If all goes well and my wife doesn't give birth to an iguana, I fear that having children will ensure payback for all my childhood sins, as well as for all those of my wife.

If you are reading this and you know me, and you don't know that we are having a girl, well, you know now.

And this girl I'm sure, will emerge into the world and roll her eyes at us before she takes her first breath.

My mind wanders back to 11th grade Chemistry, on perhaps the one day I got bored enough to listen to Mr. Bane, as he wasn't simply getting us to memorize things for a test. Describing two otherwise ordinary and harmless substances that in isolation are perfectly stable, Bane went on to demonstrate how when mixed, they react violently into a firey death of sparks fumes and flames.

This is sometimes how I imagine the mixture of my genetics, with those of my dear wife.

See, from stories that I've been told, and from the memories she has chosen to share with me concerning her past deeds, my wife was at times was a difficult child. And some of the things I've heard about her as a kid aren't really "stories" - they are more like disturbing tales uttered to prospective parents around a campfire, with wolves howling in the background.

So that's her side.

And me, well, I was basically bald and fat until I was 4 - an infant boss hogg of sorts.

You could continue to read more here, and the idea would only repeat itself over and over again: I am the sort who expects the worst and is pleasantly surprised when things are simply ok; elated when things are good. Pessimism is a curse and sometimes a gift.

All we know is this: We will have a child and her hair will be red and she will be a dependant for the next 18, or if she's anything like me, 25 years.

I struggle with priorities. The big ones.

At work, I put everything, into my work. ..into design and web nerdiness ..and in many ways suffer for my craft, because I'm generally my own worst critic. It has to be good. It has to be good, or its nothing. etc..

The problem I face, well, is that money doesn't grow on trees. Great web work, great design work, doesn't necessarily sell itself. Giant buckets of money don't magically appear when you get good at your craft.

So you have to sell yourself, and be a business man. And compromise.

And compromise.


My wife will stay home with our baby. Anything less is unacceptable to me at this point, and I will do whatever it takes, short of cooking meth in our bathtub, to make that happen.