Make it work

M and I attended our "infant care class" Wednesday night. It was pretty much a bust. They spent the first thirty minutes (re)assuring us that our baby won't always be so funny lookin (body covered in cheese, giant balls--well, not Mr. B--, smashed head, yada yada yada) and then another forty five on hospital security. I know these are scary times, but c'mon--Baby LoJack? Oh, and then they talked for like another half-an-hour about snacks for Dad. Cause Dad might get queasy being that he is a "man" and all. There was a lot of "Dad" talk (by this I mean using the word Dad instead of other parent, coach, etc) which doesn't really offend me. I can't speak for the single moms, the one gay Dad and the requisite pregnant teen (who spent the entire time texting).

Finally at 9p (and with a half-an-hour-left) they got down to the important stuff--bath, swaddling and diaper change. I have a feeling I am going to need a sedative to give the first bath. Not too mention, that we couldn't see any of the demos and that "practice" time came at 9:30 when the class was supposed to be done. Needless to say, M and I didn't stay to practice. It was Wednesday night. We had to get home for Project Runway. They'll teach us how to change a diaper in the hospital or will call our friend Claire (which by the way, is now my answer for everything).

Speaking of Project Runway, I just read this on TMZ: http://www.tmz.com/category/lets-get-this-party-started/I I feel a bit of six degrees as my excellent friend Jamie (M says I can't put last names on the blog. Sorry Merlino) went to diving camp with Dale.