Last night I had a dream that I went to a yoga retreat on a tropical island. And you were there, and you were there, and you were there. We were checking in for the meditation competition and warming up, like you do. We were catching up and laughing, drinking pre-game cocktails, and waiting for our spouses and boyfriends and girlfriends and partners to get past TSA so we could all enhance our calm together. At the competitive level.
We couldn’t see what happened from our lanai, but we could see the water rising and the people running. We were all safe, those of us who had already checked into the meditation competition.
The recovery effort was grim. Four-hundred local children had been swept into the river, plus many of our friends we had hoped to meet after the meditation competition. The recovery effort focused on the children. We hoped that our missing friends had found shelter. Brenna was caught in the deluge. But rescuers were still able to resuscitate some of the children. They aren’t healthy after recovery. They can’t eat or drink. We can tell the babies are dehydrated because their diapers are dry. They seem like the only try thing in the city. There will be a second wave of tragedy when the starvation sets in, unless we can figure out a treatment for the bacteria they picked up in the river. I offered to take up praying again, but the baby’s dad said it wouldn’t help.
We’re walking the walls around the river, looking for friends in the alcoves and children floating in the water. We’re safe, but we the guilt was consuming us. We couldn’t stop writing 8,000-word think pieces about what we saw.
Anyway, Happy Inauguration!
My terrifying fetus pal wants to eat your soul.
Earlier this week we did our 20-week ultrasound. Remember when I did the 12-ish week ultrasound and the Fetus Pal looked like the Mars Attacks! alien? Well, that’s still happening, but slightly more terrifying.
It took for fucking ever to get this adorable soul-eating zombie pic, and we had to use our good friend the transvaginal ultrasound once again (in spite of promises made at the last visit that they would be able to see everything they needed over the belly from now on). The Fetus Pal now has a long history of being stubborn during ultrasounds. The last time we saw hours of fetus ass while we were trying to get nasal bone measurements. This time we couldn’t see much of the head because the legs were up in the air in what I believe is generally referred to as the halasana, or plow pose, giving us a fabulous view of scrotum for miles.
So, it turns out it’s a boy. The ultrasound tech printed out a picture of fetus penis and handed it to Andy to show the grandparents. She said with a thick (let’s say) Ukrainian accent, “Here is baby penis. Is 100% boy. You show picture to your mother and tell her ‘grandson.'” So that’s how it came to pass that Andy was walking around town with baby dick-pic on his person for the rest of the day. The tech went on to say, “I need measurement of face. Let’s see if I go over here and– No, is just more scrotum. I’m going to try like this and– No, just scrotum but from different angle this time.” It went on like that for about an hour and a half. It was super comfortable and sexy and not at all awkward, just like all transvaginal ultrasounds.
We were planning on keeping the baby’s sex a secret until it was born, but both of our moms were so sure that we were having a girl (because of something something psychic powers and the spirit world) that I was having a hard time keeping the news in. Also, if we didn’t let our moms know it was a boy soon, they would continue to set aside items for their inevitable granddaughter. The winner so far has been this lacy, leopard-print diaper cover. We’ve also received a pink, flowered beanie, and I just learned that a pink vintage doll was in the process of being lovingly restored. Now we can switch to the time-honored football/gun/grizzly bear/motorcycle motif that goes with having a grandson.
For Sexy Babies