Where is the Baby?

When I was barely four weeks pregnant with this baby, I hadn't yet tried to explain the situation to Josh. I figured he would understand as he got a few months older and as my tummy started to grow. I picked him up to get him ready for church that Sunday back in July and he grabbed my shirt to steady himself like he usually does. But in the time it took to walk from the living room to his bedroom (about six steps), his hand cleverly found one of my growing ninnies* and started feeling around a little bit. After a few friendly pats, he came to this conclusion: "Mommy have a baby! Mommy have a baby in your tummy!"

And then, suddenly realizing there were two lumps, he quickly modified his prediction to two babies.

*Note: Matt doesn't think everyone will know what I mean by "ninnies". It's the less embarrassing word my family used for boobies when we were little. See -- it was embarrassing for me to use it just then. Thanks a lot, Matt.

What the heck?! Can you imagine my anxiety when my two-year-old tells me I'm going to have two babies?! Before I had even told him I was pregnant??! Until my eleven week ultrasound, I was convinced we were having twins. I had a lot of pep talks with myself to gear up for that doctor visit, just in case someone with a badge would confirm my suspicions.

Because on one hand, it would be crazy to find out that my husband and I would soon be outnumbered by children. And to think about the unbearable stench of that many poopy diapers in one tiny apartment. And to imagine my poor, aching body attempting to nurse two infants at once. The horror!!! BUT, I have to admit that when I was feeling lower than low with first trimester sickness, the idea of busting out two babies at once and avoiding another pregnancy altogether was pretty darn attractive. So eventually, I talked myself into believing that I truly wanted twins, and that my toddler must have had some deeply spiritual insight when he declared that there would be two babies.

Wrong-o. Thank Goodness.

(By the way, if we did have twins, they would be girls and they would be named Mary-Kate and Ashley. And they would make us billions of dollars before their eighteenth birthday. Minus all the eating disorders, drugs, and negative publicity. Yes, Matt is totally on board with this.)

Anyway, back to the point. Since that little declaration, I have asked Josh many times where Mommy's baby is. And each time, he points too far north of my belly, reminding me that there are indeed two. More recently, he has started to agree that there is just one baby, but it still isn't quite in the right place. And still, even though I feel like I ask him about the baby constantly, he seems to forget about it when we're playing or wrestling. At least five times a day, I have to say something like, "No no, we don't kick the baby." Or "Josh, we don't body-slam Mommy's because it hurts the baby. Kiss it better please." The little twit.

This morning, I was chasing the little rugrat and pretending to be a ferocious dragon. (He was wearing only socks and a diaper -- can you blame me for wanting to chew on his soft little peach fuzz belly?) He runs full speed ahead of me and crashes into the couch, climbing up and backing into the cushions as if that will somehow protect him from a fire-breathing, sharp-toothed dragon. (Psh...yeah right. I totally had him.) So as I stalk across the room on my hands and knees, snarling fiercely, readying myself for a dramatic pounce, Josh's hands suddenly fly protectively to his chest, his face taking an expression of mock terror as he desperately exclaims, "Noooo!!! Don't get my baby!!! Don't hurt my babyyyyy!!!" Hands right over his tiny bare little nips, too. What a ham!

After some shocked looks back and forth with my husband, a good belly laugh, and after having Josh repeat himself a few times to be sure he said "babies" instead of "boobies", we tried unsuccessfully to convince him that boys don't ever have babies in their bellies. And once again, we tried unsuccessfully to explain where exactly a baby is baked.

I guess I can't blame him for wanting to be just like me, though. We spend a lot of time together, and he has already taken my lead when it comes to cooking, wearing high heels and necklaces, and combing his hair in front of the mirror. Why shouldn't he think he can have a baby too? Good thing we make up for the girly stuff with extra rough wrestling and dragon attacks.

Someday soon I'll be big enough to teach him where the baby really is, but that day was not today. Any suggestions would be appreciated.