I get all proud of Cell Ball (aka Nubbin, aka the future human now gestating inside my wife, Sir Mixalot, who I also get all proud of) at every biological milestone — when Sir Mix’s body knew what to do with the sperm, when Cell Ball developed a heartbeat, when the neural tube closed, when the hand and foot buds turned into hands and feet instead of buds. Recently, Sir Mix told me Nubbin’s legs were now longer than its arms, and I was so delighted my palms got sweaty.
We’re at about 15 weeks. Last week, Nubbin was the size of a lemon. This week: navel orange. (We’ve been taking photos every couple of weeks of Sir Mix holding the relevant fruit/vegetable, which feels a little weird because afterwards we usually eat or cook with the relevant fruit/vegetable, but you know.) They grow fast, y’all.
Sir Mix and I are trying to keep up. Two weeks ago we moved into a new apartment. By NYC standards, and especially compared to our old place, it’s huge. HUGE. HUUUUUUUUGE. It’s in a less ‘happening’ part of Brooklyn, and there aren’t adorable tatooed baristas and cheesemongers and beer-brewers and bakers on every block, and even though I already miss some of those things a little, I also already love living here. We can see the sky and trees from our windows. We can hang out in separate rooms. Our landlords behave like real, reasonable people, and all our interactions with the downstairs neighbors so far have involved smiling and eye contact. Here’s what I see from the kitchen:
Here’s a view from the old kitchen:
So long, tiny apartment. Yes, I was ready to torch you by the end, but you know how that thing happens sometimes when something is ending where you realize that you will probably never do it again and sort of wish you had been a little less of a shit about it? Living in you was like that for me. (Except I never took for granted your vermilion walls, which were perfect.)
In a few days we’re going to find out Nubbin’s sex. I wouldn’t mind it being a delivery-room surprise, but I won’t mind knowing either. So far, both of us have been kinda sorta assuming it will be a boy. (This is a little embarrassing to admit, but for me, the sperm donor is the main reason. I imagine his biological child as male, because he is male. And yes, I understand how reproduction works, thanks.) Really, though, I’m pretty sure I’ll be surprised (also delighted, also sweaty-palmed) no matter what.