6th Aprm

August 10

At last, I know all. Early signs of pregnancy, the Department of Labor unblushingly advises, arc morning sickness and more frequent visits to the little girls’ room. (The Government sure stops at nothing.)

The next chapter deals with the necessity of an early visit-after the eighth orninth week, it suggests-to the doctor. And it pictures the beaming mother-to-be in a “fields-of-clover” bonnet, with father in tow, making their early visit. I can just see Patrick…

But the book’s probably right. I ought to go to a doctor soon, only what doctor? We have two awfully good friends who are obstetricians, but the fact that they’re friends rules them out. What I want is the most up-to-date doctor there is, a specialist, crammed to his toupee with all the latest news. And, while I’m at it, I’d just as soon he didn’t have any quaint ideas about the “beauty of the pain of bringing a child into the world.”

But how silly to be working myself up over that, when I’m still not sure. If only I had a symptom, any old symptom! But everything is still Jake.

Of course it’s going to be a boy, a freckle-faced little redhead who’ll come tearing home to tell me, “Yeah, I got a black eye, Mom, but you oughta see Tommy!”

Just where the red hair is coming from is a matter for conjecture. Mine is black and Pat’s is blacker. Heritage, I fear plays an important part there. And that reminds me, I must ask Pat if there are any twins (or triplets) on his family tree.

I must ask Pat if there are any twins (or triplets) on his family tree.