Everyone is pregnant. Everyone. In fact, I recently discovered that my significant other is pregnant and for the first time in my life I am going to be a father. A dad. That means I have a baby on the way. En route. It’s coming. All I can do is hope and pray that the little guy – we’re having a boy – arrives safe and sound, with all of his fingers and toes (this time last year, at five weeks, there was a miscarriage).

Did you hear that? I’m having a son. A boy. 18 weeks, and it’s still nearly impossible to believe. Even after the trips to the OBGYN, the blood tests, the urine tests, and the ultra sounds, where I witnessed the heartbeat of a baby fetus, my baby fetus (or, should I say, my baby mama fetus), and it’s still a bit too much to absorb.

Correction: My wife. According to the Urban Dictionary, Baby Mama is the mother of your child(ren), whom you did not marry and with whom you are not currently involved.

Oh, we’re involved. Frankly, this whole thing is rather involving. Each morning, I listen as my wife drops knowledge from a baby app. My son has gone from the size of a sweet pea to a sweet potato before I could drop a few pounds for swimwear season. WTF? – This kid’s coming fast (I guess they all do).

Family and friends have sent books, blankets, stuffed animals, and other infant equipage. Currently, there’s a bassinet in my dining room – cutting my angle to the bar. Four and a half months out and I can’t get a drink. This shit’s for real. Even the cats are getting nervous.

And, suddenly, everyone’s a doctor. Experts in delivery. Which is fine. I mean, thank you for the love and support offered to the mother of my child, but why are you talking to me? Everyone asking, “Are you gonna to be in the delivery room? Are you going to cut the umbilical cord?” Am I going to cut the umbilical cord? What am I, Dr. Oz? Isn’t that what Obamacare is for?

Can you believe that some have even inquired – and, I’m going to have to ask those with weak constitutions to please continue reading with one eye – as to whether or not my wife and I will be eating the placenta?

How do you respond to that…?

This whole thing is outrageous. It’s beautiful. It feels like an alien life form is headed this way and it’s my job to be a proper ambassador. It’s miraculous. It’s crazy. Which is why I’m petitioning to name my son Crazy Horse, after the great leader of the Oglala Lakota people, so that he, too, may have strength and courage in the face of the unknown.

Of course, my wife (and everyone she knows) feels the name Crazy Horse may cause a bit of a stir in the classroom.

We’ll see …