I looked at Brendon quizzically as I started out on my walk. The question on the tip of my tongue is so annoying when you’re playing the waiting game. “Jennifer had the baby,” he beat me to the punch. My eyes asked more questions. “He was born on Thanksgiving. 7 pounds 8oz.” So many more questions. How I hate talking to men about babies and birth. You don’t want to go into labor length and pain. It’s uncomfortable to talk about details like transition and crowning. “What’s the baby’s name?” I could ask that. “Henry James,” he told me. “You’re next. When’s your baby coming?” “In March,” I began. “I have a long time. . .” He looked shocked that someone could have such a big belly and yet so much time to go. After a pause, he said, “Walter’s birthday is March 5th. He’ll be three.” It took a minute for that to register. Then I told him the due date, and how Xay will be 13 around then.

I kicked myself for not having started their booties over the weekend, like something had told me to. I told him that I would be over the next week or the week after to see Jennifer. I wanted to give her space. I wanted to give myself the time to make a pair of blue booties. Before leaving to go on my walk, I told Brendon that the baby next door to me, Lincoln was born on Thanksgiving as well. Or rather, the date of Thanksgiving this year was the day he was born last year. Small world.