So my brother calls me yesterday and leaves me a message because, like, I'm never home. He says something to the effect of:
"Hi guys! I have some really good news, but I don't want to leave it on a recording, I want to actually tell you. But it's um, really good news. So call me."
Now, I'm no Nero Wolfe (not even his dapper sidekick, Archie, more's the pity), but even I could piece together a theory as to what this great good gob of news is.
Sounds like a few cells have split and split and then split again in a fledgling effort to build a person inside of my brother's wife. And they are ecstatic, because they have been trying. And not just trying like in trying my patience, which they do. No, they have been trying in the sense that once a month they go to a doctor in Boston and my brother does naughty things in the men's room and then they do something creative with it that I'd rather not go into.
Because, you know: my brother. Ewwwwwww.
But it seems to have planted its little fetal flag in my sister-in-law's uterus, which is great.
Really takes the heat off of me for perpetuating the ol' family name, if ya know what I mean. Which I wouldn't anyway, because we were all wacky and took an entirely different name when we got married, which is a whole nother story.
Not that I've ruled out kids, but I don't particularly feel the urge right now, and I have this quirky little conviction that having a kid should be something that you do on more than a whim and a general baseline of benevolent ambivalence.
I'm funny that way.
And anyway, my work kind of fulfills my kid jones. I can take a hit at work and then go home and enjoy the sounds of silence. Or the sounds of P-Funk, if I so desire. And I often, often do.
So hooray for the proto-kid! I'm your biggest fan! Just remember, round these parts, we say "Ont" Rockgrrrl, not "Ant" Rockgrrrl. I will not answer to an honorific that I share with a bug.
I hope it's a grrrl.