It is at times like this I am thankful that I am not a pregnant woman. Julie had to drink about a gallon (slight exaggeration) of this nasty-looking orangey stuff Thursday morning before our appointment with the doctor. Then, she got to wait an hour while the taste lingered in her mouth. I'm sure it was super-duper delicious, sort of like that saccharine brew Triaminic that we used to take as kids. Then, she got stuck with a needle.Apparently it's part of the normal regimen of Fun Things Expectant Moms Get to Do. In this case, we're talking about the Glucose Challenge Screening Test. It's …

I'm writing this week's installment at The Heights community center. One of the perks of visiting regularly is that you get to see a lot of youngsters, full of energy and ready to play. Today, for example, there's a boy sitting in a chair on the ground floor. He is eating a snack, watching television and attempting to converse in a language that I'm pretty sure few people save his parents understand all that well. Wait—he just said, "All done," indicating he's finished his snack. Two words is doing quite well. It's more than I can often string together coherently in any given 24-hour period.…

My son is going to be a boxer. Or a soccer player. Or a roughhouser, generally. I haven't met him yet—in person, anyway. But I've felt his tiny kicks and punches on the outside of his mom's tummy, which leads me to have complete confidence in his athletic ability. It's quite a relief. His dad, you see, climbed to new heights in the sporting world by becoming the first person in the immediate family to reach the lower rung of the junior varsity tennis team in high school. It's only natural that his son would advance beyond that. But enough of this third-person stuff: I ate dirt. My siblings, …

The bedding for the baby's room came earlier this week, and it wowed us with cuteness. We had decided on a theme involving farm animals some time ago. Julie grew up in the country and had sheep, chickens, turkeys, dogs, cats. The crib set, lamp and mobile match that. Fluffy sheep, playful horses and cows — it's got them all. Julie had been scouting for some time. Typically, we're both manning our computer command stations at some point during the day. She's at work finding discounts for the family and researching things we need to be doing to prepare for the baby. Meanwhile, I'm digging …

Julie and I have a name picked out for our baby boy due this June. But we aren't telling. As with most issues involving parenting (so I'm learning), this one has at least 70 schools of thought, 80 percent of which are conflicting. One group of people says you should name your child, announce the name in a clever way on Facebook and be done with it. I applaud this crowd for its ingenuity and straightforwardness. Why wrestle with people over the issue when you can delight them with your wit, thereby distracting them from the fact that you just named your son Abinidab? Another group enters the …

The revelation came toward the end of Thursday's ultrasound. My poor wife, Julie, had been plastered with that glue-like substance.The tech moved her magical see-all wand across Julie's stomach, tracking our growing child. I, the dad-to-be, stood at attention at Julie's side. I didn't have to get glue all over my stomach. We had come to answer just one question: Is it a girl, or a boy? As the tech took notes, she identified body parts out loud for our benefit: Heart. Kidneys. Spine. Then came the definitive gender statement."I see something there," the tech said, smiling. Let's just put it …

I knew having a baby would require me to pay a few extra bucks every month. I didn't know I'd need to operate a money tree farm to do it. Julie and I discovered this last weekend. While I dream of having a happy child who sleds merrily down a hill (see as an example this delightful picture of kids playing in this week's snow in Shaw Park, courtesy of the city of Clayton), it seems you can't automatically get to the part where everyone laughs and frolics without costing you a dime. As I learned recently, the U.S. Department of Agriculture (USDA) may be the best resource we have for coping with…

How I spend the next several decades of my life will be determined by an announcement being made soon. No, I'm not declaring for the NFL draft, at least not yet. I'm pretty sure the sporting world isn't prepared for this kind of excellence. Rather, I will learn next week whether my wife and I will be having a little girl or a little boy. (You may think the "little" part is obvious or redundant or both, and you'd be right. But it's surprising how many people subconsciously add that word to sentences as they coo with glee. I surely hope my baby is little. Big babies are in the purview of …

My expectant wife and I learned this week that on Jan. 20, we'll have an answer to the question: Is it a boy or a girl? Finally. I say "finally" with a sense of joy and relief. I'm joyful because—well, if you can't figure that one out, just take a trip to the mall, the zoo or any other public place where youngsters congregate. See? Aren't you just bowled over with cuteness? The relief comes from finally being able to answer that aforementioned question which, I suspect, has delightfully plagued humankind for eons. It has a magnetic relationship with the phenomenon of pregnancy. It's the "Do …

I read the news with some trepidation. That's not because I think journalists are out to destroy America or because I fear that what lies outside of my nitrous oxide-filled bubble could harm me. Oh no. It's not about me. It's about the baby. You see, I happened to read about whooping cough the other day. And I'm thinking about purchasing surgical masks in bulk. I first brought the issue to the attention of my wife after reading a short item from the Associated Press that the disease had come to St. Louis County. Here's what I read: Whooping cough has packed its nasty suitcase and is headed to…

Moms and dads of the world, get ready: In about six months, I'll be joining your ranks.In the meantime, this 24-year-old is going to try to gather the wisdom of your collective years in a weekly column on Clayton-Richmond Heights Patch. I'm not going to wow you today. That'll have to wait for at least another week. I'm still learning to tie my shoes and make my own oatmeal.  But I can at least get us started with a joke that, perhaps, will lead to conversation among the more experienced of you.It's one of my wife's personal favorites. Her name is Julie. She's the one who has to put up with me…