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?

I humbly submit to you, pumpkins, the very thing your wee ones need: The Economic Stimulus Tutu.

So this morning we're going in for the 20-week sonogram. Technically,  I guess El Preggo is at week 23. But we're both late bloomers, so we figured why not do this thing after our own fashion.

We've decided to go in and find out what the sex of our unborn spawn is. Last time around we opted to be surprised. The 10 months of my bridebird's first pregnancy constituted a delicious exercise in suspense, terror, thrills and baited breath. This culminated in a fairly hilarious birth story that we'll be dining out on until our daughter herself gives birth. I'm too lazy to go through it all now, but suffice it to say, it involved in an cathartically joyous blood-spilling release of anxiety.

Anyway, we're too tired for all that BS this time around. We want to know. We want to know if we have enough hand-me-downs. We want to know what stripe of sibling to tell our first born she should be prepared to torture for the next 80 years. We want as few surprises this time around as our fragile, addled psyches can take.

Also, neither of us can agree on a name, so we want to narrow the field of options by half (or, I guess given that we live in Park Slope, by one-eighth).

So in a few short hours, I'll know the sex of the sea turtle floating in my spouse's belly. I'll know the flavor of our soup dumpling. I'll know if I'll be spending the rest of my life coming home to a household of lovely ladies ... or son who must ultimately annihilate me (hey Dutch, congrats). 

I do have some ambivalence about finding out. It just doesn't feel natural. but we are both too tired to resist the ineluctable. We submit. Bring it on.

Here's an interesting tidbit -- it seems that an expectant mother's diet may influence the sex of her baby. From the UK's Daily Mail: "mice with low blood-sugar levels--a good indicator of a sugar-rich diet--produce more female than male offspring."

For a University of Pretoria study, researchers gave 20 female mice a steroid called dexamethasone, which kept their blood-sugar levels low. Mmmm, sweet steroids. I believe this is now referred to as the Marion Jones diet. The sex of these mice's litters was then compared with those of 20 mice on a regular diet. Those eating normally produced offspring that were 53 percent male. But those on the steroid produced litters that were only 41 percent male. (For the record, I am 77 percent male.)

So, basically, this confirms what we already knew: sugar and spice and everything nice, that's what little girls are made of. Boys, according to the Daily Mail piece, come from a diet of "red meat and salty snacks." Puppy dog tails are red meat, right? Snails are salty snacks, aren't they? Makes perfect sense to me. But, wait, what does a perfectly balanced diet predict? Confusing!

And what if, as in the case with my very own spousemouse, the expectant mother in question is eating ... nothing? Because nothing will stay in her stomach. What does a diet of partially-digested almonds, Gatorade, grapefruit and toast predict!? I fear that our second born will have the genitalia of a Ken doll (don't click on that link ... but first don't think of an elephant).

Whatever our child looks like, I will love herm anyway. Probably.

I'm giving my daughter her nightly bath. This evening she has brought with her a small plastic koala bear, one of her 12 million stray animal-shaped plastic toys that is probably filled with a chewy, nougaty core of date rape drugs and crystal meth. As I shampoo her hair (rinse, lather, chase her to other side of tub, get soaked, repeat), she plays with her little koala bear, perfecting her waterboarding technique. She has a great future, this one.

"OK, show me your face," I command. She knows the drill: she pauses playing, looks up at me and shuts her eyes. I soap up the washcloth and gently wipe away her jam-and-booger mustache. "There," I say when she's clean. And then, just as I'm struck for the squillionth time how beautiful her fresh-scrubbed face is, she anticipates my next line and announces to me "I'M GOOOORGEOUS!"

Hmm. Well now, it seems someone is developing a healthy self-image. Too healthy? I have noticed lately that sometimes, after I've just dressed her, she'll run to the full-length mirror across the hall from her room, smile and say "I'M SO CUTE!" This was adorable the first time she did it. Not so much on the third or eighth. Her mom and I have always been big on the well-placed compliment--making sure to tell her when she's done something smart or brave or strong or funny. But we've also caught ourselves, perhaps too often, telling her how pretty she is. Alas, it looks like the message has soaked in. I worry that this could be problematic. Apparently I'm not the only one.

So as I'm sitting there, looking down at my little girl in her tub, I begin stressing out over the gender-role and body-issues I've unknowingly begun fostering in her tiny (yet smart!) psyche. Great, she thinks she's supposed to be pretty or cute or gorgeous. Why couldn't she have looked up at me and said "I'm a fiercely intelligent warrior gazelle?" Clearly, as a father, I'm a failure. Math is hard! As these thoughts are eating my own tiny brain, she stops torturing her koala, smiles and looks up at me. Giggling, she leans to her starboard side and a tremendous flurry of bubbles rushes to the water's surface. "I FARTED!" she announces, in case I missed the 6.2-on-the-Richter scale tremors. "EXCUSE YOU!" she says, again anticipating my retort. Funny. And, lo, smart!

This is when I stopped worrying. I mean, I know I'm not supposed to encourage her gaseous obsessions, but isn't it more fun to have burping contests with your daughter than to reprimand her? And anyway, I figure it's all for the best for her own development. At least, for the time being, being a beautiful delicate flower of a precious angel doesn't rule out her being a disgusting stinky pig-girl. If she can live with that cognitive dissonance, so can I. Hell, she just might yet grow up to be the perfect woman.