Ever since we found out that Signe is female, I’ve had moments of sheer panic at the thought of raising a girl in our society. Knowing first hand how awful junior high and high school are for girls, not to mention the injustices faced in college and career, it’s difficult to wrap my brain around how I’m going to help her successfully navigate the world.

Friends and family remind me that, for better or worse, Signe’s upbringing will not be left entirely up to me. She will have other role models. She will be raised by one of the coolest guys in the world. She will be surrounded by amazing, successful, funny, insightful, smart, funny women. And, at some point, she will likely choose friends and boyfriends who will have more influence than I will.

Of course, that doesn’t stop me from worrying every time I read a story about how women still don’t get equal pay for the same work or teenage girls beating the shit out of each other because of some bitchy text messages or when I watch Rock of Love II. It’s terrifying.

But then I’ll read a story like this and I’ll think “Fuck it. Girls rule!”

According to this, Signe is a Signe (and not a Henry) because when she was conceived I was on Weight Watchers and didn’t eat bananas because they are two points and every other fruit is one point.

I kinda liked it better when I got to put the responsibility for determining the sex of our child on GTB.

Bananas. Who knew?

I’ve been feeling baby Signe kick for a few weeks now. Long enough that I’ve been able to learn her patterns. For instance, she seems to really like it when I work out and when I eat. And I could set my watch to her 2:00 p.m. dance routine.

This morning, I got up and went to the gym. Usually on those mornings, she is kicking me by the time I’m out of the shower. If I haven’t felt her by then, it’s a sure bet I’ll feel her moving around a few minutes after I get into the car. But not today. Today, she was quiet and still.

Until I got to the Terwilliger Curves about fifteen minutes into my commute. My NPR reception sometimes gets choppy there, as it did this morning. Adam Corolla was still at commercial, so I switched it over to Movin’ 107.5. Will Smith’s “Miami” was playing so I turned it up a bit (what can I say? it’s a catchy tune.) And wouldn’t you know it, that’s when my daughter decided to bust a move.

With the newfound knowledge that Signe now reacts to music, I expect GTB to begin a steady stream of Guided by Voices and My Morning Jacket pointed at my belly no later than, say, tonight.

A few months after my nephew Jack was born, my family and I went to San Diego for his baptism. During the time we were there, we did a few touristy things. We were walking around the Hotel del Coronado and environs one afternoon and I began to notice that anytime we crossed the street, my brother would put himself between traffic and the rest of us, especially Jack. I don’t think Joe even noticed he was doing it, but that fatherly protector instinct was in full force.

I remember thinking at the time, “The guy I end up with will be that protective and paternal. So sweet!”

Fast forward four and a half years later…

I am taking a trip to Seattle for work later this week and will be staying in a hotel room. Over the past few months, I’ve stayed with friends when I travel north, but they were all either out of town or otherwise occupied that night. So I had our executive assistant book me a room at the totally decent hotel right next to the Washington office. I’ve stayed there about a hundred times before; it’s safe, clean, and has a gym.

And GTB is PISSED about this. He doesn’t think it’s OK to be four-and-a-half-months pregnant and staying in a hotel room by myself. And he can’t understand why I don’t see this. I don’t understand the logic, but I do get that what is going on with him is that protector instinct coming into full swing.

And you’d think I’d be amused by it, or grateful for it, right?

Instead, I’m annoyed. What does he think I am, stupid? Am I just some dumb little girl? Am I going to forget to lock my door? Will I, in a state of pregnancy airheadedness, wander into the hallway naked and without my keys, thus attracting to the lusty attention of a fellow lodger who just happens to be a sexual predator? Trust me, that dude would take one look at my gut and run the other way.

So while I should be appreciating the paternal side emerging from my sweet little husband, what I’m really thinking is that I should be more careful about what I wish for.

Fruity Pebbles, not indulged (yet).

Yesterday, we had our mid-pregnancy ultrasound and were thrilled to learn we’re having a little girl. All seems healthy and well.

When we got home and looked at the photos the ultrasound technician printed out for us though, we were a little concerned at the resemblance our darling daughter has to a certain Home Star Runner character.

Eerie, isn’t it? Think she knows the words to Trogdor already?

I know we’re in the vast minority here, but I don’t watch American Idol. I have nothing against it, I just don’t find it compelling in any way.

But I might have to start paying attention soon because one of the apparent favorites is also a dead ringer for my husband. I’ve lost count of how many people have told one of us that David Cook looks just like GTB. I don’t see it, and, of course, neither does GTB. But there must be something in his manner because we hear it from everyone who watches.

I think the guy looks like a tool, and I think GTB is the furthest thing from toolish I’ve ever known, but there are allegedly lots of girls who think David is dreamy. So I guess I can take that to mean that I have good taste, yes?

My friend Biz sent me a link to the story about the fifth grader who found an error at the Smithsonian. I read it with mixed emotions. On one hand, I want to welcome the boy to the wonderful world of finding fault in everyone’s grammar. On the other, I wanted to smack him upside the head while telling him to go play outside, for crying out loud.

Regardless, it would be pretty cool to get a letter from the Smithsonian, thanking me for catching their goof up. I just hope it isn’t the highlight of this kid’s life.

Good & Plenty, indulged.

14

It would be more, but I’m “morally opposed to using children as weapons.” And I guess because my arms are short.

How’s your score?