In which I enjoy the calm before the storm.

Cynthia's due date is in one week. These things are, of course, approximations. We have only a general idea of when she actually conceived, and even if we knew precisely, the timing can still be off. Our doctor is in Australia until Sunday, so we are hoping the child delays his appearance until after that time.

For the past few weeks Cynthia and I have been acutely aware of the finality of many things. Spur-of-the-moment outings. Leisurely lounging in bed on a Saturday morning. Trips to hipster bars and 9 p.m. reservations at restaurants that would not even consider having a "kids' menu." Cynthia's advanced state of ripening makes some of those activities difficult even now, of course, but we are gamely out there trying out best to enjoy the end of our twosomehood. At the same time there is not much left out there to be experienced. Coming to parenthood after age 35, we have left few stones unturned. For the most part, everything we wanted to do, we've done (especially in Cynthia's case), or else it's too late to go back and do it (more in my case). What did I want to do before having a family? Spend the 1990s traveling the globe. Not marry so young. Go to a better undergraduate school. Since I can't do those things anyhow, none of them are obstacles to raising a family.

And it is the last few sentences of that paragraph which remind me of my chief anxiety about fatherhood. The boy has not arrived yet and already I worry about falling into clichéd parenthood traps. Chief among them, the desire to relive my life through him, sans mistakes. I want him to do the things I didn't do. I want him to get a better education, to travel overseas, learn another language, play an instrument, delay marriage, fulfill his potential in ways that I never did. I keep reminding myself: he is his own person. He is not me. He is not a do-over. Sometimes I have this horrible image of myself endlessly pontificating to the lad on my past and his future, and imagine his eyes glazing over...

Cynthia's anxieties are much more immediate, which makes sense, since the baby is a physical reality to her in ways that he can't be to me. Yet. As the third trimester winds down she has had a bout or two of gestational psychosis to go with her very mild gestational diabetes. A near-breakdown over the lack of all-cotton, dye-free hooded bathtowels, for example. (Apparently the child can never get into the Ivy League if his hooded bath towels have stripes on them). Another near collapse over having too many baby clothes. I make Hainan jifan and lamb and eggplant with farfalle pasta, and it soothes her savage breast. (I think that Hainan jifan is also a treatment for post-partum depression. I hope it's not needed, but I will stock up on ginger and shallots just in case.)

People ask us, "are you ready?" Of course not. But we are no less ready than any other first-time parent. And it just may be that having this experience after the age of 35 makes us more prepared. OK, we won't do as well with the anticipated sleep deprivation as a couple of 20-somethings, but at the same time, I think we will be a little more laid-back about the problems and a little more appreciative about the good things.

Are we ready? The baby's room is painted. His crib is assembled. There is a changing pad on top of a dresser. A box of newborn diapers next to it. Glass bottles. A Pack-N-Play. A car seat. Three different strollers. We've got the whole baby infrastructure in place, at least. As for the rest... ready as we'll ever be, I guess.

We've put aside our childish things.