Or so the Internet says....
Michael disputes the Internet every time they try to tell us what our baby is doing.
'Pshaw,' he scoffs. 'That might be the size of a normal baby at twelve weeks.... I bet ours is the size of a grapefruit by now.'
This week, our baby develops reflexes... and can open and close its wee little hands. According to the Internet.
'That's what a normal baby is doing. Our baby had reflexes last week.'
And so it's been since we got the news that we were expecting.... He may possibly have some rather grandiose ideas about this baby.
Let's just start with Michael's list of baby names, just for fun.
Or preferably, a combination of the two... Conan Thor.
How about Hercules?
Khal Drogo. That's a good one.
Or maybe Maximus.
Is anyone seeing a pattern here?!
The most normal name he's come up with so far is Atticus, from a book of baby names from literature that we spotted at Barnes and Noble. I actually wasn't too opposed to that name.
You know, in light of the others, and besides, I always loved that book. But he marked that one off the list after five seconds because Atticus wasn't much of a warrior, in spite of that whole 'one shot Atticus' thing.
Just for fun, I suggested that we *might* want to come up with a girl name, you know, just in case. He scoffed. I pressed.
'Catalina,' he spat with a roll of his eyes, 'but it's NOT A GIRL.'
So. Yes. The lovely Catalina, if it's a girl..... bless her heart.
The grandiose ideas go way beyond baby names.
I've actually heard these words come out of my mouth: "You know this baby is going to be the size of a sack of flour. It will be a long time before he can play with a sword."
I'm more than a little frightened.
Just this morning, in an email regarding the cutting of the umbilical cord in the delivery room, his response was,
Ok. Do you have to use the blade the doctor gives you, or can you bring your own? :)I answered that they'll probably just want him to use a boring pair of surgical scissors, but he should definitely be prepared with his own machete or something.
He liked that.
I've decided my role as Michael's wife is to smile and nod and agree and tell him his ideas are wonderful because he's brilliant. Because he is.
Submit and obey. Or at least give the appearance of it.
But then sign the birth certificate when he's out of the room.
And don't worry; I'm already hatching a scheme to get him out of the room: I'll tell him his boy can't thrive on milk; he needs freshly butchered wild game, and we just can't get that from the hospital cafeteria, you know?
Or maybe I'll need to send Michael to fetch a loin cloth made from animal skins.
I have 28 weeks to figure it out.