It’s my birthday today. I’m 34—and did I mention, pregnant? Yesterday afternoon Dr. Fiancé and I went to South Beach’s lone bookstore and bought a copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting—the only pregnancy book they could fit in between photobiographies of Marilyn Monroe and coffee table food porn. Dr. Fiancé also picked up a copy of Pat the Bunny. The combination of the two purchases caused the uber-trim, black-clad, perfectly manicured salesman to give us withering look that sighed: breeders. Then he said it’s a good time to bring a kid into the world—which we assumed was sarcasm. “At least we have Obama,” I shrugged, wishing I were wearing the “Silence Equals Death” t-shirt I never got around to buying. The salesguy smiled and nodded and pointed out that by the time our kid is old enough for it to matter the economy will have improved and maybe the country will be a more progressive place than it’s been for the past eight years. “Congratulations,” he said as he handed us the bag—and he seemed to really mean it.
Today’s adventure was our first trip to Baby Gap (a set of stripey socks and two onesies) and then to Everglades National Park, where alligators lollygagged right next to the sidewalk—close enough to touch if common sense didn’t dictate otherwise.
Also I found out I’m already considered five weeks pregnant and that the little critter has a heart the size of a poppy seed. It’s a total cliché—but it does truly feel miraculous.