Tom will be playing outside, and climb straight up a block wall. Mom, look!, he waves, from about 10 feet off the ground, The new baby can't do this! Or as he does laps of the cul-de-sac on his two-wheeler at approximately 50 mph, he'll slow down just long enough to yell: you know, that new baby is gonna need training wheels!
He reminds me that the new baby can't use the potty, snap his own pants, run fast like a superhero, brush his own teeth, or go to primary. (I didn't think it was the right time to comment on his poor oral hygiene or the fact that instead of attending his class, he prefers to spend the third hour of church with both his arms wrapped tightly around my left thigh, deep under my dress. (For those of you who joined us in the middle here, we are talking about Tom, not Jake.) And since I don't own any dress flats, and I am already just barely staying vertical with my giant belly, tall boots, and big primary-lady bag, there is a real question as to whether we are going to end up sprawled across the foyer carpet (not hygienic), me with my one attractive black taffeta maternity dress up around my waist, my ample, panty-hosed bottom in the air.)
(Please say the word panty-hosed with 4 syllables. It is more enjoyable and Shakespearean that-a way).
But yesterday, while we were driving all over town, trying to buy all the bits and pieces of hardware and fabric that go into making my bedroom drapes, returning all the bits and pieces I bought the day before that totally didn't work at all (what was I thinking?), Tom asked me: You know what the baby can't do?
And then he proceeded to hum the theme song to Beverly Hills Cop.
(aka Axel F, aka something the kids call Crazy Frog.)
Tommy, I said, true 'nuf. This baby will be hard pressed to do that.
(I put it on my player over there, in case you haven't heard it since 1984.)