When she walked away I got that sense of creeping dread -- not that our secret was unraveling, but rather the notion that she thought I was an idiot. "Poor, simple Jeff," she was probably telling her maid of honor. "His wife goes in the bathroom to puke her guts out and he still doesn't get it."
According to one of Sarah's pregnancy books, Babu is currently hopping around in the womb like a Mexican jumping bean. Which means that the kid is already a better dancer than either of his/her parents.
The onslaught kept coming, and little by little, my things were forced elsewhere; eventually, the amount of space allocated to Man Stuff had shrunk to roughly a square inch. Last week, I gave up. The top of the stereo has now morphed into an unofficial "baby bookshelf."
If it's summer and your wife is pregnant, don't take her to New York. I love the city as much as the next guy, but walking the streets this weekend on our quick jaunt into town to visit friends, all we could smell was battling ethnic odors.
So on Thursday, I made Sarah a cake, put 30 candles on it, and sang to her in our kitchen. I'm the first to admit that it was a lousy cake, lumpy and too sweet. I think I forgot the baking soda. Sarah loved it.
Before I could protest, she slipped the instrument into Sarah's crotch and it disappeared. I winced, bracing for a blood-curdling scream from Sarah. Nothing. She didn't even look mildly inconvenienced.
"I'm sorry for being a butthead last night," she said. "I'm sorry for reacting the way I did." We kissed again and that was that. It was a weird feeling, partially because it was our first argument in years in which she had been the irrational one and admitted as much.