Nine weeks

Another week, another appointment with Dr. Wong (whose first name I misreported last time: it's Raymond, not James) and his magic wand.

This Thursday's ultrasound once again showed everything progressing normally. The inch-long fetus even wiggled about a little bit while we were watching the monitor, and once again, tears came to my eyes. Parenthood is going to be very difficult for me if causes me to cry as often as Greta (who sometimes, even when not pregnant, weeps during phone company and pet food commercials). "That's crazy," I marveled at the technological miracle of being able to spy on my offspring in what was, until the late 20th Century, the most private of locations. "Crazy wonderful," said Dr. Wong with a grin.

My only concern is that the child, as you can see, bears an uncomfortable resemblance to Mr. Met. Was Greta at Shea Stadium about nine weeks ago, by any chance? I'm going to check her credit card statements for ballgame-ticket charges. (Come on, would you trust this mascot freak with your spouse? Just look at that lascivious gesture he's making!)

In other news, I ran over the Brooklyn Bridge at dawn yesterday morning. No, I was not being pursued by zombies, which is the only reasonable excuse for behaving in such an insane manner -- I am enrolled in Stacy's Boot Camp, a group-fitness-program-slash-torture-cult. (The albino from The DaVinci Code would love it.) Or, more accurately, Greta enrolled in the program, but then found out about her delicate condition after the refund deadline had passed -- so I am pinch-hitting for her. Pinch-suffering.

First, my fellow enrollees and I ran the entire length of the bridge's walkway (1.5 miles, according to Google Maps) -- while being urged onwards by a friendly, granite-hewn sadist named Mauricio (one of Stacy's trainers). Then, we ran the entire way back -- but this time, we had to run sideways for 100 yards, stop and do pushups, run while bringing our knees up to waist level for another 100 yards, stop and do situps, and so on, for the entire return journey. On the first leg of the run, I was somewhat able to marvel at the transcendent beauty of the scenery; on the way back, I was mostly focusing on trying not to vomit from the exertion.

This is the sort of thing that it's better to have done than to do, and I do in fact feel proud of myself now for having done it. I've got one more session left, at 6:30 on Monday morning. I can't wait to see what Mauricio has in store for us this time ... perhaps we will have to scale the Empire State Building using only our pinky toes and our teeth.

Despite the pain, I figure that getting into better physical shape is good preparation for fatherhood, as is learning how to stave off one's urge to vomit.