Designer Baby

"I hope the baby gets your musical skill," I tell Alex as he is playing a new song on the guitar he just learned the week before. Despite his ineptitude for dancing, he has surprisingly good rhythm and a nice voice.

"I hope the baby gets your athleticism, too," I tell him.

"We're both from pretty athletic families, so the baby will likely be pretty athletic. But maybe we'll get a theatre geek instead."

"I hope the baby gets your hair. For sure. Maybe not all your body hair, especially if it's a girl. But your head hair. You're not gonna bald, and you have thick, soft, hair," I say.

"Well I hope the baby gets your mouth and smile," he says.

"I hope it gets your eyelashes," I respond. Along with nicer hair altogether, Alex has much darker, longer, thicker eyelashes than I do. Like my mom, all my hair is super wimpy. And I didn't even get her good nails.

"I hope the baby gets both of our senses of humor," he says.

"I hope the baby gets neither of our short limbs. It deserves to be a bit less boxy and more leggy."

"I hope the baby gets one of our brothers' noses."

Wait, what?

"I didn't know you thought my nose was that bad," I whine. "I mean, yours is effed up because you've been hit in the face too many times. But it used to be normal, when you were a kid."

"Well it's not bad," he says, trying to backtrack, tell me that my nose is big but it's fine.

"It's just not the nose you want for your baby?!?" I ask.

Thanks, babe, thanks. Now I have something else to think about, worry about, and criticize when I look in the mirror in the morning before work.

"I just hope the baby is healthy," he finishes.

I can't argue with that.