Well, I’m an uncle. Again.

At 10:20 last night, the world’s supply of natural resources — e.g., whipped cream, pencil sharpeners, the racing cars in Monopoly sets — was further impinged upon by the arrival of Clarke John Sweeney Adams.

10 fingers, 10 toes.

No flippers.

(I guess we can’t have everything.)

As I was picking the wee Nugget up for the first time, mysisterwhoeatspoofortwo said, “Say hello to your Uncle Monkey Pants.”

I can live with that.

Hmph.

What’s the point of having your freaking water break if you don’t actually go into stinking labour?

WHAT’S THE POINT??

[Simmer.]

Why… NO! There is STILL no news on the whole frickin’ mysisterwhoeatspoospawningsometimeinthenearfuture front.

And YES! You are CORRECT! There IS the distinct possibility that the Nugget-To-Be is actively striving to STEAL MY FRIGGING BIRTHDAY!

AAAAAAAUGH!

The 13th is mine.

Back off, squirt.

I had a post ready to go, full of wit and verve.

Then the phone ran.

My sisterwhoeatspoo called to give me a quick heads up that her water just broke and she’s moseying on over to the hospital.

So please excuse my diminished capacity to make wurds fit sum gud lik smurt talkinfnagus