My son kicked me in the face the other day.

Oh my God, it's really happening, isn't it? The baby's due in February, and we found out a month ago that it's a boy. We're getting advice from all corners. "Read to him." We hear that one a lot. Apparently, about this time, the kid's ears start working, so you want him to get used to your voice. He'll hear his mom's voice all the time, but mine, not so much.

I've been talking to him for weeks, of course, lying with my cheek where I think he might be. I tell him about my days, about our three cats, about his two sisters...

Whack! I mean, Chuck Norris doesn't give the kind of roundhouse kick in the face that this kid gave me. I was startled. I looked up at my wife.

"Was that...?"

She nodded, smiling.

"Oh my God, he kicked me!"

We picked up a bunch of children's books from grandma and grandpa last night. Lots of Dr. Seuss. A couple of Peanuts compilations. "Black Beauty." "Little House."

Last night, I lay there and read to him. "Oh, the Places You'll Go."

"That was him," my wife said.

As eager as I am to feel it again, I had to admit that this time, I didn't. Maybe next time.

I'm still trying to make sure he gets used to my voice. And every time I talk to him, I end it the same way.

"I can't wait to see you."

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