So I'm still watching. I don't get to do anything yet, there's nothing I can do to help. Pregnancy for men, most men, is a spectator sport. I say most men, because we watched a very funny episode of Frasier last night about a pregnant couple whose husband was having all manner of sympathy pains, cravings, moodiness, you name it, he had it too.

Not funny like "HA HA," but funny like "that's weird..."

Call it luck. Not only haven't I found myself with sympathy aches and craving pickles on my own, but either has Kim. She's managed to kick quite a few of the pregnancy stereotypes from all of the books right in the teeth. From the morning sickness (that certainly around in the afternoon and early evening) that was supposed to be gone during the second trimester (sorry, still here), to the up and down mood swings that never seemed to have surfaced.

TV's good like that. They can come up with just about any scenario in life, pair it up either with a good laugh-track, or some heavy background music, and you'd believe it was normal. You see this guy sitting at a table in a coffee shop with his very pregnant wife with a sudden insatiable need for pickles... seems normal that he is the one who needs the pickles - so normal that it's funny (like "HA HA" this time).

But then we're back to the things that I can't do anything about. At least if we needed mashed potatoes and watermelon at 3am, I think I could get that taken care of. On the other hand, there are plenty of things I have no control over whatsoever... the mean guy who crossed 3 lanes of traffic to get to the red light first, the heartburn that my son seems to be oh so good at creating already... things like that.

I want to be able to help, but I've succumbed to the fact that if my assistance is necessary or warranted, I'll know. Not because of any command given or ultimatum enforced... I'll just know.

So far, so good.