The Not-So-Calm Before the Storm...

13 Days...13 Days...13 Days...

It's all boiled down to this. In two weeks, I could be changing a dirty diaper. I could be washing a crib sheet. I might even be applying the mythical butt paste...ugh, no? We'll leave that one to mom.

Now that I've pondered that, please give me a moment. I need a Sunday night cocktail...

...Ice, check

...Woodford, check

...Down, down, into my belly you go.

Much better.

Over the last 29 years, I've learned a great deal about women. I've learned that the little things are ALWAYS important. I've learned that forgetting a Valentines day card equals new bedroom furniture. I've even learned that the phrase "big momma" is never applicable...no matter what...ever...even if "somebody" were to be pregnant...

However, nothing could have prepared me for Hurricane Krissie last week. Not even the always-accurate emotionalweather.com website could have predicted Wednesday's storm...

Indeed, my lovely, tight-jean wearing, waddling beauty had a "late-pregnancy" moment.

I'll explain: When casually chatting about pregnancy, women rarely tell you their horror story about delivering weeks late. No, an emotional, pregnant woman only hears the tales of 37, 38, and 39 week babies. Indeed, a pregnant woman can be convinced that doctors only give you ETA's for fun! Unfortunately, I bought into the hype.

Instead of waiting on your present until Christmas morning, the Millers were ready to unwrap at Thanksgiving. Because, you know, "everybody goes early."

In addition, two weeks ago Kristen had a dream that Price would evacuate her premises last Wednesday. Oh yes, a dream. My wife had turned into a fortune-teller. And no, I dared not remind her that it was a dream...for fear of being stabbed in my sleep.

At 6:15 on Wednesday morning, Kris' cell phone rang. Was this Price calling to say he was ready? Was this the mothership beaming in some contractions? No, it was Kristen's best buddy calling to say she was en-route to deliver my future daughter-in-law. What did that mean? The dream was real and there's double-excitement that Price and McCall are April 1st entries.

So at our scheduled 9:00 am appointment, Mrs. Cleo (a.k.a. my wizard wife) and I went to the doc for some lifting news. As the time progressed, we got the status report...

"Ma'am, not much has happened, see you next week."

The winds began to blow and the tears began to fall quicker than when Goose died - and I still cry everytime I see that. It felt absolutely terrible. And what would be the one thing to send the emotions into overdrive? This statement: "Don't worry, we won't let you go past 42 weeks..."

Advice for those who have yet to have a wife carrying around 30 pounds of ninja-kicking testosterone on the front of their body: Talking about going 42 weeks is the equivalent of being pregnant for 2,583,649 years....which can also get you stabbed.

But the waters have receded, and "little momma" is counting down the days till little man gets to come home...and sleep in the crib where his sheets have already been washed three times...

In truth, Kristen has been nothing short of wonderful, and she's given him a litte longer before handing him the keys to the Tight Jean kingdom. While I've gotten to experience a wide array of moods lately, I cannot fathom somebody being a better mother-candidate.

So the nursery is complete, and my cabinets are full of Desitin, Butt Paste, and Baby Powder. Who knew that Family Vacation 2008 would lead to this? Oh no, my life resembles the latest issue of Pottery Barn Kids....and oh no, I just realized I typed that...

To make it up, I present to you the greatest Michael Jackson remake ever made.

Until next time,

The Weatherman and his 15 Diaper Changers

Confessions of a Pregnant-Loving 'Aholic

Wow - 1003 hits to the site in two months....see Kris, people obviously love guys in tight jeans! And last I checked, the TJA consisted of no Catholic priests or schoolboys.

Well after 8 months, my wife's basketball is almost fully inflated.... and seriously, that tummy can't be aerodynamic for walking! As of today, we're only 3.5 weeks from the due date. Is it weird that some of my friends have recently sent texts asking "you do realize you're doing to be a dad?" Of course I do...I've already got a carseat in the boat, a tie-down in the bed of my truck, and his first .22 rifle under the crib. That kid is more prepared than Suber with his mom's credit card.

Big news on the P-doo (a.k.a. "Price"): Singing 80's light rock to the kiddo actually worked! As of last week, he's headed for daylight. In doctor terms, he "flipped." On top of that, Kristen's measuring a-okay for an on-time delivery...despite the fact that she's desperately searching for a pitocin-redbull to get that boy into the world early.

And with regards to my sexy pregnant vixen, she's hanging in there. Yes, she grunts each time she moves. Yes, she no longer believes in sleep. Yes, she demands that I give her a back rub anytime she finds me hiding. Yes, she's found a way to get the "honey-do" list even longer. And yes, I've learned that confrontation can easily result in pain for me. But what can I say - that chick rocks more than American Idol....oh no, did I just confess to watching that tonight? I must now apologize to my inner-self...

Other things I must confess this week....time to get it off my chest:

1. Friday nights are no longer about bourbon and karaoke...they are now used to install ceiling fans and curtains.

2. My version of masculinity is defined through "yeah, his swing is polka dots, but it's blue AND brown polka dots"

3. Where are my Sigma Nu beer mugs, and why are all these bottles in my kitchen?

4. Yeah, it's a 2006 Chevy Silverado...with a Z-71 suspension...with a 6.0L V8...with 285 All-Terrains tires...with a sweet new edition of the Chico carseat in the back...so?

5. Every cell phone conversation with my wife now starts "Are you in labor?" - "No" - "Okay, I'm working, I'll call you back"

As far as I can tell, I think I'm a grown-up now. Oh no - someone please hold me. Thank goodness for a bachelor party in May...time to rekindle Frank-the-Tank. Inappropriate to bring Price along?

Last, I recently realized I'm having an early-life crisis. Indeed, I've always been a compulsive idiot. However, I think I've outdone myself this time. Last month, I read INTO THIN AIR. So instead of flying, sky-diving, or making a baby, I thought it a great idea to climb Mount Everest.

But believe it or not, I'm not quite yet qualified for that venture. Therefore, I've decided to start with Kilimanjaro next spring. Yes, I know....20,000 feet and 6-days of climbing in Africa for a boy with his largest accomplishment being riding the elevator at Chimney Rock...but man, I got some sweet pictures up there!

So if you've got nothing going on early 2010, join me in the Serengeti for another addition to my drunken-founded bucket list. My son is doomed with me as dad, right?

Anyway, here's a few pictures of our nearly completed nursery...and yes honey, the stripes turned out great...despite the fact this statement rips up my man-card.

Until next time,

Doc Semi and his 12 (Ever-growing baby!) Denim Dwarfs

"All hail the bung king!"

Yeah, yeah...my apologies on the slow update. Kristen has me busier than Uncle Jesse with an Olsen twin these days. Needless to say, my own life is now a combination of Home Improvement and Flip This House. Oh no, did I just reference an HGTV show on my own?...

Anyway...it recently dawned on me that March is the last month before Price enters the world. As exciting as that is, there's also pure terror running through my stubby typing fingers! In only six weeks my wife will use the dirtiest word on me...responsibility. That is about as scary as Bee93.Suttles repeat-playing Joey Amos' favorite band.

With the drastic changes coming to the Miller household, I was recently presented with only one logical decision: GUYS WEEKEND. Therefore, last Friday I made my way to the frozen tundra to hang with an old buddy, David Suttles. Isn't it ironic that Mr. Suttles also wears his jeans so tight he can't get his cell phone out when it rings? I think he might have an honorary place with the TJA...

Speaking of the TJA, here's a little shout out to the 4 new members who've joined the most elite denim fraternity in the ultraverse. At the pace we're growing, my screen-printer is going to run out of ink....well, okay, so we're only at seven. Kelli, can you please hit the recruiting trail for some 5-Star followers? Maybe even this guy?

While in Wisconsin, I learned much about myself. First, I realized that I'm approaching 30 years old. I say this because no longer do I compare how many beers I can drink, but rather the size of my wife's pregnant belly to other friends' wives. Second, I found I still love beer...however, it no longer respects me back. After stumbling through two breweries, scaring opposing coaches at a hockey game, and hosting my own bachelor party all over, I was paid back with a nice nap on the floor. Oh, I miss the old days where my body didn't insist on taking a 1 day recovery OSHA break.

Speaking to that last point, is it strange that as I held up a wooden keg plug like Big Ern McCracken, a group of crazy Wisconsinites would scream, "All hail the bung king!" I feel my wife's eyes burning into me now!

But enough about me. As of tonight, Kristen is 34.5 weeks pregnant. And before you ask, yes, she's adorable. My little sugar-momma and her soccer ball tummy are as spectacular as the finale of Space Camp...and don't lie, you know you still love that movie. Unfortunately, Price is still finding himself in the breech position. For those not familiar, my little stud isn't quite ready to flip upside down for the final countdown.

While we hope that he turns around on his own shortly, Kristen and I are taking a proactive approach to the situation. Not only are we grounding him, but he's not going to the Middle School Dance either. Sorry Price, you will not get to hear Sam Bigsby unleash "Lean On Me" to the crowd.

On top of those measures, Kristen and I have also begun singing him motivation on a nightly basis. While some books suggest nursery rhymes and soft ballads, we've resorted to Bonnie Taylor and Total Eclipse of the Heart....it only seems appropriate...."turn around." Keep your fingers crossed for us.

So that's it for now, but we'll keep you posted here in the next few days. Until then, stay classy San Diego.

Yours truly,

The Bung King and the Seven Brewing Dwarfs.

"Sorry, no autographs please"

First-things-first, it's time to recognize those in the TJA. That's right, the avid followers of the Tight Jean Army. I salute those who rock the stretched denim so flush to skin that air refuses to dive below the belt.

We're only three-strong right now, but this elite fraternity will be taking pledges soon. For now, please let me introduce the founders of the TJA (also known as "Blog Followers")...

Kristen "Buns of Denim Steel" Miller, President - As wife and mother, please ensure our son's Wranglers are one size too small. Simply put, middle school girls should scream for his posterior like Diack at a Spice Girls concert.

Bridget "Denim Diaper" Gregg, Rush Chair - Being my son's future mother-in-law, please ensure McCall is immediately fitted with a tight denim diaper. The TJA must adhere to a strict dress code...

Kelli "Any Comment Related To Tight Denim And My Sister-In-Law Might Put Me Sleeping In The Bonus Room" Masters, Pledge Marshall - Sole recruiter to the TJA.

**For you three who blindly follow this blog, thank you. T-shirts are currently in production**

Alright, let's chat about my unborn son:

This weekend, my entire family got to see Price for the last time while burrowed deep in the bosom. In just a mere seven weeks, he'll make his grand entrance into the world...which got me thinking...

Would it be inappropriate to blare "2001" and erupt a fog machine on the hospital bed at the precise moment of my son's birth? Seriously, it would be his first Gamecock experience minus the bourbon...which, of course, I'll have on standby for Kristen. I have even pondered having the doctor dress up like Cocky and pop out of a cabinet during those final contractions...too much for a new father to ask?...

But back to the 4D ultrasound. As expected, my son did not want to share all his goods with us prior to his arrival. Being a celebrity (future President of the TJA), he's pretty guarded with glorious photos. The thirty minutes of us chasing down his beauty only produced fleeting glimpses. The sexy little cherub decided to ward us off with his arm, as if to say, "sorry, no autographs please." We realized quickly he had mistaken us for the paparazzi.

PS - Did you know little boys in the womb also like tucking a hand between their legs? If I didn't know better, I might think there was a small couch, six pack of PBR, and a NASCAR race happening in Kris' belly. Either way, stay comfortable in there little dude!

Until next time,

Blairy Labonte and His 3 Tight-Jeaned Elves

"He's really out there..."

What does it take to become a proud father? Some have told me it's a healthy baby. Some have told me it's a happy baby. I learned quickly just how wrong they could be. It's often the slightest phrase from a stranger that does it...

But I digress. So we're thirty-two weeks deep, and little mama is growing faster than Michael Phelps can find a lighter. However, I must admit she's the most adorable thing on the market (see previous post). Yes, she's been drugged for seven years to stick with me, but I've never once drawn a mustache on her face while she slept. In other words, we're as tight as Steve Perry wailing in Separate Ways...and that's tight.

When you first discover that your 2008 Family Beach Trip just helped grow the tree, only one thing crosses your mind: Are we having a Bubba or a Bubbette. For me, this broke the next 20 years into two distinct brackets:

1. Camping trips; smoking cigars; muddy trucks; the first cold beer during a ballgame; shooting guns, and a bachelor party where dad goes clubbing with the kids, shoots tequila until he stumbles, and hears too many of his son's previous misdemeanors...all while wearing a rocking sweater-vest (There's your shout-out pops!)

or...

2. Fending off hormoned-crazed suitors, like myself, until eventually paying for a wedding anyway.

For me, it was a no-brainer. As the twenty-week ultrasound approached, this dad-to-be was sweating out the moment worse than an elimination on Flavor of Love. Indeed, I was ready for the docs to get me as excited as the day Santa brought home the Power Glove...and yes, it's sooo baaad.

PS - Have you ever seen the ultrasound machine?...complete with keyboard, trackball, and TV screen. Tell me it's not some futurisic form of Golden Tee.

So the minute came, and the magic-wand slowly rolled across my wife's belly. Then, as the clock skidded, the skies parted, and all breath stopped, the tech spoke...

And that's the moment where dad brimmed with pride.

"Wow! He's really out there!"

Until next time,

Bret Michaels and the Rock of Baby Bus

"Oh wow, you're going to be a dad..."

Disclaimer (per my lovely wife): This website is not for Catholic priests and school boys...

Marriage Rule #1 - Your wife is always right.

Men's Rule #1 - Ignore her, you'll end up in the doghouse anyway.

And that's how this begins: Last month, I made the profound decision to begin a story. That's right, I volunteered all my poetic justice, heart and soul, and hours of paid office time into entertaining the world. The only comment my wife could make is that the title of my blog is about as bad as the end of Drumline...oh wait, I've never wanted rhythm and soul so bad in my life. So now you understand my disclaimer (Kristen, are we star-crossed soul mates again?). And you also see that I obediently serve Men's Rule #1 by sticking with the Fergalicious title.

You, me, Grandma Sue, Uncle Dabo, and the two mutts have all read the sappy baby-blogs that sound like an Aaron Neville and Linda Ronstadt video. No sir, you'll not find that here. My inspirational writing serves to give you the down-and-dirty of bringing the next big NASCAR sensation (a.k.a. "Price Miller") into the world.

Last Spring, my lovely counterpart (Kristen) and I ventured to Italy for our last hurrah. For when we came back, the T.B. Miller Band was going to play some live shows at the family-growing factory. After three wonderful years of marriage, it was time to retire my favorite tight jeans and prepare for baby screams. Little did I know that our creation was only a couple too many Firefly drinks, a full moon, and The Miller Family Beach Week 2008 away. Thanks mom and dad; we owe you!

As summer faded away, Gamecock football loomed on the horizon. Spirits were high that "Next Year" was here, and I was already practicing Sunday couch-mode. One particular afternoon, I recall a mighty half-stubbled beard watching a fourteenth consecutive episode of Man Vs Wild ("Blair" Grylls, if you may).

That day, Kristen crawled like a ninja around the house until sending me into the bathroom for a little "surprise." It was this little dandy that showed me the two pink lines that changed my life. Just to be sure, we replicated 4 sets of those duplicate lines (you can never be too sure). It was also at this point I realized my life had just changed for the most exciting and best reason I could've dreamed. Parenthood was a mere 8 months away!

Ironically, I'm still pondering Kris saying "oh wow, you're going to be a dad"...I guess we'll never know what that means.

Until next time,

Yours Truly and His Magnanamous Lady