One Tuesday morning, just a little under 10 years ago, my wife and I learned that she was pregnant. I didn't know what the fuck to do with this information. I couldn't process it. It didn't seem real. For a longer-than-probably-appropriate time, I convinced myself that it wasn't real, that the pregnancy test had somehow fucked up. I should've held my wife's hand through that moment of transition, supporting her and letting her know that everything was going to be OK. Instead, she pretty much did that for me. And then we both went off to work. It was, after all, a Tuesday morning, and you aren't supposed to tell anyone about pregnancies until they're a lot further along. On my way to work that morning, I robotically put Everything That Happens Will Happen Today, David Byrne and Brian Eno's collaborative album, on my iPod -- not for any real special reason, but because it had just come out and because I'd been listening to it a lot around then. And that, in a weird way, is when the entire seismic shift in my life became real.