I love when the sports announcer says, "Well, he turns 35 this year. If he suffers another injury like he did last season, they plan on taking him out behind the barn and shooting him." 35 and over the hill? I suppose this age measuring stick holds true for us non-millionaires as well.

What? Surely you must be kidding? No, I am not, and don't call me Shirley.

The wife is 18 weeks pregnant and since the keeper of the oven is 35-plus years old, all of the sudden the risk factors for birth defects increase. What does all of this mean? The wife gets poked and prodded more and I get to sit there, sick to my stomach, worrying.

Yesterday was an excellent example of what I'm talking about:

Wife: Don't forget we have a 10:30 doctor's appointment.

Handsome Husband: 10:30 a.m. or p.m.?

Wife: 10:30 p.m.? Use your brain for once.

Handsome Husband: OK, so get weighed, pee in a cup, listen to the heartbeat and out the door?

Wife: No. This is when we meet with the geneticist and they do an extensive ultrasound.

Worried Husband: Oh.

(Flash forward a few hours.)

While we are sitting in the waiting room of the doctor's office I wonder, yet again, why people have kids in the first place. About 2 minutes after the pee stick turns blue you start worrying and it never stops. You worry while the bun is in the oven and once it pops out you worry when it sniffs, sneezes, spits up, doesn't sleep, does sleep, coughs, burps, walks, talks, runs, hides, starts school, doesn't want to go down the slide, doesn't listen to the coach ... and why are we doing this again? Why didn't we stop with Kid #1?

Doctor #1: Mrs. Keleman?

Wife: Here!

Anxious Husband:(thinking to myself) Why are there two doctors? Something must be wrong.

Doctor #1: This is my grad student who will be assisting me today.

Anxious Husband: Great, a grad student who gets to learn on us.

Doctor #1: Excuse me?

Anxious Husband: Crap, that last one should have been a (thinking to myself).

The grad student asks us a slew of questions ranging from how many brothers and sisters we have (5), do we want to know the sex (no), to if we've ever smoked crack with a Jewish Asian prostitute (yes), and then we are ushered off to the ultrasound room.

Soon, Kid #2 appears on the monitor and Doctor #1starts pointing out parts and pieces; head, mouth, fangs, heart, hands, legs, flippers, spinal cord, etc. During the tour, Doctor #1 uses medical jargon that makes me worry even more because I don't know if it is good or bad to have the flinking flanker measuring at 4 cm, the hoo-dilly in the anterior position, and her weewatta rating at a 5. The whole time I just nod my head and pretend to know what the hell he is talking about and a few times I even rub my chin and go, "Ahh," for extra effect.

The truth being, my breakfast is about to reappear, I'm sweating like Shaquille O'Neal at the free throw line, and I am now completely certain that if we could go back in time we would stop with Kid #1. Absolutely, positively, 100% certain.

Doctor #1: Do you have any questions?

Woozy Husband: Nope, thanks, we're out of here.

Wife: Yes, we do. Did you see anything that we need to worry about?

Doctor #1: Mrs. Keleman, your baby is boringly normal.

Handsome Husband: So doc, how long after Kid #2 before we can slide Kid #3 into the oven?

Wine recommendation: Gnarly Head Cabernet $9, smooth like a baby's bottom.

Here's a preview of my next blog:

Worried Husband: Did Doctor #1 say "her weeatta rating was a 5?" HER?