton. I was not let down.

The concept of making a list of junk for other people to buy you still seems stupid creepy to me, having never gotten over the original process when we got married. I suppose that’s why I feel ill-at-ease making mandatory Christmas lists for The Mother-in-Law™ too.

The good part is that we’re finally moving forward, and that The Wife™ has found a public place where she can relax and feel comfortable knowing that people aren’t wondering if she just ate too many pork rinds. The people in this store can smell pregnancy. Maybe because babies smell like pork rinds? Gross. I hope not.

And even though we were only able to say that (in over two hours) we had knocked off 49 items (out of ~15,293, give or take), it’s much better than staring at a completely full list. Perhaps that will assuage my concern over this whole “registering” phenomenon.

Now we just have to settle the debate of “Newborn: Can a sock drawer REALLY replace a bassinet?” I can imagine you already know which side of the argument I represent.

The past two days I’ve been stuck at home with a busted back, forced to do little but contemplate my navel, watch The History Channel and eat lentils. Why, you may ask? How could a 27 year old be stricken down with a bad back? Well, besides the fact that God hates me my theory is that my body is dyslexic, and thinks that it is actually 72 years old. At least that would explain my partiality to soup, house slippers and warm baths.

Anyway, I think I’ve mentioned before that I suck at staying home. I feel useless and unproductive. And with this whole sciatica thing, even sitting up was painful. So needless to say I had a lot of time on my hands to watch TV and read. The past 48 hours can be tritely condensed into the following statements:

• The History Channel is obsessed with Hitler, and 85% of their daytime program is alloted to this topic
• Cable news networks make me want to die
• Childbirth looks like it’s going to suck hardcore. For her. Not me. I’ll be eating a Snickers by the vending machines.

(that should make the Google Adwords pretty interesting)

The only book within reach that wasn’t nauseatingly droll was one of the pregnancy books that a friend lent us. And seeing as how I wasn’t much in the mood to read about information culture, information networks and the socioeconomic impact of shifting away from older, monolithic models of production, I read up on this whole “baby thing” that everyone keeps talking about.

Holy sh*t.

During my reading, I discovered that right now my baby is the size of a small pot roast (their words, not mine), diaper bags are not suitable sleeping options for newborns, and that the uterus easily allows sound transmission. And if that last part strikes you as surprising, consider this chart from the same book. No, really. Go ahead and take a look:

Okay, so I’m moving beyond the fact that it’s inconceivable for me to grasp something the size of a BAGEL coming out of anyone’s hoo-ha (let alone a soda can, orange juice can, Oreo, etc). But really? Who describes the size of things like this? And why are they all food related? Were the authors thinking, “You know, we should make this as revolting as possible, so that when the parents are experiencing this thing that is like a mini-reenactment of that scene from Aliens all they can think of is, ‘hey, it really is the size of a bagel!’” No wonder sound travels easily up there.

I’m never staying home again.

With a little over 110 days to go in the pregnancy, I still have not overcome the one niggling little doubt that I’ve had since day one: how could I decide to bring a helpless little human being into the world?

You would have thought that I would have addressed this before now. And, frankly, I did, just to no final resolution. I was exceedingly torn over the notion of bringing a defenseless child into a world like this. It’s a tremendously cliched notion, but knowing this does not make my worry fade. The world right now is, err, troubled? Not right? F***ed? War, political strife, disease, disaster…the sorrows of modernity know no end. And yet the counter-argument would simply be, “but hasn’t every parent said the same thing, regardless of what era they lived in?” Perhaps. But I don’t know how they came to be at peace with themselves over it.

I decided that I couldn’t not have a kid. I’ve always said that I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up, but I know I want to be a father. And it’s true. Why? Well if you believe in callings I suppose that’s where such rationale would fit nicely. Or perhaps it’s all more complicated, and the desire is for some narcissistic reason that I’ll discover in an awkward therapy session fifteen years down the road. I’m hoping for the former, rather than the latter.

So to sum it up, I wanted to be a father more than I knew that I could protect this kid or ensure that I wasn’t damning it to a painful, tortured life of it’s own. A terrible gamble with stakes that really have little to do with me. In this light, it all seems so cruel and unfair. It makes me want to apologize profusely to the kid when I finally get to see (insert gender pronoun) in June.

This still wakes me up at night. And I fear it won’t disappear any time soon. Or maybe it will eventually, just to be replaced by the fear of the kid falling face-first down a flight of stairs in the middle of the night like dear ol’ dad did as a youngster. And then after I find out that (insert gender pronoun)’s large head cushioned their fall, and that they’ll be okay, I can return to feeling inconsolably guilty about subjecting them to this vile world.

Guess I know how therapy alcoholism pampering starts.