Danny Tyree Lassoes Stork!

This week’s column was supposed to be about wife Melissa’s misadventures with jury duty.

As fate would have it, she got out of jury duty -- because of morning sickness.

That’s right -- after 8 years of trying, we’re finally going to have our first child. (Due date is March 15.)

We were so weary of the monthly negative results on home pregnancy tests. Melissa has peed on more sticks than a disgruntled employee at a Popsicle factory.

We never gave up hope, but we did keep readjusting our expectations. The room we decorated so nicely eight years ago went from being referred to as “the nursery” to “the spare bedroom” to “the room we throw junk into when company comes.”

Of course Melissa has suffered maternal yearnings. And I felt an emptiness as well. Even total strangers could tell that something was missing. Okay, their exact words were, “You’re not all there,” but I know what they meant.

We couldn’t have made it this far without the prayers of our friends and readers. I even appreciate the non-spiritual good wishes, although you atheists and agnostics may be in trouble if the kid is less understanding and becomes a heart surgeon or traffic cop. (“So, you’re the one my daddy said didn’t want me to be born.”)

I will adore the child, no matter what. I’m not like Michael Jackson (“I don’t care if it’s a boy or a girl, just as long as it’s not normal”) or deposed University of Tennessee President John Shumaker (“What? The umbilical cord isn’t gold-plated? Send her back!”)

Several people have told us that the baby will change our whole lives. I’m ready to adjust. Instead of pretending to work, I’ll pretend to be sound asleep.

I asked a saleslady if one of books written for expectant fathers would help me understand what Melissa will be going through. (“Yes, if you soak it with five gallons of water and staple it inside your abdomen, you -- you man!!!!”) I think I’ll wait for the movie version.

We still have to decide about the gift registry. I’m leaning toward Home Depot instead of Baby Depot or Baby Barn. What’s the difference between crib mobiles and skill saws, anyway? Hand-eye coordination is hand-eye coordination.

I’m glad we can celebrate the unborn baby’s growth. Time enough in adulthood for those ridiculous height-weight charts. (“If you have strength enough to flip this chart, you’re too darn fat.”)

I’ve already seen the baby’s life flash before my eyes: the first step, first words (the kid will be taking high school Spanish by then because a new law will require “Dada” to be uttered bilingually), first bicycle, braces, etc. The funniest part is when the teen tells Melissa (who has spent more than enough time in the OB-Gyn’s stirrups), “You’re embarrassing me in front of my friends!”

Melissa will have to keep close watch on me as well as the baby. I’ll be just shy of my 44^th birthday when the bundle of joy comes along, and I’ll probably be in my second childhood not long after. The kid and I will delight to indulge ourselves with cookies, candy, toys. But no Popsicles. Definitely no Popsicles.