Wyatt

There's a new sheriff in town:

Wyatt Andrew Bohlmann

born Tuesday, May 29, 2007 - 6 PM sharp

7 lbs. 10 oz. / 20 inches long

Everybody's exhausted, but everybody's fine.

Come on kid, time to get the hell out of Dodge...

Today's John Wayne's 100th birthday — and we were hoping it would also be Chester's 0th birthday. That's not looking too likely at this point, although we did log about a dozen scattered contractions last night. As of this morning, things have settled down in there.

At this point, we'll entertain any theories at all (courtesy MegaBuzz):

Provided by MegaBuzz.com

[sound of crickets]

Still waiting. No news.

Six days overdue now, and the kid is just kicking back in there like he was in a Barcalounger with a beer fridge in the armrest. Oh, we've had a few contractions here and there, but I think that's just him popping the legrest up and down.

Baby Day

May 18! We've been eyeing this day on our calendars for long time now. And here we are. As Willy Wonka said, "The suspense is terrible -- I hope it lasts!"

I hope it doesn't last, actually. We're ready, and waiting for a sign from within. As Hudson said, "So far, zippo."

Today's also Maus's first official day of maternity leave -- we marked double-occasion with breakfast at Dish down on Leary. And who do we run into there? Our OB!

Is that a sign? And if so, is it a good sign? I was hoping we'd be running into her today, but not at breakfast, exactly.

Shmool softener

Two days to our due date. Still no word from our man on the inside. The doctor remarked earlier this week that our son seems really happy, comfortable, and content right where he is. That's my Maus — always the perfect hostess, always keeping the guests comfy and well fed.

This cat, however, is not the cat I've known for 12 years. Whether he's picking up on the vibe of the new hire soon joining our team, or he's been softened by the loss of his brother, or he's just mellowing with age, one thing's clear — Shmool has become, for lack of a better term, a real pussycat.

Used to be, when he'd follow us around meowing in his distinctive warbly twang, he wanted food! Service! Hop to it, man! Now, he still follows us around murmuring that insistent drawl of his, but more often than not he just wants to be picked up and held. He wants belly rubs. He purrs.

All of this is new. For as long as I can remember, the belly has been streng verboten! (as has all contact more than three inches from his head and neck). And I'd always believed his purr-motor was missing or defective (like R2-D2's leg rockets, this is a gadget I never knew he had). Now he's all laps and massages and even (gasp!) the occasional affectionate lick.

Which of course would be completely fine, even welcome in our sans-Fabio household, except that all too soon our available laptime is going to plummet suddenly and alarmingly. And I fear the backlash.

Then again, maybe he'll warm to the baby the same way he seems to be warming to the rest of us. Maybe he'll take the kid under his protection. Lord knows this house has seen stranger things.

Chester Festus

One week!

One week to Maus's due date, that is. Which means we could be waiting around until as late as Memorial Day, or we could be on the job tonight. Chester Festus (my father's in-utero nickname for his grandson-to-be) appears to be lined up and limbered up and on his mark, and now we just have to wait for the starter's pistol.

Everything is in readiness — as far as I can tell, anyway. Probably there are a million unturned stones that won't even present themselves until after the fact, but at least the steady and unrelenting influx of packages from Babies R Us is reassuring. With this much stuff, we must be ready for anything.

Except a girl, that is. Here's hoping that ultrasound guy knows his business.

We have a nice manly name chosen and are ready to use it. Unfortunately I'm still bound by Maus's gag order, and can't give any hints.

I'm pretty sure I wouldn't even be allowed to divulge that there are two hints hidden somewhere in this post. Or even three. I mean, if there were hints hidden in this post. Which of course I'm not allowed to reveal. Whether there are hints or not, that is. I'm not allowed to say. You didn't hear it from me, OK?

Quandary!

Egad.

Tomorrow is both The Kentucky Derby and Cinco de Mayo. What to do? Mint Juleps or Margaritas? Bourbon or tequila? (To do both sounds neither very smart nor very appetizing.)

Those of you who know me (or have read the title of this blog) know only too well where I'm likely to fall on this issue. Besides, julep season only lasts about a month, whereas margaritas are de rigeur throughout Daylight Savings Time (which Congress so thoughtfully extended for us this year).

Then again, I have to admit that on a sunny weekend afternoon, a tart, refreshing lime-and-tequila libation does sound more appealing than an oversweetened bourbon-and-sugar one. Hmm. Back to square one.

Luckily, there are safeguards in place that ensure these two events will never coincide with St. Patrick's Day.

Nothing to read here, move along

Nothing but a short rant, apropos of nothing (I guess I just finally heard this bit of GOP rubbish once too often — I shall address it here and now and we shall then consider the matter settled). Ahem:

Ronald Reagan did not “win” the Cold War.

He was, at best, the closer. He came into the game in the 9th inning with a slim lead, walked the tying run on 4 wild pitches, then intentionally threw at the head of the go-ahead run. After balking both runners into scoring position, he finally managed to get the last out, thanks largely to a series of boneheaded baserunning errors by the other team.

The fact that Reagan was in office when the Soviet Union collapsed under its own weight does not make him a great president, any more than the Tigers' collapse in last year's Series makes Jeff Weaver a great pitcher.

End of story.