I’ve recently taken a break from my iPod’s usual Kanye/Katy Perry/Rihanna/Cold Play/Young MC (Shut up! I love me some “Bust a Move”) rotation to listen to something a little more, shall we say, New Age:
That would be my prenatal heart listener. My prenatal heart listener with which I am OBSESSED, to be frank.
Oh sure, those noises I hear could be just my tummy requesting its fourth bowl of Frosted Flakes of the day or my ass shifting uncomfortably in my ever-tightening jeans. However, in MY deluded mind, those thump, thump thumps are CLEARLY my baby’s kicks of joy — her way of letting me know she’s in there working on a new constructivist approach to the Pythagorean theorem, if you will.
As I was lying on the couch listening to my little mathematician the other night, my husband stared at my huge, exposed belly with the monitor strapped to it so tightly, that it caused little pockets of flab to floweth over.
“You know what we should do?” he exclaimed excitedly. “We should have everyone listen to your belly at the baby shower! You can just lay on the couch like that, and people can line up to hear the baby!”
I mulled over this idea and responded as any sane pregnant lady would.
“ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FUCKING MIND?!” I cried, looking at Mr. Candy as though he’d just suggested naming our baby Lucifer.
Ha! You see, that was a trick set-up. There is no such thing as a sane pregnant lady.