Many people are naming their babies Henry. Sharma, Sarah, and Abbie all named their babies Henry. At Katie's motherhood celebration last night: a baby Henry. Today at Baby talk: a baby Henry. By the time you are grown you will have to date only men named Henry. And we will have to call them all Henry because Hank sounds like the name of a man who tucks a blue kerchief into his breast pocket and has black specks beneath his fingernails. Don't say I didn't warn you.
It was a busy weekend. We ate buttered bread and salami at the Cassons, hennaed Katie's belly into a radiating flower, wet our pant cuffs on a walk through the natural lands, and finally achieved a few moments of intimacy in the bedroom. You interrupted the intimacy halfway through, of course, and so we turned on the television to try to calm your sputtering fuss sounds. The only channels that did any good were two cable access stations, one broadcasting the Bethel church service we missed last Sunday and the other broadcasting octogenarians square dancing. Your father thought one of the square dancing women was dressed as a pumpkin for Halloween but on closer examination we found she was just fat. Before you were born there were spontaneous moments of grasping on the couch, there were foreign films we watched curled naked together in bed, there were fantasies about buxom brunettes and fitting room threesomes whispered into one another's ears in throaty voices. Now the sex happens in the midst of communion, square dancing, and baby sobs. And in the midst of our laughter. And I thank God for that.
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