The Big Show

Tyler has begun to "show" - a situation I relish because it leads directly to my next favorite stage of pregnancy: the "your body is communal property" stage.

Now that there is an obvious "bump" in her abdomen - the world at large is free to paw away at it. That's right, slide in for a belly grab anytime. It's perfectly ok; or at least - I assume it's ok because that's what everybody does. I plan to capitalize on that, myself, but pick your moment carefully. I wouldn't get between her and a gallon of ice cream right now for all the free bullets in the world. Someone at my house has been crushing gallons of neopolitan like she's mad at Haagen Daaz.

In other news: we are having a boy which, for some reason, the entire world fully expected. My good friend and brother-in-law, James Galloway said "Jimmy, you are one of these guys who sits around all day long creating Y chromosomes. I hate you and I hope you have 7 girls."

It was the nicest thing he ever said to me.

After spending the last few years alternately tormenting and fascinating my nieces and tiny cousinettes ("Snoruhh" "Stellaaaaaaa" "Stanley", "Smella" and "Tiny Furious Greer") I had grown quite used to the idea of having a tiny female person running around the house and, frankly, looked forward to it. I have one permanent woman underfoot already - might as well be two.

Imagine my surprise when Uncle John looked up from the ultrasound and said "Lookah there! It's a boy!" Sure enough, perfectly positioned and outlined against the amniotic sky was a big set of testicles. 

I suddenly felt ashamed of myself in a clinical setting; which is a new thing for me. Normally, a doctor's office is a place where I really shine - even naked, bleeding, or, for instance, upside-down. Good comedy abounds, particularly with nurses and technical assistants. 

I stood by, twisting in my LL Beans and twiddling with my pocketknife while Tyler and Uncle John continued to stare gaily into the ultrasound screen and wax philosophical about which part was what. "Ohhh look! There's his little dingly dangly!" 

Eggggghhhh.

My discomfort quickly turned to waves of shame washing over me; we had invaded the sanctity of the womb with our mysterious technological camera and spied on a naked infant under the guise of "Medicine".

I hadn't felt that embarrassed in front of myself since Mom, circa 1993, began strictly enforcing phone curfew by picking up the downstairs line and trilling "Jimmmyyyyyyy! Put on your feet-ey pajamas! It's time for milk and cookies!" into the handset - much to the amusement of whatever young lady I was talking to.  

The kid is not even real yet and we have already invaded his privacy.