Bixie wrote the following post, which discusses getting needed perspective with our second baby a handful of weeks away.

When we found out we were preggers with baby #2 I was super excited and surprised that it happened so fast (given that we tried for over a year with Gus). I believe my thought process went something along these lines: We’re going to have another little babe! We are going to be a family of four! We’re going to have two kids under the age of two! They’re going to be such pals! They are going to share a room. We are going to run out of space! Daycare is going to be outrageously expensive! We need two cribs! We need more space! In other words, panic set in quite quickly on how we could make sure that we could do everything for babe #2 that we did for Gus. I tend to let my stress out in weird ways – aside from the occasional anxiety attack – and most of it comes out in my sleep. I jump up in the middle of the night convinced that I forgot to do something super important or I grind my teeth. All of this started happening in pretty short order and, as the pregnancy whizzed by, I found myself stressing a lot more about getting things ready and perfect than I did the first time around – when my pregnancy lolled by day by day, week by week.

Now, perspective is always key at a time like this. Soon after we found out we were preggers, friends of ours announced they were adding twins to their family that already consisted of a two year old and immediately they questioned where they were going to put everyone. Another girl who went to St. Mike’s with me found out she was having twins to add to her brood of two boys – which will have her with four kids under five. We were just adding one little nugget of a newborn and yet, I still couldn’t stop wishing that I could wave a magic wand and be in a big house, with a big yard, with our families living out here and a Mary Poppins nanny. THEN I would be relaxed.

Then one day I was on Facebook reading updates (as I tend to obsessively do) and I saw another friend from St. Mike’s, Denise, post something about “Tommy coming home.” She usually posts pics of her two year old son – which I always love to see but I admittedly didn’t know much else about what was going on in her life these days. That day I did look a little deeper and realized that Tommy was her husband and he was going to be home from Afghanistan for two weeks. I immediately got teared up.

Now, you can blame it on the hormones or my instability – but I had such an emotional reaction because here I was stressing about all these little things and Denise was home taking care of her son and undoubtedly missing her husband like crazy while he was sacrificing time with his family to selflessly serve our country like so many people do. I felt like a doofus for not realizing that he was away – but part of that reason is because I’ve never seen her complain about it. Not once. She said that she has an amazing support system and that the other army wives have been unbelievable – but she still, of course, can’t wait to have her huz back with them day to day. Tommy has already gone back to Afghanistan and Denise is really excited to see him again at Christmas. I’m so excited for them as a family.

As for me, I realize that there is always going to be something to stress out about – but, at the end of the day, I need to appreciate everything that we have and stop worrying so much about things being perfect. As long as we have family and love, we’ll all be just fine.

What do you think? Comment below.

Sitting atop my big oak dresser is an envelope watermarked with the words California Pacific Medical Center. Enclosed inside is the definitive answer to the question everyone in our network of friends and family actively wants to know: do you know the sex of the baby?

Bixie is due in late October, you see. At any point we could simply tear open the envelope to find out how exactly our lives will be changing. Pink or blue? Dainty or rugged? Pig tails or pickup trucks?

But we aren’t even tempted. I think there are a few reasons for that. The last time around it was such a hugely motivating factor for Bixie to wait before finding out the sex. She knew all of the mental and physical fatigue would be rewarded more dramatically with the big reveal at delivery. So there’s that. And that’s reason enough if you ask me.

I think another factor is that we’re starting to feel a bit guilty now about short-changing Gus. For the first 13 months he’s been our sole focus, but a new baby will distract us to some extent from our first born. Obviously a new baby requires a special level of commitment in the early months, a commitment that will doubtless affect the distribution of our emotional resources – and free hands.

So, part of our reluctance to find out the sex of the new baby is grounded in our desire to focus solely on Gus for as long as we can. To make him feel special and confident in our love for him as we introduce into the mix what he’ll likely view as a competing element.

Of course, we know all of this will work out in the end. Every family with multiple kids goes through something like this, and the pieces tend to sort themselves out naturally.

And that’s how we view that envelope with the big fat answer in it. No disrespect to those who elect to find out in advance, but we’re choosing to find out when the baby decides it’s ready to enter the light, and not because we need to color-coordinate a wardrobe.

Blue or pink, pink or blue. We only know it will be new.

None of this is to say we’re not thinking about the new baby’s arrival. We’ve finally begun looking seriously at what we’ll need to get accomplished in the next couple of months (read: a lot).

Still, I’m definitely experiencing pangs of guilt for not obsessing about this baby like I did with the first one. Proof? For the past two nights I’ve had a variation of the same dream. I wake up on Christmas morning in a panic because – oh MY EVER LOVING GOD! – I haven’t purchased a single gift for anyone and all of the stores are closed.

Armchair Psychologist Translation: I’m subconsciously feeling wickedly unprepared for the big day.

For those of you who’ve had multiple kids, does this sound familiar? And what are your thoughts about finding out/not finding out the sex before the baby is born?

Just over a year old, Gus completed his ninth cross-country trek (eighteenth if you count both ways). If he could say more than a few words, which he can’t, he’d probably say he had a heck of a vacation on the East Coast this summer.

Instead, he just smiles and says “ball.” As in, he had a ball.

Gus had a ball

We touched down in Logan and stayed that first night with our good friends Peg and Dave. Before putting Gus to bed I set up his video monitor and turned on the camera. The image I saw on the flickering, Poltergeist-like snowy screen was a baby I didn’t recognize sprawled out in a crib I didn’t recognize.

Gus, after all, was very much awake and downstairs playing with Bixie and Peg.

When I realized this, and since Peg’s house is old and her floor boards creaky, I felt the hair on the back of my neck raise at the possibility I was looking at a ghostly baby from the home’s distant past.

It took a minute for my heart rate to return to normal, whereupon it occurred to me that my monitor must be picking up the signal of a baby next door or down the street. At least that’s what I’m telling myself.

The next morning we visited with my brother Brandon in a park in Boston’s South End. Gus rolled around on a blanket and attracted his fair share of hugs and smooches. Then it was off to my parents’ house in Georgetown, where we stayed for a few days before heading to Little Squam Lake in New Hampshire (where On Golden Pond was filmed, in part. There were indeed loons bobbing about in the gentle currents. And yes, I’m talking about birds, not the local yahoos).

Before Squam it was relaxing at my folks’ house in G-Town. Gus enjoyed the pool, I think, once he got over the initial shock of the chilly water. My mom threw a little b-day party for Gus, who just turned 1, and she whipped up a couple of tasty home-cooked meals (“more balsamic drizzle, anyone?”).

B-day boy

During the day Bixie and I headed to Plum Island for some sand and sun. Bummer to see all of the beach erosion, and I felt sad for the homeowners whose major investments were teetering precariously on the edge of destruction. Come to think of it, that fairly describes millions of American homeowners.

After the beach we stopped by Michael’s Harborside in Newburyport for some delish seafood. Bixie scarfed down a lobster, after holding it up and scaring Gus, and at that point it truly began to feel like vacation to us. My shoulders felt less tense.

Fast forward to Little Squam Lake in New Hampshire. Hot has hell. Humid as hell. Oppressively so, which was fitting in that it forced all of us to swim about 10 times per day.

Bixie’s parents rented a kick ass lodge at the water’s edge. It was the third time we’ve stayed in the rustic seven-bedroom place, and this time was vastly different than the others. Whereas in past years we’d stay up until 3 a.m. sipping cocktails and playing poker, this year we were all busy scrambling after little kiddos. This time the place was like a sprawling lakeside nursery.

Bucket O' Fun

Gus, of course, is one baby. Then you had Bixie’s sister Ali and her husband Josh (Bones) and their little six-month-old lollipop-faced girl named Evie. You had my wife’s other sister, Nicole & her man Todd, and her two kids (3-year-old Sadie and few-months-old Page). Meanwhile, back in Mass, Bixie’s brother Josh and his wife Carolyn had a little boy named Teddy (during our vacation!). He’s only a couple weeks old now. One nickname already in play is “Teddy Ballgame.” If you know baseball you’ll understand the reference. If not, you’re free to draw your own inferences.

Anyway, this year was all about the kids. Toys and formula bottles and diapers and little bits of cheese and fruit and tubs of yogurt. Cries and squeals and tantrums and giggles. Grunting noises and 50 proof suntan lotion and grass stuck to sticky bodies and reddened cheeks and slimy fingers.

My kingdom for a triscuit?

A few times a day, when a few of the kids happened to nap at the same time, the adults would steal away for a spirited game of badminton or horse shoes and then a restorative dip in the lake. Very fun. Very summer vacation-like.

Two bad bits of news about the trip: Bixie’s dad Eli sliced open his foot on a fresh water clam, requiring stitches. We decided to bet on how many stitches he’d need, and Bixie was the winner (four). The poor guy was relegated to a lawn chair for the rest of the trip, which I think he secretly enjoyed since he’d been running around like a teenager after the kiddies.

The other annoying thing was that on the last day I stepped on a yellow jacket on the way to the horse shoe pits. Yowch.

My favorite thing? We did so much that it’s hard to narrow it down to one thing, but if I had to pick it’d be the boat rides with Bones’ dad, Mo Lafrenier. Josh and I went tubing (which means we got dragged behind the boat on an inflated object that resembled an oyster shell pillow). And Josh also did some impressive wake boarding. I tried four times to get up; my hips never got above water.

But the best thing about the boat rides was when we took Gus out on the lake. We strapped him into a puffy life jacket and sat with him on the bow of the boat as it glided through the shimmering waves. He wore a pretty constant smile as he looked almost stoically out on the horizon. For a while he was smiling so brightly that all of his teeth were showing. His face seemed to be saying “I feel truly ALIVE at last!” His mom was having a blast and Gus, as noted in the introductory paragraphs, had a ball.

Gus feels so ALIVE!

The weirdest thing that happened this vacation? Okay, check this out. One night I was coughing a lot and waking up Gus (who was sleeping in our room because it blessedly had an air conditioner). So I decided to sleep downstairs in the Great Room on the couch. About 20 minutes or so after I flopped down I felt something jump on my legs, like a cat or (shiver) a skunk.

But no. Turns out it was Bixie’s mom Claudia. She was checking under my blanket because she was trying to find Nicole’s daughter Sadie, who had gone to bed that night in Claudia and Eli’s room on an air mattress.

But now she evidently was missing, and so Claudia was frantically saying something to me but I couldn’t hear her because my ears were almost completely blocked from lake water. I saw her shuffle back down the hallway, waving her arms around oddly.

I didn’t know Sadie was missing at this point, so I figured Claudia was probably sleepwalking, since her daughter Bixie sometimes whispers conspiratorially in my ear while she’s completely out cold. Once she actually yelled “steamroller!” and rolled her entire body over mine – and she was dead asleep at the time.

So, I turn over and try to ignore her. That lasts about five seconds until the dim hall light gets flicked on, and this is when the scene starts getting nuts. At the end of the long hallway I see the outline of tall Eli in his two-piece pajamas, but I can’t see his face. He’s limping dramatically through the shadows down the hallway toward me (his foot has been hobbled, remember). Since I was half-asleep I worried that perhaps Eli had become unhinged and that, worse, he could be dragging an axe at his side.

My irrational thoughts at the time: “Had he just ‘offed’ Claudia in the bedroom? Had she been trying to wake me up to save her from impending doom?”

How such a kind man looks so scary is a function of the perceived seriousness of the situation, which now has nearly everyone in the house awake, the lights on, as the search party for Sadie gets worked into a lather.

But the hoopla ends nearly as soon as it begins: Eli and I notice the doors to the house are locked (which confirms that Sadie is in fact still in the house). Claudia at this point – and I say this with the utmost affection – has dissolved into a blithering mess. She’s whimpering and frantically looking in every direction like a game hen trying to escape the butcher.

Nicole is understandably right there with Claudia in Frantic Land, and she literally collapses in my arms when I point to the pair of little feet sticking out from under Eli and Claudia’s bed. “Thank God,” Nicole gasped, and then crumpled.

Crisis averted at the tender young hour of 4 a.m. As you can imagine, my dreams over the next couple of hours were insane. One of them involved lots of ducks furiously typing on a keyboard and squawking orders at me.
In the end, it was a memorable trip. The kids all had a great time and the adults had a great time making sure they did.

I don’t know what the next year holds, or if we’ll again make the trip to Little Squam Lake. But what I do know is this: Bixie and I will have two children by then.

And if the second child is anything like the first, we’ll have a ball next summer.

Crouching Bixie, Hidden Baby

Summer scene

Domino’s pizza poisoned me.

I haven’t written about this yet because thinking about Domino’s has made me so ill that committing words to paper, or the thought of doing so, has made me involuntarily upchuck in my own mouth.

You could call this blog post slanderous. You might accuse me of being reckless. But the fact of the matter is about nine months ago I ordered a pizza from Domino’s that made me almost hallucinate as my body sickeningly, and for hours, expunged the offending bacteria from every orifice.

Domino's pizza made me ill.

My bedroom smelled of pepperoni. My bathroom smelled like pepperoni that was puked up by a hairy, drooling Yak.

Proof? I have none. So I’ll default to the language Dominos’ lawyers would use: I’m making a baseless claim.

After all how, exactly, does one go about proving they’ve been poisoned? I’m no biologist. I’m not a chemist. And I don’t even watch the popular cop shows that invariably have a hot, smart young woman with plastic goggles who pinpoints the cause of injury and casually – dispassionately – points the fuzz in the right direction.

There’s no trail to follow in my case. I flushed the evidence and then laid my cheek on the cold tiles next to the toilet, wishing there was some recourse. Wishing I could bring Domino’s to justice.

Here’s my detective work: Every opening in my body spewed toxins, for hours on end, and it was so bad that I had to call in sick for work. It was so bad that I almost went to the Emergency room. It was so bad that I actually cried real tears (I’m a human being!) as I reverted to the fetal position while lying naked and cold in the tiled bathtub. That’s right – I hoisted my naked body off the bathroom floor and into the tub.

You might ask “Couldn’t something else have made you sick? What else did you eat that day?”

Look, I ate things like salads and bananas that day, before cramming a Domino’s pizza pie down my face. I ate the pizza with ferocity, the way a dog would pummel a peanut butter sandwich thrown near his bowl. I folded the pieces and basically inhaled them, mentally praising Domino’s for the bounty I was enjoying.

But the enjoyment fizzled. About 16 hours later I threw up. About 17 hours later I had to park my body in the tub, since hideous things were flying out of my body from every which way. I was like a lawn sprinkler in hell. There was no telling which way the corrupt stream of bitterness/fire/venom would spray… the only certainty is that it wouldn’t stop quickly.

I was craving the softness and joy of heroine withdrawal.

Tragically funny is the fact that my wife posted on Facebook that her husband, me, was gravely ill. Her friends immediately chimed in with this response: “Domino’s?”

Yes, Domino’s.

There, it’s out of my system now, literally and figuratively.

I will never eat Domino’s again unless a designated chef prepares a pie for me in person, using all of the customary sanitation tricks, and assures me that the company takes seriously any health concerns.

Since that’s not going to happen, I’ll just stick to local pizza places.

Places that don’t place a premium on speed, but instead place a premium on quality.

Domino’s let me down in a big way.

A year ago Bixie was in the hospital, just hours away from the delivery of our first child, a little boy named Gus. We were so nervous. So thrilled. So hopeful!

In the intervening months we’ve received quite an education about what it means to be parents, full-time, all the time. And our reward has far exceeded the opportunity cost, because we’ve watched a quivering, helpless little squishy creature evolve into a sturdy, playful, curious little boy who is a constant source of entertainment.

Sure, it isn’t always easy, but then nothing worth doing ever is.

And having Gus was so worth doing. The first year of his life has passed by so quickly, yet in some ways it seems odd that he wasn’t always with Bixie and me.

Maybe cosmically he always was with us, in that he was our destiny, but our stars hadn’t yet collided to create the spark of his life.

Probably that’s too deep of a thought to explore in this post, but with another baby due in October it’s sort of easy to slip into the realm of the metaphysical or the philosophical for clues about why everything does what it does. Why we are who we are and become what we become. What makes us us.

For today, what makes us happy is Gus. Our little monkey. Our turkey faced boy. Our little meatball.

Happy 1st Birthday, Gus! Your mom and dad love you like crazy.

The king of all Birthday Monkeys!

This is a huge week in our house. Parry’s first father’s day was yesterday, Gus’ first birthday is on Thursday and my bro and his wife are going to have their little one any second now. I’m beyond excited about all of these things – but it also makes me think just how crazy this year has been – and how much has happened.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t focus a Mommy Monday on Parry and Father’s Day. And I really can’t put into words what an amazing father he is and how lucky I feel to be growing this crazy family with him. So instead of trying, I thought I’d share some of my favorite pictures over this past year. Parry’s first year as a father:

The day Gus was born...

One of the first times Parry read Barnyard Dance to Gus. In one year, this book has already been ready thousands of times.

Introducing Gus to a place we LOVE - Falmouth Heights, MA

Parry & Gus bonding at Mission Ranch in Carmel, CA

Boo! Gus' first Halloween!

Lounging at home in Sausalito

Lazy boys on a lazy day

I jolted awake a couple nights ago at the realization that this Mother’s Day isn’t just about my own mother. Shocking revelation: for the first time, the woman lying next to me is ALSO a mother!

I mean, I obviously understand she’s the mother of my son. But when I think about Mother’s day I think about long-time moms who wish their kids lived closer and called more often. I think about technology-challenged older women – “How do you Google so fast?” Women who are quick to remind you, dejectedly, that “things are so different nowadays.”

Bixie is not one of these women.

She’s young, drop-dead-gorgeous, and runs an edgy technology PR firm in San Francisco. She’s fashionably dressed and spontaneously dances like a 20-year-old at the drop of a hat. Even to commercials. Even to commercials with crappy music.

She methodically conquers Sunday’s New York Times crossword puzzle and she goes BANANAS when she gets a great deal on clothes or groceries. She watches Wheel of Fortune religiously and cracks up at Pat Sajak’s jokes, and she … and she … and …

…oh, Lordy. She’s a mom. No way around it.

My wife is all grown up, and she’s about to become a card-carrying member of the timeless sorority cherished by all on Mother’s Day. I fully expect to wake up on Sunday to see her hair in rollers. Wearing an apron. Shaking her head at the morning’s headlines.

But rather than wait until Sunday, when everyone and their brother is focused on their mamma or mother, I thought I’d preempt the occasion by pointing out today a few things that make me so fortunate and proud to know that Bixie is the mom raising my children.

To be clear: some of this will be *unreadable for a male audience*, but I don’t care. Truth be told, I’m writing this blog primarily for my family, and for my kids. Some day they’ll skim these pages and, well, I want them to know how their mother really was back in the day.

So, here’s how she is. She does the little things that make all the difference.

Let’s start with her nurturing disposition and comforting voice. After giving Gus a bath, she’ll scoop him up while he’s kicking his slippery legs and settle him into the soft, hooded towel stretched across my lap. I wrap him up and hold him close while she prepares his toothbrush.

She talks him through what she’s doing as she puts a dab of paste on the brush. Her voice is upbeat and comforting. Then she leans down and gently scrubs his baby teeth. He smiles and looks right into her eyes as she says encouragingly, “first the bottoms … good boy! … now the tops!”

The scratchy sound of the bristles scrubbing his teeth in the quiet bathroom (and the way she smiles at him) almost makes me wish I was the little kid wrapped up in a towel. Holding Gus close like that, his cheeks wet from the bath, my shoulders heave with laughter every time.

Bixie brings the love. She brings it strongly and she brings it always.

It’s the little things. Yesterday we were driving along the San Francisco Bay, right in front of Alcatraz, and she blurted out that she was “SO excited to take Gus to swimming lessons soon.”

She said, “seriously, I can’t stop smiling about it!”

And as I think about her excitement for Gus, I can’t stop smiling about her.

So many nights she gently rocked Gus to sleep, refusing to leave until the little nugget was sufficiently transferrable – that is, sound asleep – to his crib. Instead of complaining that she hadn’t slept, she’d say she felt bad that Gus wasn’t getting a comfortable night of rest.

It’s never about her. It’s always about him.

When she doesn’t know it, I sometimes watch my wife studying Gus as he plays. She gazes at him with wonder/surprise/joy and mostly amusement, and you can almost tell what Gus is doing by watching the story of his movements relayed in her expressions.

You can see him in her eyes. And you can see her in his.

Bixie, as some of you well know, has the kind of laugh that catches fire. When she smiles and cracks up laughing the room brightens and the plants perk up. Gus has his mom’s oversized smile and infectious laugh. His smiley eyes share her essence. So early in his life, they already twinkle with her joy and good humor.

I know he’ll some day see the goodness in people, because he’ll see the world through his mother’s eyes and feel it with her noble heart. I know he’ll grow up to be a person capable of feeling empathy, and that he’ll try to do the right thing. Not because he’ll get credit, but because his mom showed him by example that the reward is in the doing, not in the getting.

If you live your life in this way, it turns out sometimes great things happen. Small wonder Bixie is over the moon about her gorgeous little boy. It sounds corny, but I believe Gus is the gift she got for a lifetime of being such a special and giving person. He’s a present that crawled into our lives on pudgy knees and with clean hands; one that keeps on giving even as he keeps needing.

And my sweet wife will keep giving everything she’s got. To Gus, and to the new baby growing inside of her this Mother’s Day.

A person close to me once said the best thing a father can do for their kids is to love their mother. And if that’s the case I must be one hell of a dad.

Because I love their mother like crazy.

Normally this space is devoted to good things about my young family, but today I thought I’d excuse myself from unicorns and rainbows and focus on something that I suspect annoys lots of folks.

Crappy customer service. Not over the phone, but in person.

Yesterday morning I’m standing in line at Starbucks and a counter person clearly sees me and says nothing. He just stares. So, I also say nothing and stare.

Finally he says: “What’s up?”

Crazy me, I was expecting to hear, “Hi, what can I get you?”

Sunday at Babies R Us, I place my things on the counter and try to follow along as the counter person mumbles incoherently something about a rewards card.

“I’m all set, thanks,” I say. “I just want to check out.”

She proceeds to mumble about – I think – some sort of service protection plan. It was tough to tell what she was saying because she wasn’t looking at me, and her words were muffled and inaudible. It was like she was reading from a script somewhere in a dark closet.

“No thanks,” I say.

“Up to you,” she says surprisingly clearly, and throws my stuff in a bag like a litter of kittens headed for the river.

Didn’t say thanks. Didn’t say have a nice day. Didn’t say squat.

Sunday night Bixie and I headed to Fish in Sausalito for an early supper with Gus. The place is always packed, so we felt blessed to find an empty table outside. I get Bixie’s order – a hamburger — and stand in line for fully 20 minutes. Not a big deal; it’s par for the course at Fish. However, just as the person in front of me was finishing placing his order (I’m next!) a young girl appears next to me and tells the line of people the following:

“I don’t know if you know this already, but the kitchen is transitioning for the next half hour. So, um, here’s the menu you can order from until we’re done.” She holds up an abbreviated menu that had no sign of a burger on it. It was primarily fish-related salads and beverages.

A second later it’s finally my turn to order, so I nicely ask the counter person if he can hook me up with a burger for my pregnant wife, who either can’t have or doesn’t want a fish salad. I point at my wife outside, who is all set up at the table with our infant son, and she’s starving for the burger she said she wanted 20 minutes ago. And besides, that random girl with the new menu appeared just seconds ago – is there any way you can help me out?

“This is the menu for the next half hour,” says the young man, pointing to the piece of paper. “Sorry.”

To his credit, he sort of apologized. But it rang hollow.

End result: I paid $33 for a bowl of guacamole and chips, one garden salad and a Coke.

And I didn’t enjoy a bite of it because I was pissed off that the restaurant ruined what was supposed to be a fun dinner outside. It wasn’t because they changed the menu – that happens. No big deal! The problem was that they let people stand in line for 20 minutes before telling us we were wasting our time.

Look, I know retail counter clerks make terrible money. I get that. I worked at a convenience store once. And I also know customers can be condescending jerks. But the part I don’t understand is the lack of basic communications skills or simple common courtesy.

You know how you know that customer service is on the wane? Because every now and then you’ll meet a cashier or store clerk who is *helpful and nice*, and you walk away thinking to yourself: “Wow, that person was actually helpful and nice – for a change.”

Being rude is becoming the rule and not the exception. I can remember when it used to be the other way around.

I know I sound like an old man, talking about how it “used to be.” I can picture the conversation I’ll have with my kids some day:

“When I was your age, clerks and cashiers used to say ‘Hello’ and Have a nice day’!”

And my kiddies will elbow each other conspiratorially and say, “Sure, dad. I bet they did.”

But they did. They did!

It was all unicorns and rainbows back then.

Got any examples of poor customer service you’d like to share? I’d like to hear about them.

It’s different this time.

Bixie’s second pregnancy is humming along nicely. She’s already past the morning sickness phase (though she gets hers in the evening). She tires more easily, too, but you’d barely know she was pregnant save for the fact she’s beginning to show just a little. That, and she abstains from that evening glass of wine she loves.

But I think the real reason it’s so different this time is because we’ve already been through this once. We have proof in the form of a jolly little monkey named Gus.

To be clear, this isn’t a commentary about being less excited the second time around. To the contrary, we’re both amazed and happy that our next child is in the oven, even as we’re scratching our heads about where the new baby will sleep (we have a two-bedroom condo and Gus is current on his rent for his room).

I think the difference this time is this: the fear is gone. Do we know how to feed a baby? Check. Do we know how to burp and change a baby? Check. Do we know what it’s like to wake up several times a night with a wailing infant? Check. Is there reason to think we can’t do all of this again with a new baby? Hell no.

We have a blueprint.

This morning I woke up with an analogy in my head, and it has to do with college. See, most people are extremely nervous and excited to attend their first year of higher education. There’s so much planning involved and, well, it’s all brand new. Will they fit in? Will they fail any classes? What about the exams? Will they miss their parents? Can they afford it? Where will they live? And so on.

And that first year is generally thrilling and scary and challenging and fun, and inevitably the new college student walks away feeling more “grown up.”

See where I’m going with this? Bixie and I feel more grown up having experienced the ups and downs of early parenthood. Sometimes it’s been frightening and hellish – like when the baby chokes on solid food or when he used to wake up every single hour during the night – but otherwise it’s been one of the truest and purest forms of joy we’ll ever know.

To me, “know” is the operative word. When a college freshman is gearing up for his sophomore year, it’s exciting but no longer scary. There’s not a frantic feeling pervading the second-year college student’s every thought. The ropes are known. The fear is diminished.

But the optimism remains high.

I remember being afraid, before we had Gus, that I might not be a good father. “What if something’s wrong with me and I don’t … love him enough?”

I remember being terrified about changing diapers. “Can I really do that? Sure, a couple of times – but ALL the time?”

I remember being afraid of being afraid.

Since having Gus, I now know that I can absolutely love a child with every atom in my body. I know that instincts kick in when logic fails. I know that I’ll make mistakes, but that the sun will still come up and beam warmth on my smiley boy’s face.

I know I can do it. WE know WE can do it together.

Yeah, it’s different this time.

It’s better.

We rarely argue, but one evening a few months ago Bixie and I quarreled over an unwashed sauté pan in the kitchen. I decided it needed to soak overnight; she decided to badger me about it unceasingly; we both decided that staring at the ceiling was better than having to speak to one another between the covers that night.

It was a real domestic dustup!

Flash forward to the next morning. I’m sitting in my leather chair before work, my eyes toggling back and forth between emails and our son Gus, who is incessantly spinning one of the noisy contraptions inside his walker-toy-thingamajig. Whenever our eyes meet he smiles broadly and tilts his head to the side, like a puppy curious about a funny noise.

Enter Bixie.

I pretend not to notice her come into the room, on the grounds that I feel 100 percent morally correct about our argument. But I can feel her walking straight toward me, forcing me to acknowledge her – or else I’ll come off like a total moron if I don’t.

I do.

“You can’t be mad at me anymore,” she says in a singsong voice, extending her arm toward me. Aha, I think. Here comes my apology. The old girl buckled!

I look up and suddenly my smile freezes. Everything slows down. My senses are on high alert. I focus on the details as I scramble to process them: at the end of her arm is a hand. Clutched in that hand is what appears to be a plastic thermometer of some sort. Inside the window on that device is a clear and bold PLUS sign.

What does a plus sign mean? Every muscle in my body is tight. Wait, that’s not a thermometer. Where have I seen this befo — OH MY GOD!

“YOU’RE PREGNANT?!”

Flabbergasted, I nervously joke that we can talk about this pregnancy thing AFTER we settle the dispute about the dirty pan in the kitchen. This makes us both laugh hysterically and we hug tightly and, in that long and exhilarating moment, we try to digest what is happening to us.

To our family.

We both look down at Gus, who is smiling up at us and making silly grinding noises with his four little turkey teeth. We let him hold the pregnancy test and he waves it above his head like a rattle. Waving a great goodbye to his “only child” status.

It’s funny, this whole fatherhood thing. Less than a year ago I had zero children, and less than a year from now I’ll have two babies. There will be four of us, when so recently there were just two people.

But today we’re just two people madly in love with the family we’ve started. And that family is about to get bigger on the quick.

It will be challenging to have our children a mere 15 months apart. Gus will be toddling like mad by then, but I bet he’ll still be a smiley head who can adapt quickly, fondly, to the blinking, cooing little stranger in his midst.

As for Bixie and me, I’m sure we’ll make out okay. The other day I decided to let a dirty dinner pan in the kitchen soak overnight, and she didn’t make a fuss.

The next day she wouldn’t even let me wash it. She said it wasn’t a big deal; that she wanted to do it. And she meant it.

My guess is she didn’t dare to fight about it because, well, if we went to bed angry again it might result in twins.