Pop goes the belly

Just this morning, your mother asked me if she looked too thin. Which she didn't.

Let me hasten to add that she didn't look fat, either. She looked normal. Normal for her, which is a little bit softer than she looked before she got pregnant.

It's Saturday, so we decided to take a day off from house stuff. We drove out to Astoria to surprise Kitty and Paul.

The trip wasn't exactly well-thought out. We forgot to bring their address or phone number with us and we'd only been there once about five years ago.

Somehow we managed to find the house, by combining her memory of the place with my incomplete memory of the address. But when we knocked there was no answer. The house is up for sale, so I called the number of the real estate agent, who was extremely accommodating, especially considering that a complete stranger called her on a Saturday and asked for the phone number of her clients. Still, before she could dig through six months of e-mails to find Kitty's number, Paul came to the door. He'd been watching football and Kitty had been sleeping.

And they were completely gracious. As always.

We ended up imposing ourselves into their dinner plans--they were having dinner with their friend Helen who was in from Seattle--and then Kitty gave us one of her voodoo dolls. It's up in your room, I'm sure, because it's meant to protect you.

On the way home, your mom complained that her stomach hurt. And once we got in, she took a look. Dum da da dum! A belly.

Not the kind of belly that there's no mistaking she's pregnant, but a lot more than she had this morning. A lot.

Maybe it's gas.

Maybe it's the voodoo doll.

Maybe it's just time for you to make an appearance.