Sunday mornings are very ritualistic in our home; the waking-up part goes the same way every week. On Sunday mornings, Pär sleeps late. I woke up today around 7:30 as usual, and quietly murmured to him a magical phrase I have repeated hundreds of times by now:

"You can spread out and enjoy the biiig bed."

As always, he made happy sleepy noises, rolled to the center of the bed, and stretched his long legs across our queen-sized futon. I came in to my office-née-closet and went through email, read websites, checked on what's new in the world.

At around 10:00 I returned to our warm bed and snuggled up against Pär, spooning him so that my stomach was pressed against his lower back. This position allows him to feel the baby kicking, which always makes him laugh.

"You demo the Tot," he mumbled, half-awake.

"I demonstrate Tot's special talents and abilities: moving."

"Tot is very good at moving."

"Tot can kick, and roll over, and flutter..."

"And squirm."

"Tot does a good squirm. Clever Tot."

"Yes," he said sleepily, "it must take about three brain cells to squirm."

"Oh, Tot's got much more than that."

"Probably. Tot probably has three tablespoons of brain."

"Hm. More than that by now, I hope."

"Yes. Tot has more like... a pint?... of brain."

I thought about this. "How big is a pint? Like a pint of ice cream? That's a lot."

"It would give Tot a brain like a grapefruit."

Terror struck. "No way. I can't fit a grapefruit through me!" Terror struck again. "But I'm going to have to! The shoulders will definitely be wider than a grapefruit. Oh my god!"

Pär stroked my legs reassuringly. "Don't worry," he said, and I could hear him grinning. "Our baby will probably be only about eleven pounds."

"Aaaugh! You goddamn monstrously huge Swede! Maybe I can induce labor right now and have Tot while it's still small!" I started making my body vibrate back and forth rapidly on the bed. "Quick, spank me, that will help shake the Tot out."

Pär gleefully turned around and obliged. Spank. Spank.

"Oh no, it's just pushing the baby up in the wrong direction!" I yelped. "Try bopping me on the head, see if that works."

Pär patted my head, hard. "Come on, Tot, out you go!"

"Ow."

He tried it again.

"Ow! Okay, that's not helping at all."

"Maybe if I squeezed you real tightly around the waist..." he suggested.

"Ack, no, don't do that; I'm pregnant!"