wasn't that starring a young gerard depardieu?

why, you're wondering, does mr. nice guy feel compelled to keep this little diary? because, dear precious reader, this is the furtive ear into which i whisper my deepest, dankest secrets. you see, conventional wisdom has it that one ought not divulge one's pregnancy before the first trimester is over, otherwise, ninja fairies will spirit your unborn guppy right out of the expectant mother's womb. never tell anyone you're pregnant unless you have written confirmation from zeus himself that your child will be born with 10 fingers and toes (not cumulatively, of course). that confirmation usually comes, via USPS, on week 13.

anyway. you know how hard it is to keep a secret for three months, right? now. compound that with a secret of this magnitude. for example, this exchange risks inviting an awkward element into your relations:

dude: what did you do this weekend, mr. nice guy?
mr. nice guy: oh, not much, dude. watched the 400 blows on dvd. good flick. (by the way I AM A FERTILE GODMAN THAT HAS BROUGHT NEW LIFE UPON THIS TINY PLANET. YOU WILL SING MY PRAISES.)
dude: isn't that truffaut? i can't really get into that new wave crap.

it's kind of hard to go about your daily routine when none of your friends know your dutiful wife is harboring a budding life-flower, sprung from your fertile seed, sewn at the culmination of a sweaty passiondance. and yet, one must go on. surely, the first of several burdens of fatherhood. i am guessing that, in all, there are maybe 17 burdens of fatherhood. twenty-three, max.

anyway. 400 blows. there's a movie that will make you question your will to be a parent ... in paris. in the late 1950s.