"I want a divorce."

The only surprise is that it took this long for me to hear these words. I've read and heard ad infinitum about pregnant women and their irritability, mood swings, and bursts of anger directed at the father. But for a while it looked like Elisa was avoiding those symptoms just as she avoided morning sickness. That is, until Friday when her hormonal changes and my trademarked insensitivity conspired to introduce me to the Demoness Batista.

Elisa stayed home from work on Friday, as her cough wasn't getting any better and she was feeling particularly worn down. When I got home from work, Elisa was fidgety, so I asked what was wrong. She said, "I'm stressed out."

So now, a good husband, may have given her a hug, or given her a massage, or just kept his mouth shut. I am not a good husband, and I did none of those things. In fact, I did the opposite -- I opened my mouth:

"Why are you stressed out? You've been home sleeping all day."

Retaliation was swift and severe: "I want a divorce." And it wasn't said with a good natured chuckle and a wave of the hand, the way she usually says it. This time, for a good 15 seconds, she actually meant it. And for at least seven seconds I actually deserved it.

So I was in a quandry. I mean, if we get divorced, I want it to happen after the baby is born so I can contest custody. And ideally it would happen after the baby is weaned off breast milk, as that would strengthen my legal case. So, I had to think fast to prevent our imminent marital demise.

Friday night is a dead zone on television -- the best I could do at 8 p.m. was "Firefly" on Fox. Ugh. But, wait! "48 Hours Investigates" was on, and I knew Elisa loved murder mysteries. So, while Elisa was growing demon horns and a pointy tail in the kitchen, I said, "Sweetie, do you want to watch 48 Hours? It's got something about a missing mother." And then -- I'm not kidding -- Elisa came over, big smile on her face, hugged and kissed me, and told me I was the best, most sweetest wonderful guy in the world.

Huh? I rubbed my eyes, looked at Elisa again, and those horns were now replaced with a halo and beautiful white wings like in those Victoria Secret's "Angels" commercials. Minus the sexy bras, that is. Estimated total time of the whole episode -- about 37 seconds. So that's what they mean by mood swings!

But I survived, and all I had to surrender was "Firefly"! Of course, had "24" or "The West Wing" been on, we'd be talking to our respective divorce lawyers promptly Monday morning.

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We went car shopping Saturday, and we looked hard at the Honda Accord. Elisa thinks it's "nice". Yeah, nice like "Touched by an Angel". I felt so "adult" driving that car. It may be a good family car, but it made me feel so old. It made me feel like I was driving one of my mother's cars (my dad was in a perpetual midlife crisis and drove Trans Ams and Mustangs). Nothing wrong with her cars -- really nice Toyotas and Acuras. But, those are "responsible adult" cars. I don't know if I'm quite ready to be there yet. Either that, or I'm too much like my father ("Why can't we get an Audi TT?")

We didn't buy a car.

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The pituitary gland is beginning to form, which, among other things, regulates sexual glands. The "olfactory gland" is beginning to form in the brain, which will allow the baby to smell. Color is starting to show in the baby's retina. In our case, the baby will have brown eyes unless the mailman is the father (and don't think I don't want a DNA test!). The windpipe and voicebox are both starting to form, and will one day, when the child is four, utter the words "fuck" or "shit". And I'll laugh, high-five the kid, and tell all my friends about it. I'll be a proud Papi that day!

The baby measures 8-11 mm, though considering the diminutive size of its parents, I'd bet on 6 1/2 mm. The intestines are beginning to work inside the umbilican chord -- they don't fit inside the baby just yet, ear buds are starting to appear, and the paddle-looking leg buds have now developed foot plates.

And, most excitingly, the baby is getting ready to choose a sex. It's a secret the baby will keep to himself (and the sonogram people) until the June birth.