I’m sitting here in a maternity store, outside the fitting room, while Amy tries on clothes, periodically popping her head through the curtain to send me on a quest for a different size. There are pregnant women everywhere. The few men, like me, all seem to have the same helpless, bewildered look on their faces that says, “Help! What have I gotten myself into? I miss college.”
Amy has found the “perfect” Easter dress–pastel, with a bow around the top of her now-visibly-pregnant stomach. I tell her she looks like an Easter egg, to which she responds with a swift kick in my shin, before disappearing behind the curtain again. Silly me, I thought I was complimenting her.