When last we left Daddy, he was swamped in womanosity. Luckily, he found just the right source of re-vamped testosterone (it's technically safe for work, but certain eyes may look at you askance).
On Monday morning Mama is a basketcase, as labor pains have kept her from sleeping for longer than five minutes at a time. She is further maddened when those same pains stay very intense when she lies down but space to more than 20 minutes apart when she sits up. This is progress?
Unable to lie flat, the mama-to-be resolves that night to sleep sitting up on the couch, her feet elevated by her birthing ball. Daddy, chivalrous to the end, crashes on the floor by her side.
Will Mama get enough sleep to stave off a psychotic episode? And will Daddy's 40-year-old back ever play the piano again?
