During the poundings of a very loud Beatle’s cover band at River Days in Detroit, MI, the baby started kicking spiritedly. I say ‘kicking’ but they were really ticklish flutters in what I soon recognized as tiny arms and legs thrashing about horizontally across my navel. Detroit spread out in festival form while I waddled around the various crowds, food stands, and rides. I ignored the need to go to the bathroom valiantly, but inevitably ended up in a porta-potta.

While waiting in line for the bathroom a teenage black girl looked me over and said, “You’re pregnant…and it’s a boy.” I was surprised and pleased that a stranger was recognizing my bump as baby instead of overeating. “Yes, it’s most likely a boy,” I said, thinking of the ultrasound tech’s speculation. “I can tell,” she said, “You’re carrying it very high…girls babies are really low,” she patted her pubic bone in demonstration. I smiled. Then I spent the rest of the night in strange contemplation: was this a definite sign? The baby is a boy? And why did that worry me? Maybe a boy baby won’t like me as much, won’t relate to me, won’t understand me because I’m a girl and I won’t understand him…foolish thoughts but concerning all the same.