"Show us your tits!"
"Yeah, show 'em, baby!"
It was 1:30 this morning, and a group of drunken men in tuxes from the catering hall next door to our apartment were heckling me after I'd politely asked them to quiet down.
The catering hall's ballroom terrace happens to be just a few yards away from our bedroom window and balcony, unfortunately, and Emily and I had laid in bed for three hours listening to the group shout at each other (why do all men have to shout at each other? Why can't they just talk?), not wanting to be party poopers. After finally having had enough, I went out onto our balcony and called out in my sweetest voice, "Hi guys, would you mind trying to keep it down a little, please?"
That's when these "gentlemen" kindly requested that I flash them, among, ahem, other things.
I was 7 months pregnant, wearing giant baggy pajamas and a Breathe Right strip, but they still wanted to see my tits. I climbed back into bed, defeated, not feeling violated or bad about being demeaned, but thoroughly depressed that I was incubating two more of these creatures inside my belly. Boys! I wasn't feeling too fond of them at the moment.
Some background: Besides being married to a woman, I grew up with three older sisters (no brothers), and during my entire 11-year career in publishing, I've never had a male boss, nor have I even worked with many men at all. And I've been quite content with the lack of testosterone in my life, which makes the idea that I'll soon have two little guys taking over my entire existence hard to wrap my head around.
I know I'll be giving birth to two sweet, innocent, delicious little babies — not two beer-drinking, burping, heckling Neanderthals — but still...
I'm banking on the fact that as soon as these boys enter the world, I'll be filled with unconditional love and won't be able to imagine having anything other than sons. But until then, I'll admit, I'm filled with apprehension. Any advice?