thisisnotapril

I think when most women find out a close friend is pregnant they start planning the baby showers and the shopping trips… hoping for a little girl to doll up in frilly dresses or a little boy cause it’ll be easier. You might have noticed that I’m a little on the atypical side when it comes to most things. Lucy’s pregnancy would be no exception. I immediately wanted a boy. Because a boy could – no, would – become the greatest pitcher the National League had ever known. When Baby is spoken of he is always referred to as a male, pitching for the Diamondbacks (his mother’s favorite team), wildly successful, and has been given a name that combines mine and Wendy’s last names – it’s a perfect pitcher’s name, but sadly his father hates it.

Like most moms, Lucy has worries for Baby, and I’ve done my best to put them to rest… while simultaneously playing the role of stage-mother Aunt setting up a career path for a child not yet even born. But to be fair, the kid freakin owes me. One particularly stressful day I didn’t even get halfway through my typical morning smoothie that serves as breakfast and lunch, so Lucy offered me a bag of Doritos from her desk. [Pregnant women always have the best snacks.] Called away from my desk yet again, I returned a half hour later to find the half-eaten bag missing from my desk. The answer? “Baby made me do it.” “You tell Baby those season tickets just got upgraded to behind home plate.”

Mind you, I’m assuming Baby is a boy, as if my assumptions and will can somehow change chromosomal fate. Coworkers bring in their babies and enjoy the taunt of old wives tales. Brittani brings in her baby boy and as Lucy holds him Amy tells us all that clearly she’s having a girl since the baby isn’t crying. Well. I can fix this! “Brittani, make him cry. Brittani, make him cry. Brittani. Brittani. WHO DO I HAVE TO FIRE TO MAKE THIS CHILD CRY?” Eventually, through no actions of my own (seriously, I wasn’t around at the time; I heard about it later; I’m not that crazy) the baby cries in Lucy’s arms. When I hear of it, I’m relieved. Not that I believe in those kinds of things; but it’s nice to have the reassurance.

Baby is lucky in that he (or she) has got himself one hell of a mom and has three awesomely cool yet crazy ass aunts waiting for him. At lunch one day we were discussing how even when Baby is 18 and graduating high school, we’ll still be calling him that, hooping and hollering as he walks across the stage. There’ll be Aunt Denise, who’ll always have the car gassed and ready for a trip to a Mexican pharmacy; Aunt Wendy with the flask in the purse; and then Aunt April. “Wait, which one am I going to be? She gets the pharm, she gets the flask, what does that leave?” “Oooh, right… I’ll be the one taking him to every ballpark across the country and negotiating his contracts. Nevermind!” Baby’s coming in to a lot of love and a whole lot of fun.

And today we find out if Baby is indeed the hottest future prospect of the National League or if I’ll be spending the next few years enforcing my strict “No Pink Jerseys” policy [Which the MLB is gonna make really hard for me, but at least Alyssa Milano's got my back.] I’ve got my fingers crossed. It’s obvious I’ve got a preference. But I’ll love Baby either way. Worst case, this world could use another woman who can tap a keg and run a fantasy baseball league… and I think I know one who could teach her.