POP! Goes the Fetus?

What up, !@#^& Buddy! Didn’t enjoy the big game?

So. Picture this. After the Superbowl. Feet up on the coffee table. Laptop in lap, as it is so aptly (laptly?) named. Stomach full of junk food. Dog lightly snoring. Cat sneering because he’s part demon and it’s past his feeding time. O’Douls bottle empty.

And my stomach pops. F^&#ing POPS. Stomachs shouldn’t do that. Is it gas? Gross.



My eyes surely bugged out like Large Marge.

I move the laptop, put a hand on the relative location of the pops and wait.


Ho. Lee. Crap.

I have been comparing it to someone popping a can of dough in me. You know, the cans where you peel back the paper and sort of hold your breath because you never know when it’s going to pop open? The ones that sometimes get stuck and you have to whack them against the counter? Yeah, it felt like that. But without the whacking. And inside of my body. And I’ve been craving Orange Rolls ever since. He’s like the Pillsbury Doughfetus.

Curses. Curses galore. Expletives of excitement, obviously.

Earlier in the day I had had what I called my first “Moment”. Capital M necessary. When I took the pictures of the little name tag and outfit, I was in what is now essentially the nursery. I snapped the pictures, looked at the outfit, laid down on the floor in the swath of sunlight and verbally said “Hi” to my little buddy. Picturing him in the little sweater vest seemed to make it a little more real. I even called him little buddy. And just laid, still, for awhile. Thinking. Wondering. It was a Moment.

Fast forward to several hours later and the little procrastinator finally decided to say “Hi” back. I guess he takes after me after all. Procrastinators forever!

Now, about those Orange Rolls…