One balmy evening in the 8th month of my first pregnancy, I was strolling (er, waddling) down the beach hand-in-hand with my husband, chatting about baby. We were musing about all of the physical qualities we hoped our little darling would inherit. Marveling in the wonder of our combined DNA like only two nerds can.
“I hope she has your nose,” my husband said. I smiled and squeezed his hand.
“And your skin color,” I responded.
“And your hair,” he countered.
“Your lips,” I said.
“My eyes,” he said.
“Yeah …” I said. “Wait. WHA-WHA-WHAT???? Did you just say MY eyes?”
“Ye-ah?” he answered in a high-pitched OH CRAP voice. He knew he was in trouble the minute he uttered the words, but there was no turning back. There they lay, like a big, stinking, rotten egg between us.
“What’s wrong with MY eyes?” I asked.
“Nothing. Mine are just …”
“Just a prettier color.”
Oh no he di’int.
It’s very dangerous to piss off a hormonally psychotic pregnant lady. I stared at him in disbelief for a moment. Contemplated ripping his head off or kicking him in the balls, and then I started bawling. Sobbing hysterically in a way only a crazy person (aka, a toddler or pregnant woman) can.
My husband started backpedaling. “Your eyes are beautiful,” he said. “I love them! They’re the prettiest eyes in the world! I love the color! They’re such a pretty hazel.”
And just when he was patching things up he had to go and say THAT.
“HAZEL? Did you call me eyes HAZEL? My eyes aren’t hazel. My eyes are GREEN.”
“Well, technically, they’re hazel,” he said. “All the brown in them? That makes them hazel. Green would be more –”
And here I pause to make a little public service announcement. Gentlemen, if your 8-month pregnant wife is crying hysterically because you’re being an insensitive jerk, shut your pie hole and stop being an insensitive jerk. If she’s made it through 3 decades of her life thinking her hazel eyes are green, LET HER THINK THEY ARE GREEN. Pregnancy is NOT the time to unleash any potentially controversial information on a woman.
We somehow patched up the disaster and vowed never to discuss the physical qualities we wanted in our daughter ever again. (For the record, it would be MY cheekbones, MY toes (his are oddly flat), MY fingers, MY eyelashes.)
My daughter was born six weeks later. At first her eyes were a grayish color. Then slowly, over the next few weeks, they lightened and brightened and ended up being the EXACT SAME color as my husband’s. That gorgeous, luminous seafoam blue/green. The little traitor.
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