I checked my head, where I’ve seen other people forget their glasses, although I have never put mine there because I don’t want to get grease on the lenses; a bunch of drawers; several cabinets; and even the dishwasher, all to no avail (I DID find out that the dishwasher was full, so I turned it on).
I needed 3-D glasses because the picture is a new-fangled one taken in 3-D and I wanted to give the sonogram a very, very, very close inspection, to see what I could see, you know, whether the baby is smiling. Or, well, if you know what I mean: whether there might be any sign of an erector set to indicate whether Bun’s a boy or a girl. (That’s NOT to say that a girl wouldn’t be interested in an erector set; sexist, I’m not.)
But daughter Annie and Kevin don’t know the gender of their child yet. So obviously, they haven’t picked a name yet, and I suspect they will question my arbitrary decision to name it Bun. I’m trying not to meddle, but what else CAN I name the child, when it’s still in the oven?
The beauty of that name, of course, is that the lad or lass already has a song named after him or her. And some day, I bet the little bugger will be lined up in a school performance singing “Hot Cross Buns.” Of course, as is typical at such performances, it probably will be toward the END of a three-hour program during which I’ve had to clap politely, like golf fans at a tournament after a pro mercifully makes a triple bogey that knocks him out of the lead, for all the other no-talent kids parading across the stage.
Oh, come on now, before judging me harshly, admit it: You’ve thought the same thing, and wondered why the teachers don‘t cull the tone deaf (at the same time the parents around you are thinking the same about your progeny). School pageants often are insufferable, but they are rites of passage.
Thank GAWD, none of mine has ever been a scene stealer, as every event has one, the kid picking his nose, or falling off the stage, or lifting her dress, or pulling some other clownish antic. Oh, wait, I just remembered son Brendan’s vaudevillian, exaggerated trip on his way up to get his high school diploma.
But I’ve gotten off track. Back to bun:
Plus, the name fits the nursery rhyme, if the sonogrammed turns out to be a boy, with a lyrical tweak:
“If you’ve got no granddaughters,
“Give them to your grandsons,
“Hot cross buns … ”
Meanwhile, who KNEW they could take 3-D pictures of babies in the womb? It’s a God’s-eye view of biblical in proportion.
As recorded in Jeremiah: “Before I formed you in the womb I knew you. Before you were born, I set you apart.”
At this point, GOD knows whether Bun is a girl or a boy. But we got a peek expectant parents didn’t have years ago.
As for me, I don’t care which gender Bun is; I just ask God to bless him or her with health. But I can’t wait to chuck him or her under the chin.
And now, I introduce you to: BUN. In 3-D, I guess; if you've got your glasses. Or, maybe a magnifying glass to find some conclusive evidence.
(If you see any clues I don’t, please drop me a line.)
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