The New York Post, that paragon of American journalism--the fourth, fifth, sixth and seventh columns all rolled into one --has a groundbreaking report today: One-third of moms have cheated! What?! At Scrabble, right?

Oh noes! The same amount--just 36 percent --say they're still attracted to their husbands. The rest would apparently rather bone George Clooney (well, who wouldn't?) or, um, Barack Obama.

Least reassuring quote: "The desire to have desire [for their husbands] is there."

AN UPDATE: Ladies, please stop reading now.

Seriously, gals. Go away.

They gone? Good.

OK, gents. So I sent that story to my friend Dan. His response? "They harangue you to get married and then...they cheat!"

I am never going to get any love again, am I?

We don't go to too many baseball games in this household. I rarely pack up the family and head to Madison Square Garden, either, to take in a friendly game of basketball ... or one of them rock and roll concert shows that the kids like so much these days.

Also, we don't drink too many things out of a bottle around here that aren't scotch, wine, beer, seltzer or milk. Roughly in that order of importance.

So it's a good thing that I read this cautionary tale about a poor clueless Ann Arbor dad who took his 7-year old to a Tigers game and bought him a Mike's Hard Lemonade—which apparently contains delicious alcohol—who knew?! You see where this is going: dude finds himself face to face with the cops ... while his son is rushed to the hospital! And then foster care!! Oy. Note to self: remember to read labels on bottles real careful—like when my kid is old enough to attend the Hannah Montana comeback tour.

And here I thought we were only supposed to treat our tourists this way ...

We go in for our little check-up with the midwife today. I love our midwife. We wanted to do a homebirth this time around, especially since the birthing center at Long Island College Hospital (which, logically, is in Brooklyn Heights) closed down, meaning my bride will have to birth in the delivery room (heaven forefend!). But our midwife isn't covered for home births. And we love her. So delivery room (and all the necessary evils that come with it), it is.

At the check-up today, the midwife measured the belly. My wife is a thin woman, narrow. She's well proportioned. And she's a gorgeous pregnant knockout--skinny all over and one big bump. Weirdly, people have been asking her for the past month if she's either A) due any day now or B) having twins. People are idiots. If her belly were any smaller, people would be asking her whether the baby was OK. Or if she was eating enough. Like I said, people are idiots.

So we grease up the belly, and listen to the thwack-thwack heartbeat. Bless. Aama gets weighed and measured. Like a steer. I ask the midwife if there's any way to tell how big the kid is. She says she guesses five, five-and-a-quarter pounds. Totally normal for 32 weeks. Good.

Then she tells us to come back every two weeks and adds, offhand, that the baby will probably increase in weight by a half-pound a week from here on out. We nod as we put on our coats. Then pause. We do the math.

That's four pounds in eight weeks.

That adds up to a nine pound baby. At least.

Remember how I mentioned that the wife is a narrow little lady? First Born clocked in at 6 pounds, 11 ounces. That's south of seven pounds ... of blazing crotchfire agony and bloody torn crotchflesh. Three more pounds will split the poor woman open.

Which made us pause again. This frickin' baby. She's going to come early, isn't she? Eep.