That’s not the sound of an excited dog’s tail, nor is it the restless taboo of my foot as I wait for the local drivers to figure out and work their way through a roundabout (on the other hand, that’s also kind of funny). No, that excited pitter-patter is what I heard a couple of days ago after the Insta-Princess’s doctor lubed her belly and had us listen to the fetal doppler (as opposed to a fatal doppler, which is when a local news channel weatherman collapses under the weight of his dire “wind! snow! er, did I say wind!” predictions… and expires).

That, my friends, is the sound of Wiggy’s heart. Beating too fast, you say? Maybe not human? Nonsense. Wiggy’s just taking after his/her pa, that’s all. I mean, the Insta-Princess often tells me that I lack a heart, and I know it’s not the same thing, but look, two weird heart issues right there. Wiggy and I are obviously related.

One hundred and sixty. The first one hundred and sixty sounds I’ve ever heard my kid make. (True, Wiggy might also be burping by now, but I’m not sure whether the burping organ has been formed yet. I hope it has. Burping’s great fun. At any rate, I haven’t heard it, so I wish they’d hurry up and develop a fetal burpoppler.)

I thought it’d be kind of cool if Wiggy grew up to be a rock star, so with that helltastically great beat, now I know Wiggy’s a natural drummer. This is definitely good for Wiggy’s groupie status (i.e., he’ll have some); after all, while the drummer doesn’t get as much play as the singer, he certainly gets more than the bassist. Oddly, the roadie gets the most.

Me, I was a roadie once. I was allowed to be a Roadie-On-The-Spot (carrying out an amp and a stand) for the gorgeous gals of Softee, and for an all too brief moment of rock-‘n’-roll glory, I was able to puff out my chest, glare at the doorman and sniff in contempt as I haughtily told him…

“I’m with the band.”

Oh, Wiggy, with your 160 beats a minute, you, my dear kiddo, you’ll go much further than your roadie dad. I’m proud of you.

Posted Friday, August 31st, 2007 at 12:15 pm
Filed Under Category: Wiggy
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Responses to “One Hundred and Sixty”



V. v. v. cool.


You know…there’s some old wives’ (who are these old wives…and am I starting to qualify for that title?) tale that the # of beats will tell you boy or girl.

Are you guys finding out the gender?

Obviously, totally your call, but we didn’t find out and have to admit it was fun to both buck the trend of finding out and also to enjoy the surprise in the delivery room.