El Gran Feto

Once upon a time I used to speak Spanish. Seven years in school, thanks. Yeah, I'm impressive.

Then one day I married me a returned missionary of the Chilean persuasion and suddenly I was a hack. I would try to converse con mi amor but all of my words would come out jumpy, my conjugations all wrong, causing my Holbsgringo to look at me askance and sometimes even wince at the way I would butcher his glorious missionary language.

Okay, so I couldn't speak it very well. But, at least I could understand! 

"Speak to me in Spanish!" I'd ask, and then he'd rattle off some mumbo jumbo really fast and once I uncrossed my eyes I'd have to ask, "Mas demasiado, por favor?"

And then one day things degenerated to our current program, in which I ask "Te gustas?" as I display a lovely ensemble for church that I have put together out of the sparkles in my brain, and The Holbsenor replies somberly, "That is not what that means."

But lately I have been honing my skillz in another foreign language. A more better foreign language! That would be the foreign language of the Fetuses.

All day long I am receiving and interpreting messages that are sent to me from the great beyond of my belly button.  Just there behind the waist band of my jeans which only sort of fit, if you don't look too close.

My fetus sends me highly important and confidential transmissions on the daily. Things like:

Burrito!

and,

Nap!

and just once,

Dance party!

Just last night I discovered that the fetus really likes it when I sing early-90s era Whitney Houston.  I wanna feel the heat with somebody?

At yesterday's doctors appointment I found out I am carrying my fetus pretty low. The nurse went to find a heart beat and obviously picked the fattest part of me to start with, but, no baby! She listened, and furrowed her brow. "Hmmm."  Then she wiggled the doppler around some more, still nothing. Then she sighed. "Take off your pants."  I thought she'd never ask!

Finally, there it was, right on my pelvic bone, whumpa-whumpa-whumpa.  And I said out loud, "There he is!" And then I wondered, Was that significant?

As soon as she started counting beats it scooted to the left. Then to the right. She chased that sucker all over until finally cornering it near my left hip. "156! A perfectly respectable heartbeat," she announced, while I thought to myself, Will you look at the stubborn thing I am growing in there! It must be mine.


For the rest of the day I tuned my transmission to an outward signal.  Suddenly it felt like I might actually be growing a real live person in there or something, instead of a burrito like I sometimes fantasize.

"It's . . . a burrito!"

You know?

Fetus. I messaged.  Requesting gender information.

Nothing.  Except, cottage cheese and beets sounded really good all of the sudden.

Fetus, this is your mother speaking. Are you a girl? Or a boy? 

Apparently, just like with my other failed language attempts, I am solely a one-way communicator.  Reception only! No outgoing mail!

So if you happened to see me in the grocery store yesterday zoned out by the cottage cheese it is not because I was deeply pondering curd size, it is because I was attempting to contact The Great Fetus.

The Great Fetus that, as The Holbs pointed out yesterday, is "just about the size of a steak!"