My baby kicks me in the face.

So I’ve started a new nightly tradition: talking loudly to my wife’s belly button.  The first time I did this, my baby kicked me in the face.  At least, that’s what we think; it might have been butt-fu.  Butt-fu is dangerous, however, so we choose to believe the baby is kicking me.

Let me tell all of you guys who don’t know what it’s like to get kicked in the face by your first baby: it’s like the first time a girl kissed you (rather than the other way around).  It’s like “|/\|3lc0M3 2 7H3 N3×7 L3V3L!!!111!, or like the angel on your shoulder gave the devil on your other shoulder a high five.  There is something about being a verified baby-creator that is deeply affirming to your existence, and not just in the “your junk is functional” kind of way.

So we’ve decided on Giovanni (if it’s a boy), or Astraea (or maybe Amyria) if it’s a girl.  The little rapscallion won’t show anything juicy to the ultrasound technicians, so we get to find out when s/he comes out.  That’s cool with me, I’ll be ecstatic either way.  My mother-in-law trained my wife to be almost obsessively family-focused; the kid is going to be a part of the team that is us in every logistically-possible way.

My wife is going to breast-feed, and screw all you jerks who think it’s somehow socially unacceptable.  Every bit of research on the planet gives reason after reason to avoid formula (especially soy formula; remind me to rant about that later) like the plague.  If you can deal with seeing a breast in a bikini, you can deal with seeing one covered by a baby’s face.  Trust me, the baby is probably a more effective covering in the first place.

Regardless of gender, I’m going to make sure my baby learns to keep kicking.  How early do you think it’s OK to enroll an infant in martial arts classes.?