So my pregnancy ticker tells me week by week how big my new baby is in relation to produce. My nearly four-year-old son loves it. He’s an hands-on learner (his grandmother the teacher says it’s a “kinesthetic learner”) and it gives him a tactile idea of how big our new wiggly addition to the family has grown. He asks me constantly how big the baby is now and really grasps the process of growing with the progression of fruits and veggies.
I hit week 25 and The Fetus (as we call it because we are avoiding sharing the sex with friends and family) is the size of an eggplant. Having never played with an eggplant, he was enthralled. So, when we went to the grocery store for a midnight run after a crappy day, I saw an eggplant and plopped it in his lap so he could “hold the baby.” Long story short, we have now adopted an eggplant and promised not to eat it.
I keep telling him it’s only going to last a couple of days, in hopes he doesn’t become too attached and break down when we have to compost the poor thing, but I think that ship has sailed. We will be doomed to tears I fear. I remind him he has to be really careful with it, (so it will last as long as possible honestly) and he takes this to heart. He pats its little round purple bottom, has named it “Eggplant,” and wrapped himself up in a nest of blankets on the couch with it to snuggle gently and keep Eggplant warm.
This may be one of the cutest and oddest moments of brotherly fetus love… ever.