Kick me

I know pregnant women sometimes complain that people feel compelled to just walk up and touch their stomachs. It's as if growing a kid in there suddenly makes that part of their body accessible to the public, like interactive art or the railing of an escalator.

My wife isn't far enough along to show, but this summer when she takes the light-rail to work, I'm sure she'll come home with stories of little grannies (or worse) who decided they wanted to feel the fetus kick.

If I'm ever present when it happens, they might subsequently feel my kick.

But what I get to deal with are stories at work from formerly pregnant women. Maybe it's the sign I wear around my neck that says, "Talk about your labor while I'm eating lunch. Make it as grody as possible."

It's like suddenly I'm showing.