"She's moving around a lot," he tells me. "I don't know if I'm going to be able to get this. ... Did you feel that?"
I shake my head. Not this time.
I feel her often, though, and not at all predictably. She had, unfortunately, ants in her pants during a big country concert last week, but totally redeemed herself when she also boogied to the sounds of "The Hobbit." I take this to mean that, in utero, she's already more open-minded and well-rounded than most human beings.
He tells me he's going to have to get her heartbeat off the umbilical cord. She's just moving too much.
"She's wild," he says.
And I beam. She's wild. The Powerful Baby Girl is wild. I picture mud-caked hands, hair like weeds and a wicked grin as she constantly asks, fiercely, "But, why?"
Of course I assume this all means something. That her ear buds will leak the sounds of contemporary country. That she will like tales of fantasy with inhuman heros who travel by hairy feet. That she will boot the ball further than anyone on the soccer team, including the coach. I have to latch on to these somethings since I don't know anything beyond the a painting-like image that is a rough approximation, from an ultrasound, of her face. And, of course, what I've gleaned from Chuck's very confusing speech about dominant and recessive genes.
This beaming is dangerous. I mean, he's not complimented her, he's just stated a fact: Your baby moves around so much that I am inclined to use the word "wild" to describe her. If you want to get real specific about it, when I was a kid "wild" was a teen in dirty denim smoking cigarettes behind the Jiffy Mart. This beaming shows I'm already blind.
This beam, I'm afraid, is an "Our unborn baby is on the wild honor roll" bumper sticker on the back of our responsible car.