So yes, Julie is carrying the second coming of our collective DNA. She is due at the end of January, which lines me up perfectly for a Groundhog Day vasectomy. I realize that with our beauty and intelligence, we owe it to humankind to pump out as many babies as possible, armies of babies, entire civilizations of babies, but I think two is a good number. We'll replace ourselves on Earth and never listen to the kids bicker over who has to sit in the middle seat.
Julie is just past 10 weeks along and didn't want to announce it too early. Trouble is, as you saw in yesterday's photo, her stomach started blabbing it to the world weeks ago. With your second pregnancy, you pop out faster because everything has already been stretched once before. "Do I look fat, or do I look pregnant?" she likes to ask me.
"Yes," I like to reply and then run away.
I don't care if it's a boy or girl. Well, I take that back: I'd prefer one or the other. The problem with a boy is that one day he will be manlier than me, probably around his 12th birthday. What do I do then? Buy a pickup? And the problem with a girl is that with Julie, Lyla, Daisy, and Tulip already under one roof, another girl would erase any chance that I'd ever get my way about anything. At least if I had a son, we could commiserate.
When we told Lyla about the baby in Mama's belly, she accepted it without question or comment. Clearly she doesn't comprehend that she's getting a new brother or sister and that she'll soon have to share her spot on the center stage of our lives. All she knows is that Mama ate a baby, and that doesn't seem to bother her one bit. If that's not unconditional love, then I don't know what is.
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