I’m back home after a weekend of baby showers and, while somewhat overwhelmed by all the baby gear, none the worse for wear. The first shower was a candlelit evening affair with friends; the second a luncheon party with family. Both were delightful in their own way. It was at the second one, though, that I started to become aware of the seismic changes in disposition that this whole impending-fatherhood thing is wreaking on me.

Consider the evidence:

I spent the afternoon at an event where the theme was “duckies” and the recurrent exclamation during the opening of gifts was “Oooo! That’s adooorable!” And yet, far from finding the proceedings maudlin or bathetic, I found it all quite adorable myself.

In the past, as my college friends will attest, I have only suffered the presence of stuffed animals that have a suitably detailed background mythology and a psychopathic temperament. Now even a glimpse of a Pooh Bear or a fluffy yellow duckie makes me burble with excitement.

I’m not sure where this will end, and I must confess that I find the transformation not unpleasant. However, I fear that ere long I will lose any ability to engage in circumspection, and so I say to all who hear my call: If I ever praise Barney, shoot me.