Burnett 4.0

First, I promise that this will be the last post for... at least a week in which I am celebrating some personal milestone.

Second, Burnett 4.0 isn't some new software I've created. It's better.

Remember a couple of weeks ago when I wrote that Mrs. B and me (pictured below not all that long ago in Aruba) had hit the two year matrimony mark?


Well, I learned at that time that Burnett 4.0 (pictured below in a tiny, tiny still from an ultrasound done on Friday) was on the way. How cool an anniversary present was that? The doc says in that pic that Burnett 4.0 is "about the size of a diamond ring." That's a direct quote. I don't think that analogy would have occured to me. But then again, I'm no doctor.


So for the past couple of weeks I've been biting my tongue, 'cause Mrs. B (and both our mothers, the doc, his nurses, etc.) said the first trimester can be a hairy one till it reaches a certain point. He seemed to think by Friday it had reached that point. Do you know how hard it has been to sit on this one? I'm generally pretty good at keeping secrets upon request, but this one nearly killed me to keep. I did tell my editor, 'cause if ever on some random day I jumped up, grabbed my backpack, and bolted from the newsroom like OJ through the airport in a Hertz commercial I wanted my ed to know in advance that I wasn't crazy and was only running 'cause Mrs. B was having some sort of complication.

Burnett 4.0 is due in early '08. We're not sure on a name yet, though I've suggested James IV, whether its a boy or girl. For some strange reason that suggestion got a lukewarm reception, at best. Perhaps if I'd suggested it just for a boy's name. I won't give away the possible girl-only names, partly because I don't want to jinx anything and partly because I wasn't paying attention to those suggestions. I was too busy shouting some variation of woo-hoo! and celebrating with an eight-inch Padrón 1964 Anniversary Series smoke and a can of James-brand champagne (pictured below). I'm like Will Smith, btw, when it comes to good smokes. He said in "Welcome to Miami" that he never lights his cigars. He only sports 'em for show. If it's one of my good ones, as is this Padrón, I only chew the tip a bit. Then it goes back into the humidor. Unlike Will, one of these days I'll light mine.




I have to tell you that one of my early reactions to this news was relief. I could leave it at that and you would assume that I was relieved that Mrs. B and me are able to procreate. And you'd be partly right. Every couple, if kids are in their plans or dreams, hopes to have that option, right?

But the all-man half off my brain was relieved specifically because my soldiers apparently do march. There is something in how a guy is wired that makes him think he might not be "whole" until it is demonstrated that he is lethally armed. Why do we call them soldiers, anyway? Why not my "postal workers?" I mean, they did deliver. I've heard 'em referred to as "my swimmers," but I don't like swimming so much. So that one was out. I've heard 'em called "my boys," but in my vernacular "my boys" is a simple slang for my buddies. And I would just as soon run into traffic screaming and poking my eyes out - that includes my mind's eye - than picture my buddies as my boys.

And by the way, you hippies out there, "we" are not pregnant. Mrs. B is pregnant. I helped. And we'll do the nine months (total, of course) together, like Bonnie & Clyde, standing on our heads. I'll be there every step, etc., etc. But "we" are not pregnant. I hate it when I meet a guy and he's like "we're pregnant." Are you kidding me? "We?" I'll bet you're one of those guys who ties a pillow to your belly so you can further share the experience. How's this - I'm a distant member of the royal family, and "we" are not amused. Be real, guys. this is a first for me, so I'm no expert yet. But the pillow ain't cutting it. I plan to be supportive and helpful, but I won't know what it feels like. And for that I'm grateful. Even I'm smart enough to know that in the end the only thing I'll be squeezing out is sweat.

Till tomorrow, my friends.

PS. I tried to get Mrs. B to do that guest post, but she doesn't wanna. She says she'll stick to reading your comments. So leave lots of them. We don't want her bored.