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I had one goal for Sunday: to spend as much time as possible watching football. My plan was to invite Kenn and Drue over and eat cheap pizza in the basement and fart and complain about the Bears offense until we fell asleep. Then we’d rouse ourselves in time for the late game on ESPN. It would be heaven. Instead, I found myself in an outlet mall in Indiana, maternity shopping.

Apparently I had promised a long time ago, and Sarah had it on her calendar for weeks. I don’t have a calendar, so I had no recourse. My only plan was make the experience so miserable for both of us that she would never make me do it again…

What do you do when you hear a baby cry?

My first instinct is to run in the other direction. I don’t want to have anything to do with it; the whole thing is the family’s business, not mine. But when my child-to-be starts screaming in four months, I honestly don’t know how I’ll react. I certainly hope I don’t run away. This is a hot-button issue, I’m told, this crying thing, especially as it pertains to sleep. It tends to polarize new parents, most of which fall into one of three camps…

More bad news. At synagogue, I saw Nate, an old guy whose daughter’s pregnancy was two weeks ahead of Sarah’s. His daughter miscarried. Her cervix had basically opened up and the fetus came out early, which happens in about one percent of all pregnancies. I practically burst into tears right there in the sanctuary. Nate, who’d been giddy at the prospect of being grandfather just a month ago, now looked miserable. And there wasn’t a damn thing I could say to him.

That night, I held Sarah tight. But not too tight…

Our cushy little pregnant world, where the deepest problem to this point involved sharing the bathroom, exploded today. The phone rang at my desk, and it was Sarah, who had that amused-but-troubled ring to her voice. “You’ll never guess what happened. I just got exposed to chicken pox.”

The inside of my stomach dropped so fast, I checked my shoes for my lower intestines. Sarah is always showing off about how she’s never had chicken pox…

Three interesting developments this week:

1. My wife’s gross motor movements have gotten worse. Sarah has many strengths, but grace ain’t one of them. Her fingers are starting to swell, so it’s hard for her to hold onto things, and her vision sucks, which means every time I look over, she’s spilling soup or bumping into walls or poking herself in the eye. It’s like my own personal episode of the 1 1/2 Stooges.

2. She can’t remember a damn thing. Recently, she lost her driver’s license, and when I suggested looking in the black hole that has become our car, she insisted it wasn’t in there. I bet her a dollar…