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There's a Rockette In My Pants

There's a Rockette in my pants, and she's trying to get out. Or a mini Mia Hamm. Having your ass kicked by a six-month-old fetus is enough to give you shivers about the teen years. What sort of spawn am I brewing, here?

Being way more sci-fi freak than earth mama, I rather expected the whole innards-sharing-space-with-a-parasite thing to be more Alien than "Awwww!" But the truth is, it's pretty cool.

The Varmint, for his part, is fascinated. (And maybe a wee bit jealous - he said to me the other day, the envy unmistakable in his voice, "You get to feel her all the time." True, I replied. "But," I reminded him, "there's also that pesky labor part." He perked up a little after that.) He's so fascinated, in fact, that nowadays, instead of watching TV guy-style -with the remote in one hand and his other hand down his pants - he's watching TV with the remote in one hand and his other hand down MY pants, patiently waiting for the baby to kick.

So far, she's thumped him good a few times. Each time you can see his surprise, his eyes get wide, he busts into a grin and then the pride swells across his face: "That's my girl!"

I love his reactions. I always feel like saying, "Yep. There REALLY IS a kid in there, dude. I'm not just drinking beer when you're not looking."

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I am a writer and lazy artist who loves travel, architecture and design. Right now, I'm into photography. My fabulous husband (a.k.a. The Varmint) and I are also the principals of a San Diego-based creative agency - and new parents to the divine Baby Mak. Read More >