Feb
3
My mother made Julia a fancy play dress for Christmas. The kid wore it for most of January. One Tuesday night, she posed next to me in her fancy dress on the stepstool at the kitchen counter while I peeled potatoes for dinner.
“One day, Lucy will wear this dress,” she told me as she stared off and up to the right. “When I get too big for it,” she crossed her arms over her heart, “it will be Lucy’s,” she said smoothing out the skirt. “And when Lucy gets too big for it,” she jumped off the stepstool with a twist to make it twirl and poof out, “the new baby will wear it.”
“What new baby?”
“You know, the next baby you have.” She positioned herself in an arabesque.
“What makes you think we’re going to have another baby?”
She laughed like I was a fool. “Of course you’re going to have another baby.”
Little did I know, at that very moment, Grimmett 3.0 had already set up camp in my uterus and was busily constructing a neual tube.
A week later, I hopped in the van, clutching my chest and shivering. “MY GOODNESS! It’s cold! My milks feel like they’re going to explode right off my chest!” (Yeah, we them “milks.”)
“Maybe you have a baby in your belly,” Julia chimed from the backseat.
“Huh?” I looked at her like she was nuts.
“The last time you said, ‘My milks feel like they’re going to explode!’ Lucy was in your belly. She made you feel that way a lot. I remember.”
I stopped. I thought. She was right. I felt pregnant. I was probably pregnant. I looked at her again. She wasn’t nuts. She was scary psychic and probably reading my mind. I immediately called Dave and told him we made Julia too smart. I mean, what is it with that kid? Because she was right. Three pregnancy tests later, it was confirmed: I was knocked up. Again.
My parents did a happy dance. And I asked Julia for a string of numbers and then went to play the lottery.
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