Justin looks across the room at a woman who is positively ripping at the seams with pregnancy. Our bellies magnetize together for a quick hello and sure enough, she is due in a week.

Later he says, “I’m so excited for you to be BIG! Like, REALLY big! Did you see that woman? How cool was that?”

Some men covet the perky, buxom-type. A tanned, lithe, yoga babe who can do the splits and wear bias-cut dresses. But for others, the ultimate trophy is a pregnant wife. Check it out, world! I done did progeny! RAWR!

Until recently, Justin kept a cap on his joy for my sake, knowing I was mourning our lack of daughters and overwhelmed with sheer quantity. Are you okay? He’d whisper solemnly, holding my hand.

Then he’d round the corner and squeeze the trigger and punch the air mouthing YEAH! WICKED! I ROCK! I AM THE SPERMINATOR!

...and compose himself just in time for me to come into sight, flipping back to concerned empathy.

But he can only hold it so long. And I have to say, it makes me smile. Only 17 weeks along, turning over in bed already requires a giant shoehorn and a ceiling pulley. And yet, he wants me bigger — because he truly, honestly adores the sight of it.

My boys, he says, cautiously at first. They’re going to be my boys, all piled into the canoe. We’re going to go hunting for frogs and slimy stuff and the shed's going to be full of smelly hockey gear.

I mean, I’d do the same with girls, I would… he adds. But… but they’ll be my boys. I’m so happy. Is that okay?

How could I resist? It’s contagious.