Poetry

One of the ironies of pregnancy is that you can't say to your wife what you will later say over and over to your toddler: "You're getting so big!" I suppose that example of irony implies that there are similarities between a pregnant woman and a toddler, but I would never say that. I like life too much.

At the same time, Julie is getting bigger. Like, whoa bigger. I join her sometimes in her super-closet when she requests feedback on an outfit. All joking aside, and speaking not as a husband but through the lens of an objective, shallow, superficial evaluator of physical beauty, she always looks spectacular. I am eternally thankful for this because it means I do not have to lie.

It also means I can in good conscience lampoon her occasional insecurity, like when she looked in the mirror, stunningly beautiful, and said "I am a big, unwieldy creature." My God. Talk about irony! When daily mutterings step aside to make way for poetry like that, you must celebrate the cause.

Then, as she rested her hands on the ledge of her belly, I asked "What are you going to rest your hands on once you have the baby?"

"My hips, which I used to have."

Poetry. Toddlers and pregnant ladies: they say the damnedest things.