Recently Peter informed me that his “expectant father” book told him that a woman’s brain shrinks during pregnancy. Or, that is, the brain cells shrink. I thought he said they shrink by 35 percent. The following conversation ensued:

“You’re making that up.”

“I am not! I will get the book and show you. The book said not to tell you because it would freak you out. I thought you could handle it.”

“Handle it? My brain is shrinking. AHHHHH, I can feel it now. I’m getting dumber. I thought it was America’s Next Top Model but it’s biological.” I curl into a ball, clutching my head. I should mention that I did, in that moment, believe I felt my brain shrinking.

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“It’s not your brain that is shrinking 35 percent. Don’t . . . what’s the word . . . oh no it’s happening . . . judge! Yeah, don’t judge me!” I massage my diminished temples.

“Thirty-five percent? Adrienne, shut up. I said 3 to 5 percent. And besides, the cells re-expand after you give birth.” Peter clucks his tongue. Smug, self-assured man without shrinking brain cells. “I don’t think you could live in your brain shrunk 35 percent.”

“Oh. Well, whatever. Your book told you not to tell me. Why, Peter, why?”

“I thought it was cool.”

I wish I had known this whole brain-shrinkage thing before I picked now to submit and defend my dissertation prospectus.

In other baby news, I have still done pretty much nothing in the “baby’s room.” There is a shelf in there that I cleaned up, and its presence there means our nursery theme will mostly likely be “tower of death.” It has bins of nails, pain solvents, paint, tools and random computer scraps with which Peter can’t bear to part. I tried to put the least poisonous objects down low and relocated the objects with cutting teeth to another room (i.e. the room of glass, sharp corners, and fire, now rendered the room of glass, sharp corners, fire, saws, and drill bits). But still this shelf has nowhere else to go. I decided we could just baby-gate off this particular nook and start a strict educational curriculum of “children who climb things grow two more heads” in the labor and delivery room. That should work at least until we move someplace with a derelict pool and the horrors outside are far more enticing than the ones within the home.

Also, in addition to the lone little blue dress, I am now the proud owner of a changing table pad and crib bedding. I have no crib or changing table per se, and looking back, these are objects I might have wanted to procure first. But humans only use, what, 10 percent of their brain? And I’m down 5 percent, so that’s my excuse.

All right, I’m off to expect the flaking lead paint sections of our happy home. Because I might have to baby-gate off every wall in the house too, and I need to start taking measurements for the gate builders.