For my brother, and others who have never experienced being a woman of child-bearing age:

A point of clarification.

If you are a woman of child-bearing age you cannot mention the slightest symptom of illness or reference being tired without some smug, well-meaning twit smiling knowingly and nodding as they mentally plan what kind of sandwiches to serve at your next baby shower. There is no Number Four. Dear God, no. Nyet, Nichts, Nein, No, NO. My corporeal self is still in single-occupancy mode, thank you very much.

***

Charlie, Mr. Charlie Pants, Boof, Boofers, The Pants Mister, Handsome Fella, Charlie Pants O'Mister, Little Barley has an obsession so deep that I swear it is genetically tied to his possession of chromosomes X and Y.

His love in life is Balls. Thankfully, not his own.

He prefers all objects to be spherical. Perhaps he will be a physicist like his father. Don't they, after all, assume all objects to be uniform spheres for the sake of simplifying equations?

Evidence:
• Charlie cannot get in his car seat without a ball in each hand.
• Even the smallest ball is superior to any other toy when making a selection.
• Charlie, once possessing a ball, will only pretend to throw it, then chase after where he pretended to throw it. After all, a ball released is a ball relinquished, never to be recovered.
• Even the small orange fuzzy pompom with a diameter smaller than 1 cm is a ball, and to be cherished
• Charlie prefers Trix to Froot Loops. They taste the same, but one is a ball and one is clearly not.
• The instant he was released in search of Easter Eggs, he went wild, grabbing for them, calling out, "Ball! Ball!" and throwing them about.
• The first two words he ever put together to form a phrase were My and Ball.
• Ball is the only word uttered by Charlie that is understood outside of the family unit.