Week seven, I guess

The parasite is roughly blueberry sized. There's no predicting M's bodily weirdness. Tuesday she spent feeling hung over, and yesterday she nearly cried from the agony of a close encounter with someone's oyster-based lunch.

I canceled my class Thursday -- Marlowe's Jew of Malta -- in order to go with M to the first ultrasound, about which she's understandably nervous, since the last one she got revealed that she'd lost half her blood volume and was "About to Die" (a phrase that must be pronounced in the voice of the narrator from the old arcade game Gauntlet -- "Red Warrior needs food. Badly!")

Somehow we're still going to run the half-marathon together. She's been cleared for that, but told not to overheat, so now she's apologizing that she'll slow me down and saying I should run ahead at my own pace. As if I'd pass up the opportunity to run 13.1 miles with my 8-weeks-pregnant wife.

Apparently we're well on the way to becoming those people. I am having a hard time thinking of anything but the pregnancy. It's edging out my book projects, my classes, my anger at Arsenal's willingness to pee away points at every turn in late season league play, my grief over the loss of a beloved university president. I apologize in advance for the fatherhood brain that is likely to make me utterly insufferable forever.