In the months leading up to this point, most of the conversation between my wife and I has been about preparation. How are we going to appoint the baby’s room? Will I get a job closer to home? Will we make enough money for the baby to be okay?

Glory be to God, all of those things have been taken care of. Now, the talk is reduced to a few comments here and there about being part-excited, part-scared about what is to come.

My wife is really anxious about what kind of pain she will be in. I’m anxious about if I’ll be a good coach in the delivery room. She’s anxious about how people at church will react, I’m anxious about bringing the baby outside in cold weather.

Both of us are talking to fill the space that will soon be occupied by crying and testaments of love for a child. But at this point, neither of us is saying much. The nervousness is creating a need for us to say something, if for no other reason than to show each other that we are trying to be bold about what’s coming.

But the most interesting part of our family dynamic, is the boldness of the child. The baby kicks without ceasing. I put my hand on my wife’s belly every night and am amazed at how interactive our baby is. I press with a finger, the baby presses at the same point with a foot or hand or whatever is there at the time. I move my hand across her belly, the baby moves to where my palm is.

My wife and I have been reserved in our words, but are trying to talk each other into a comfort zone. And the person we’ve been waiting for, the one who has us totally nervous and out of sorts, has the most to say.

In a special language we are so anxious to hear and see more of.

Just like that.

And to be honest, I can’t blame her at all. There’s just over a month left before our little one arrives, and I can only imagine how tired my wife is of carrying around extra weight to match her extra-sensitive hormones. A baby takes a lot out of a woman, and I guess as a way to balance out things as much as possible, God designed it so husbands and fathers have to deal with their women going completely berzerk throughout the process.

Maybe in time, I’ll have enough years under my belt to learn how to navigate this pregnancy thing. I’ve tried to be quietly patient, and I’ve tried to stand firm and be confident. Nothing can stop the mack truck of a tired pregnant woman with a bone to pick.

What I do know is that I love her dearly for being strong enough to handle pregnancy. Not every woman would have the energy to go to work and run a household while on an emotional tightrope for months at a time, so she certainly deserves more than credit. I wish I could give to her whatever is greater than credit, but it can’t be but so much; because inevitably I’ll get it wrong and be scorned for trying.

And in a weird sense, I wouldn’t have it any other way. After all, we plan on doing this, what, two or three more times?

Duck and cover. That’s the best advice I can give if you are in a similar situation.

Sometimes she is too tired to talk. Sometimes she is full of energy. And sometimes she is sad because she can’t determine which way she’ll feel from day to day. But she pushes through, sometimes I am the emotional victim of the wrath, but far more times than not, we laugh and joke about our wonderful life together.

And it is interesting, because it makes me realize just how much of the Lord is in her, and every pregnant woman that endures such an arduous process for the biggest miracle in life.

It has to be something divine, because there’s no reasonable explanation that someone would want to suffer to bring about another life. Men aren’t wired like that. Ask us to go hungry for our family, no problem. We can get by on a little. Ask us to give up the things we enjoy for the sake of others, and while me may cry and complain, most men will comply eventually.

But if you asked me to suffer for nine months with allergies, only to culminate in several consecutive hours of sneezing and burning eyes, I would actually stop for a minute to assess that deal. Yet women don’t hesitate to sign-up for this period of suffering and discomfort. In fact, they relish it.

They relish having a little girl to teach the ways of being a woman – caring, wise and sensitive. They look forward to birthing a little boy, who will grow up admiring his father but revering his mother. No matter the pain, the self-consciousness, or the confusion that must take place for it to happen, they want it to happen.

And that’s kind of like God’s love for us. No matter how crazy, insecure and sick we can be, there is a love that emanates from Heaven so pure, that it matters not what we did, but what we could do. It doesn’t matter who we are, but more of who we can be.

Thank God for these women, when you really think about it. We really underestimate how strong they are, and how loving they are. More than we could ever physically imagine.

Most of all, does life shift from fourth to second gear easily?

My life is changing right before me. I never really spent much time in the fast lane, as much as I occasionally and carefully signaled to merge into it before rapidly approaching an exit of an untimely relationship, a dangerous decision, or a sustained need for the impulsive.

But now I’m coasting, drifting over into the slow lane of enjoying life, and cherishing the joys of married life and a pending fatherhood. But you know, it’s not like its anything I’m doing consciously. Even in my pressing times of wanting to go out and hang with the guys, or in wanting to hit the town, I find that home has this unique pull on me that’s not altogether, unnatural.

You have to understand, not ever being the kind of guy that was a social butterfly, it’s not a bad thing to want to be at home. But it was always my choice to go out or not; to make myself available to the world or to let the world wait for my terms and my time. And now that the choice is diminishing by the second, I find it odd that I don’t really care.

Perhaps its a hard wiring that husbands and fathers activate when parenthood is looming. And it’s weird, because every other guy in similar circumstance is likely counting down the days until total freedom will be compromised. But it’s not so bad, slowing down gives you more time to appreciate the things passing you by.

Every where we go, “How are you feeling, girl?” “Are you getting sick?” “I hope you’re eating well.”

What about how I’m feeling? Maybe I could get sick from nervousness? And suppose I’ve been living off of Subway the last few months? Does that matter to anybody round here?

Of course, I’m just joking. It’s about to be a rough couple of months for my favorite girl. But I do find it interesting that in a culture where the father seems to be missing far more often than he’s present, there sure are a lot of folks subconsciously eager to forget he’s standing there as they coo and comfort the mother-to-be.

I won’t say it takes a lot to be a father-to-be, there’s very little I’ve had to do outside of the process of making the baby. But I am the one that runs to the store at a moment’s notice, and has tried to take up the mantle of domestic survival in the house. Yeah, that’s what I’m supposed to do, and no, I shouldn’t be seeking any credit for it.

But if she’s getting credit for incubating the baby, then doggone it, at least I should get some love for making it as easy on her as humanly possible.

Even from my guys, the first question out of most of their mouths is, “How’s mommy doing?” Dawg, you think I would be calling you if I wasn’t on the verge of tears? She’s fine, eating up everything in the house and then falling asleep.

Maybe that’s what I should do. Eat up everything and then fall asleep. Then my wife will have quite the story to tell, and I’ll no longer be the silent partner in child bearing.

Or, I could just stick to writing to you all.

I’m a sucker for fried chicken. It’s a supreme delicacy to me, and I could eat it for all meals from a variety of places. Maybe it’s my southern roots, maybe its the Old Bay that I like to put on it. I love fried chicken. Sadly, I haven’t been to the gym in approximately a week, but I’ve not been shy about my fried chicken and biscuit consumption.

In some ways, I’ve embraced the life of not going to the gym, as it puts my wife and I on an even plane of inactivity. The more tired she gets, (although she has done a masterful job of getting used to it) the less energy she has to devote to her Tae-Bo training regiment. And it works for us if I don’t come in the house sweating from a two-mile run and weight-lifting session, or if I came in smelling of chlorine from 30 minutes of swimming.

So there we have it. She now shares my love for fried chicken, and I match her inability to exercise with complete laziness.

A match made in Heaven, waiting on the stork to bring us bundle of joy and colon cleanser this Fall.

She is still frustrated with awkward eating patterns, particularly because she doesn’t believe in such thing as eating for two. Somewhere along the line, she heard that the “eating for two” term was just a myth. On my side of things, she’s eating for about four, and I don’t mean that as a slight, but as a testament to never having seen anything like it before.

And strangely enough, being the ordained chef and snack gofer of the house has drawn me closer to her. Attempting to be a cook and a butler has given me new perspective on the energy that she put into making our house presentable. It’s certainly not an easy task, and it’s only going to get harder as the months go by. But  I now realize the kind of stress she was under when she felt like two able-bodied people were helping to trash the house, but only one cared to rectify the situation.

I really respect her strength and character to have bitten her tongue so often throughout our marriage. I must admit; I’m a complete pig. But going forward, knowing the kind of work it takes to clear up and out, my designs are on being a piglet instead of the boss hog.

The one thing that has remained constant is our ability to communicate with each other. We talk often, laugh much, and listen a lot. I encourage her to cry when she’s frustrated, to ignore me when her mood dictates it, and to let me knmow what I can do for her to feel okay. And it fills me up inside to do so.

Now, if I could just get her and the baby filled up every once in a while.

Here’s the five ways to keep your pregnant wife happy.

5. Keep your running shoes by the bed. – I used to think that the way television portrayed pregnant women was a dramatically stereotypical depiction of a difficult physical time. Always hungry, always irritable, always off the hook is the way it seemed on sitcoms and in movies.

The irritable part is not true (so far), but the hunger? Oh, that’s real, buddy.

Ask your wife occasionally what she may be in the mood to eat, because she’ll always be in the mood. Suggest healthy things that she may like and find to be a staple of her pregnancy diet. And it helps if the foods you name are in close proximity, and not from the restaurant you went to for your anniversary last year that was 44 miles away.

4. Get handy with a broom and a mop. – Keep her mind clear by keeping the house clear. It will go a long way in making her feel appreciated, and in alleviating her concern about the house going to hell while she attempts to get every hour of sleep she can.

3. Relinquish the Remote. - This is a task I haven’t quite mastered. Once March Madness is over, I should be much more proficient in allowing my wife the freedom to surf.

2. You’re pregnant? Really? - Make her feel like she’s not even pregnant. Keep the conversation on the excitement and anticipation as minimal as she wants it, because you’re not the one making the physical sacrifice.

1. Ask no questions, make no requests. – What could you possibly be looking for that requires the woman carrying your child to do more than whatever she feels like doing at the time? Cater to her, as she is offering herself and her body for the privilege of you being a father.

The child was smaller than the width of my fingertip. But at eight weeks and one day, the doctor was able to point out to us a teeny beating heart. It reminded me of the flash of an LCD wristwatch. Quick, and on time.

I held my wife’s hand while she was still recovering from the freezing temperature of the songoram gel on her belly. Exhausted but excited, she soon seemed to be relieved that everything was progressing well with our baby. We left the hospital talking about the decision to tell people (or to publish on the Internet) the good news about our pregnancy.

I think that it’s good many people knew that we were pregnant, as the Lord has clearly listened to the prayers of a lot of folks and guided our baby to a healthy start. Everyday of her pregnancy, I find myself falling a little more in love with my wife, because even through her tiredness, occasional sickness, and short stretches of irritability, she remains optimistic about our potential as parents, and the example that we will set.

But more than that, we are exposed to new responsibilities. Not just those of having and raising a child, but to each other. A significant part of the success of our relationship can be traced to our dogged willingness to work together on all things. Very rarely do we make decisions without at least running it by the other; not for permission of validation, but because we respect each other’s perspective and what it can add to our own.

And now, those perspectives will combine to create a singular set of ideals on parenthood. Tomorrow will be the first confirmation of our shared dream of growing our family. We spent most of our brief time on Earth searching for each other, and that precious gift of fate has wrought yet another moment that we will cherish deeply.

Our first sight of The One.