The Baby Workout - Now on DVD

Yesterday was the first full day of my 10-week odyssey as a stay-at-home father. By all accounts, it was a good day, as measured by the extent to which my son is still alive. Call it a hunch, but I believe that my son's continued metabolic activity is a positive first step in our evolving relationship.

In addition to the milestone of my progeny's survival, I came away from yesterday with an important realization: babies are heavy. At four months, my son tips the scales at about 17 pounds--big for his age, but not that heavy compared to, say, Wisconsin. But try carrying around a 17-pound bundle of squirming joy all day, and let me know how your body feels the next morning.

I woke up this a.m. wondering if perhaps I had driven to the gym sometime during the night and lifted weights for five hours, returning home and crawling back into bed only after I was certain I had sufficiently broken down enough muscle tissue to ensure that I couldn't move for several weeks. Or something like that. The point is, I woke up this morning and, ridiculous as it might seem, I was sore simply from carrying around my son yesterday. I feel like a total pussy.

Given the aches I'm saddled with today, I'm considering one of two possibilities: 1) my son has a dense lead-iron-chromium alloy endoskeleton that makes him considerably heavier than 17 pounds, but somehow these metals' magnetic properties trick the scale's needle into stopping at 17, or 2) I am a total pussy. Don't tell anyone, but I think it's #2, because our pediatrician has assured me that my son is not the Terminator. (I predict, however, that the first thing my son ever says will be, "Are you Sarah Conner?")

So I'll see you at the gym. But remember not to pick on the scrawny guy, because he may just have a metallic son-from-the-future who'll pay you a visit.