I.

She'd never had curves like this. Oh sure, she'd overeaten once or twice in her life, and had lolled about feeling bloated during her period, but this . . . rotundity was just bizarre.

Although she had to relearn how to walk, and sit and stand, it was definitely worth it. In intimate moments, she could feel the baby shift gently; at other times the happy tiny thumps of kicks startled her and made her smile.

Best of all was the feel of Grissom's hands, warm and wide, cupping her bare belly as he pressed his cheek against her navel.

II.

"Sara."

"No, I like Mary better."

"Well we're not having a Gil."

"You don't want a Gil, Junior?"

"No. I'd rather spare my child the joy of being called 'fish lung' at school."

"Ohh. Not nice. I guess Gilbert is out, too?"

"Completely. As is Gus or Conrad."

"Ew!"

"We could always draw names out of a hat."

"That will make a great story—we couldn't decide what to name you, sweetie, so Dad and I went with a random odds—"

"--Sarah. We could spell it with an 'h'."

"Did you know Sarah backwards is haras?"

"I do now."

III.

The soft yellow beam of sunlight shines down at just the right angle, and Grissom is smiling. His hand is on the downy curve of Sara's belly, and for the last few minutes, he has been feeling the little butterfly kicks against his palm. He whispers again, trying not to wake his wife.

"Baseball is the world's most perfect sport," he confides, his face low to her stomach. "When you're old enough, I'll introduce you to all the traditions—from Crackerjacks to the seventh inning stretch."

"What if I'm a girl?" Sara whispers playfully.

Grissom smiles. "Father/Daughter day. With balloons."

end