I brought my four-year-old daughter, Evening, along with me to the baby doctor the other day. We were prepared: a new coloring book, crayons, and a fully charged tablet. When we walked in the door, a dozen or so pregnant ladies looked up at me. We were in for a long wait.
The only available seat was next to a single toy, one of those wooden wire ones that either fascinate or bore, depending on the day. I sat down while Evening settled in to play with it for a good half hour while we waited, and then she started getting antsy. At this point, I had already counted my blessings, because a half hour wait in preschooler time is at least four hours adult time.
She climbed up into my lap for a bit, snuggling in. When she grew tired of that I offered her a coloring book. Evening shook her head. “No, I think it’s time to play with my little sister,” she told me, and rested her head against my seven-months pregnant belly. She rubbed it with one hand and started singing.
I let her go, knowing that even if the ladies in the waiting room didn’t like her off-key little girl voice, they’d probably prefer it to the inevitable screams of me trying to stop her. She really got into it, singing for a full five minutes or so, making it up as she went along, and featuring such classic lines as “I wish you would hurry up and come out so we can go for a bus ride together” and “I love you so much.”
When she finished up, I gave her a smile, mustered up my brave, and looked up at the lady across from me. Her eyes were all teared up, her hand rubbing her own belly. I looked around, and sure enough, each and every pregnant lady in that room was bawling.
I haven’t decided yet if it was just pregnant lady hormones or if my little girl just has an uncanny ability to work a room.