Selective

Start at the top and progress slowly down and you think, "Normal, normal, HOLY EFFIN' MOSES, normal, normal..."

Julie is officially 33 weeks pregnant. According to her weekly email service that compares babies to fruit, our baby is now the size of a pineapple. The email also includes a cartoon of a baby upside-down in a womb, head resting on the cervix door. I'm thinking to myself, could you rest your head somewhere else? I don't want you to sneeze in utero and hit the open button.

Women tend to become very animated when they see Julie. They ooh and coo almost like Julie is the baby rather than the baby's walking house. They say things like, "Oh, aren't you just so thrilled? Eee!"

I find it difficult to believe that when they were 33 weeks preggers with their first kid, they were just like, so so so happyyy about it. They love their kids now, which explains their excitement for Julie, but there's a tendency to romanticize the memory of their own third trimesters.

I could be wrong; I'm just a guy. Perhaps walking among us unnoticed is a herd of third-trimester, barefoot, shining, tea-drinking, Zestfully clean Stepford pregnant women. But I doubt it. I think the human race continues to perpetuate itself because women's brains forget certain aspects of reproduction.

So when some enthusiastic formerly pregnant women want to know whether Julie is really really excited, she does not answer honestly with "I have no earthly clue how I'm feeling about it." Instead, looking every bit the beautiful shining pregnant goddess, she puts a smile on her face and says "Yes."