There’s a little scientific-looking dial-chart thingy that doctors use to tell a woman when her baby will be born. It’s hokum. And I don’t care if the doctor warned us not to get too attached to that specific date, she shoulda kept her mouth shut because I did get attached to it even though I know it’s only a guess, an estimate. Spin the arrow on the dial and see where it stops; put on the blindfold, here are the darts, the calendar’s on the wall, throw.

Today, my friends - April 11, 2002 - is the due date of my second spawn. Yep, little Monkey Brown is scheduled to arrive to-day. Or so say the doctors. But what do they know?

See, the real reason I think due dates suck is because when that date rolls around and still nothing’s happened, well, then the waiting begins. Not like we weren’t waiting before. Oh, were we waiting all right. But now, the waiting has developed a personality and it takes on mass and becomes heavy. It ridicules, it teases. It stinks because it hasn’t showered in days. (Okay, so I forgot my deodorant today.) My point is, I’m sorry that I put so much faith in the due date the doctor gave us. Because here it is and here we are and there he is and wheeeeeeee. Hokum, I say. And just downright cruel.

Of course, the day’s not over … perhaps it’s time to think of ways to induce labor. Castor oil? A little fright? A loud pop? Parachuting?