From the bleachers:

"Put me in coach, I'm ready to play, today..." John Fogerty, Centerfield

"I hate waiting." Inigo Montoya, The Princess Bride

So, as anyone who has any interest, possibly whatsoever, in this blog (which is pretty much family and friends, because who in the world reads the pregnancy blogs of complete strangers? If you do, hey, not to judge, but that's kind of creepy,) you know that our impending Son/Daughter is late. So now it is a waiting game. I don't do well with waiting games. In fact, some might consider me an impatient man. As a child, I was the one constantly nosing around the Christmas tree, shaking presents, and trying to lobby for opening "just one" early. (I never really intended to open just one, but figured, once it got started, it would be the "gateway present" and open the flood gates into a full on crack smoking circle of gift opening. But I digress...)

Now, for those of you in the know about pregnancy type things, you of course know that one week late or more is not at all uncommon for first time moms. So after the due date comes and goes, you wait, and start looking for signs. Disgusting signs, as it turns out. In fact, we may have had such a disgusting sign this morning. But first, a basic pregnancy/childbirthing lesson for the less informed (aka Men.) I too am a man, and so prior to this pregnancy of ours, I had no idea about the following fact which I am about to share with you. (Oh, and our less informed audience (again, Men) may wish to stop reading here, because, really, this is gross.)

Apparently, the cervix (the sphincter at the base of the uterus) alone does not keep the baby from falling out. No, in His totally awesome creation that is the female body and reproductive system, God has capped the cervix, much like a find bottle of wine, with a cork, of sorts.

Two words: Mucus Plug. (Just let that one roll around the ol' noggin for a little while.)

So, when the time starts approaching, the cervix, which is all gummed up with the aforementioned Plug O' Mucus, starts to open and the plug falls out. This phenomenon, like all things in childbirthing, also has a more delicate name. This is called the "bloody show." I can only presume this phrase originated in Great Britain. Or it could be that it is called this because, after all, what is a little mucous without some blood mixed in.

(In an interesting side note, I have now spelled mucous both "mucus" and "mucous" and neither is redlined. (Ironically, "redlined" is redlined.) So, apparently, both are acceptable spellings. Keep that in mind for Scrabble, in case you need that extra "o" to reach the triple word score.) (Actually, I also just learned that "mucus" is the noun, and "mucous" is the adjectival form. Thus your mucous membranes produce mucus.)

Biology lesson (and Scrabble tip) over.

So, anyway, I was in the shower prior to going to church this morning when Christy, who is my pregnant wife, for those of you keeping score at home, came in to use the toilet. (Not an uncommon occurrence in one this far along in pregnancy, since the total volume of the bladder is compressed to the approximate volume of a hazelnut during the last trimester.) And, after she had finished, she excitedly exclaimed "I think I see the mucous plug!"

I replied from the shower "Really, that's great. I will take your word for it, though. I don't need to look."

My wife is great for two reasons:

1) She didn't flush right then an there, thus preventing scalding of my manhood.

2) She put the toilet lid down, so I could flush without looking.

At this point of the blog, I might include a picture of said plug, but I just confirmed, much to the loss of my appetite for the soon to commence dinner, that if you Google "Mucous Plug" you will get pictures. So I will leave this as an "extra credit" assignment for you overachievers out there.

So Houston, we have a mucous plug! I must say, I have never been quite so excited about an excretion of mucous before. Finally, this is progress! Real, textbook progress!

Because frankly, I've been on these bleachers long enough. My butt is sore, and these are those stupid, metal, open air bleachers, not nice bleachers that are built into a bowl in the earth so the wind doesn't get beneath the blanket you brought to the game with you so you can make out with your girlfriend, I mean, stay warm. And I can't see well from up here. And my hot chocolate has run out. It is time to suit up.

Game time is approaching. Stay tuned, sports fans...

And that's the view from the bleachers for now, and perhaps forever...