It’s not that I never cry. I’m not one of those guys who’s afraid to — who thinks it’s somehow less than manly to let heavy emotions show.

But lately, quick as a snap of the fingers, I can turn into such a blubbering, barely-holding-it-back wreck, you’d think I was the pregnant one. Maybe they’re sympathy tears.

• Whenever I used to see babies born on television — on one of those TLC programs, I mean, not Grey’s Anatomy or the like — I used to get slightly repulsed. Now I well up.

• When, via a 3D/4D ultrasound at Before the Stork in Anaheim Hills (read more about that experience here), I finally saw Sam’s small, pouting face for the first time … and I could instantly recognize some of my own features emerging from the golden alien blob I was witnessing … I couldn’t control the tears no matter how much I tried.

• Whenever I see my mom’s bottom lip start to quiver when it hits her how soon she’s gonna be a grandma … well, you’d think I’d steel up and be strong for her. But instead I get knots in my stomach that tell me it’s gonna be hard not to collapse into a heap in front of my family once Labor Day arrives.

• Whenever I’m busy writing and Roxanne is watching Jon and Kate Plus 8, and I look up to see one of those cute kids bawling about who-knows-what, I notice I sometimes get choked up a little. How on earth will I cope with a crying baby?

• And whenever I think about something going wrong … something happening to him … something I can’t stop or control or make better … well, I just can’t go there.

For no apparent reason — other than, you know, I’m about to be a dad — I got to thinking the other night about great baby songs.

How charming Stevie Wonder’s “Isn’t She Lovely” is, for instance, though I can rarely sit through the full version of it, when for several minutes we hear Stevie’s baby girl Aisha laughing and splashing around the bathtub. Glad they never play that part on K-EARTH.

“You Are My Sunshine” — that’s a given. The Supremes’ “Baby Love” — seems logical, but actually a terrible baby song, if you ask me.

But how ’bout the way people adapt love songs as hymns for their kiddies?

Frankie Valli’s “Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You” is a common one (must be all those boisterous “I love you, baby!” choruses), and reading Suzanne Broughton’s post about her daughter’s birthday on the Mom Blog made me realize just how many parents prefer Elton John’s timeless “Your Song.” Although Garth Brooks‘ rendition of Dylan’s “To Make You Feel My Love,” as one commenter suggested — OK, that one mostly works, and I sing the Carpenters‘ “Close to You” to my boy, so who am I to judge? But there’s something about a few of those lines that conveys so much passion … I dunno … I might have a hard time singing it to a baby.

Ultimately, the more I pondered it, the more I kept coming back to the most obvious — the most sheerly moving, the most lullaby perfect — of all baby songs: “Baby Mine.”

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Originally from Walt Disney’s Dumbo – which, if you can get through without crying, indicates that you have a heart of stone — the song has been covered and covered and covered. And not just by the folks you know — Bette Midler, whose take is the epitome of motherly, or Alison Krauss, angelic as ever, or my fave choice, Bonnie Raitt’s gently soulful take, which strolls out like a lazy afternoon in a rocking chair.

Search the song on YouTube, however, and you’ll find scores of montages set to it. Which kinda makes me hate “Baby Mine” a little. But then I watched the above clip, with the Divine Miss M singing so tenderly … and I started to feel my eyes well up all over again.

I’m gonna be such a bawling mess once Sam actually gets here.

I know this will sound insane to some of you, but I fully intend to swear around my kid.

Not constantly, mind you. I don’t swear constantly now, though when I’m angry I do tend to slip the f-word into my rants as both adjective and noun, and when people really annoy me, I tend to call them either a four-letter word starting with “t” or a 10-letter killer beginning with “c.”

All three are on George Carlin’s still-relevant list of the “Seven Words You Can Never Say on Television,” or the “Seven Dirty Words,” as the routine is often referred to. Carlin, long a hero of mine, died Sunday at 71, and though I can think of many critic-like things to say at a time like this (go find a copy of Class Clown, pronto!), I’m having a hard time expressing how down his passing has me.

See, there have been five profound influences on what I do and how I think: Robert Altman, Robert Christgau, Pauline Kael, Elvis Costello … and George Carlin. Now, ironically, the death of someone who probably had more to do with my love of words and wordplay than anyone else has left me speechless.

Well, not entirely … Read the rest of this entry »

I know I need to learn about these things, pronto. For now, I remain blissfully baffled.

1. Changing a diaper. Never done it. Kinda dreading it.

2. Unfolding a stroller. I collapsed one at Babies “R” Us a few weeks ago. Then I couldn’t get it back open.

3. Breastpumping. (Insert joke here.)

4. Cutting the umbilical cord. Still don’t get the appeal.

5. Sam’s soft spot. And whether touching it will cause blindness or brain damage.

6. Swaddling clothes. Swaddling in general, actually.

7. What to pack for Delivery Day. Knowing me, I’ll overpack.

8. The difference between a crib and a bassinet, and why anyone needs both.

9. The difference between normal everyday poop and this viscous, tar-like substance that everyone keeps telling me I’ll be wiping up for the first two weeks.

10. Where babies come from. I hear some sort of carrier birds are involved?

You tell me …

Let me explain.

Once a month Roxanne and I sit down with our datebooks and figure out just how many nights we won’t be spending together. Y’know, because of my job.

On average, it’s three nights for every seven days — this week it’s a trip to San Diego for George Michael’s tour opener, followed by a Greek gig (Rilo Kiley) and a long day at Warped Tour in Pomona. The next week is more harried — three in a row, all in L.A., followed by a Saturday night at Verizon. (Oh, and honey … did I, uh, forget to mention there’s a Samueli show? Oops.)

July is, as always, even crazier — once Pacific Amphitheatre’s season starts, I pretty much live there. August is usually a bit of a comedown, thankfully, but this year it has a few shows that really push my pre-Sam expiration date to its limit — principally Radiohead at the Hollywood Bowl on Aug. 24.

I haven’t missed a Radiohead tour since I saw the Brits at a half-empty Palace (now the Avalon) in ‘95. I’ve got it all worked out how I can cover this stop: I’ll go with Desert Jeff, in separate cars, and should contractions start ahead of schedule (she’s due a week later), no matter what song Thom Yorke is singing (even “No Surprises,” even “My Iron Lung,” even “True Love Waits”), I’ll come racing home … and Jeff will handle the review.

Believe it or not, Rox is (mostly) on board with this idea.

But then we get to September. Ah, September. So many shows to see.

Read the rest of this entry »

Here’s what I wanna know: Will having a son mean that I’ll get more into sports?

I suppose it depends on what sort of son Sam turns out to be. I mean, if he takes to, say, ballet, much to his grandfathers’ chagrin … well, let’s not discount how athletic that is … but perhaps we won’t catch too many Angels games.

I was certainly a sporting kid growing up. Played baseball from the time I could swing a bat until nearly the end of high school, at which point I discovered it was much more fun chasing after the girls in the drama department. (It helped that I was just next door with all the band geeks.) Nikki Batalis’ recent post about her love/hate relationship with Little League really brought it all back for me; as much as I, too, loathe all the cliches she recites, I felt an oddly nostalgic sensation wash over me as I read ‘em. (I can still hear my dad — almost always our team manager — saying “Good eye!” and “A walk’s as good as a hit!”)

Roxanne was an athletic lass as well — she’d probably kick a soccer ball around right now if she didn’t have something the size of one in her belly. So maybe all this bodes well for Sam having enough eye-hand coordination to hold his own at some intramural activity in which overheated parents subconsciously seek self-worth through their children’s accomplishments and become vicarious champions.

But, well, that’s just not me — which, I realize, may be a good thing.

Read the rest of this entry »

• First of all, it’s not Lamaze training, or Bradley, or any other method. It’s just a three-session means to get extra acquainted with what’s about to happen on Labor Day. I was kinda disappointed to learn that many future parents are skipping it these days.

• Contrary to what the dude-centric pregnancy books I’ve been reading have to say, my presence in the delivery room won’t (I hope) be reduced to standing around when not fetching ice chips. For starters, I’ll need to be a masseuse.

• Most first-time labors last upwards of 18 hours. So I’ll need to be a tireless masseuse.

• I’m a lot less squeamish than I thought I was. I could practically hear some guys’ faces (and some future-mamas’ too!) crinkle in disgust during the DVD that showed a baby’s head crowning in closeup. Didn’t faze me, though. Nor did the term “mucus plug” or the bloody show that accompanied the plopped-out arrival of another tyke. Maybe I’ll be able to cut Sam’s umbilical cord after all.

• The likelihood of Roxanne’s water breaking at home and our dog instinctively trying to lap at it is significantly lower than expected — like, 10 percent chance, tops.

• Unless her water breaks, there’s no need for us to rush to St. Jude’s until her contractions are 3-5 minutes apart, and for a solid hour at that. Good to know — I was prepared to pull a Jeff Gordon the second she felt the slightest pain.

• Abdominal breathing is a cinch … when your wife’s uterus isn’t actually preparing to expel a watermelon.

• Roxanne’s belly is not nearly as ginormous as she thinks it is.

• Ninety percent of women giving birth at St. Jude’s are given an epidural. Hooray for drugs!

I’ve made a new friend this week, and her name is Boppy.

Actually, she’s completely unaware of me, I think. Roxanne is really the one who’s getting intimate with her. But I don’t mind that they’ve grown so close so quickly. Boppy helps her sleep at night.

Before you start thinking we’ve opened our bedroom to a “very special” au pair girl or something, lemme explain: Boppy is the company that makes the kinda-kidney-shaped, kinda-S-formed full-body pillow that Rox has been snuggling up with since Tuesday night. Part of it rests between her knees, another curve of it gives her preggo belly some support, the rest of it curls up behind her head — and so far she’s been blissfully drifting off within it like Ewan McGregor sinking into the carpet during that surreal heroin binge in Trainspotting.

Suddenly, apart from fulfilling my husbandly duty to tickle her neck and back until she falls asleep, I am no longer of use in bed. (As if impregnating her hadn’t already rendered further services unnecessary.)

Read the rest of this entry »

The missus and I are (mostly) on vacation this week. Yet we both have different agendas we wish to fulfill during our down time.

Six things Roxanne wants to do this week:

• Paint the guest bathroom
• Get me to finish emptying out the office/nursery
• Register at Babies “R” Us
• Spend our gift card at Crate & Barrel
• Spend the day at Descanso Gardens
• Go miniature golfing and/or see a movie

Six things I want to do this week:

• Sleep
• Watch DVDs and listen to old records
• Sleep
• Read more of Kevin Nealon’s baby book
• Snuggle with our pup Roosevelt (pictured)
• Sleep

Clearly we’re going to have issues. We’ll eventually compromise — we always do.

But whose way will hold sway, do you think?

Yeah, me too.