BABY ANTI-MUSE

So, I've told everyone I need to tell in person and over the phone.

This is why I've had no energy the past three months, no poems.

Friday night, in the din of the Cheesecake Factory, in the glare of the over-the-top decorating (what would you call it Bizantine, Big Top meets Egytptian, gauche?) we tell my parents and two kids we are having another baby. They open their mouths, dark Os around the table. My daughter says, "You're kidding, stop joking," over and over until she is finally convinced of our seriousness. Then, she cries.

Later, we show her ghost-like pictures of the grain of rice, and she says, "Ok, NOW I believe you." She is excited now, wants to shop for onsies and pacifiers, and asks question after question. She is needy: needs assurances that she will still fit on my lap when my tummy gets real big, that she will still be loved.

My son, on the other hand, has been happy about the news all along. He is the one, after all, who wants a baby brother for Christmas named "Thunder Storm." He will have to wait until April, and we'll see about the name.