While I’m at work, the Redhead often attends to some simple, day to day errands. These are simple tasks that befit her abilities as a very pregnant woman. She’s also pretty easy on the eyes, if I say so myself.

Yesterday her journeys brought her to a couple of local businesses, the Drycleaner and the Cobbler. They both saw her belly, and they both had something to say. Despite their lack medical training, they seemed to know the score.

(By the way, I’ve got an early New Years Resolution I thought of. Throughout 2011 I’ve used the word “despite” a lot. I resolve to stop doing this in 2012 and move exclusively to “in spite of.” They’re the same thing, but you gotta mix it up sometimes, you know? Anyways….)

I got me a couple of pairs of shoes that occasionally can go for some cobblin’. My cobbler is an older man who looks like he lived his life on the bottom of a shoe. He’s constantly covered in polish, smells like a kiwi (or what I assume a kiwi to smell like since a leading brand of shoe polish is made froms kiwis), and has been wearing the same button down shirt since he won “Boxer Of The Night, Atlantic City” in 1952, as evidenced by both the trophy and the framed picture of him receiving it on his counter.

(Not our cobbler.)

He’s a nice man, and strikes you as one of those who may have had the right idea his whole life. Sure, his chief activity is sticking his hands and face in other people’s used shoes, but he never seems to rush and always has a smile. I develop more work related stress before lunch than this guy has in 40 years of cobbling.

He looked the Redhead over, whom he’s met before, and declared, “She’s going to be a lovely girl. It’s a blessing from the Lard.” Up until this point through all of our previous interactions, we have never heard anything resembling an Irish brogue in his voice, yet when he brought up the Lord, it became “the Lard.” The Redhead found this touching, being a big fan of the Lard herself. He also properly guessed the sex of our child, suggesting that the long term effects of inhaling shoe polish include soothsaying. Did Edgar Cayce shine shoes?

(He definitely knew that his shoes needed polishing before anyone else did.)

Continuing on, the Redhead went around the block to our new Drycleaners. We had to switch a while back, because the friendly relationship with our old one just got to be too much. While it’s wonderful to have a rapport with the people you see throughout the day, it got to the point where spending 25 minutes at the counter just to drop off a shirt was needless and annoying. Sorry, Virginia, but your over-friendliness and chatty demeanor cost you a customer.

So these new guys, who I call “Moustache” and “No Moustache,” are also familiar with the Redhead and our impending delivery. The first thing they said when she walked in, was “Whoa! You’ve got like, a week to go!”

Whoa. How can they tell that? That’s deadly accurate, especially since the majority of the comments she gets place her in the 7 to 8 month range due to her relatively small belly. She’s little, Internet, and so is the baby. The Redhead’s pretty tall and I’m 6’ 3”, so the baby may grow to play in the WNBA, but she’s still tiny right now. Again, are the chemicals these men work with everyday giving them powers beyond reason? How can two men, who have never been pregnant in the entire male lives, be able to predict the cycles, trimesters, and due dates of a pregnant woman, and from over 10 feet away no less?

The Redhead came home excited to tell me of the blessings and predictions she had received, as well as the shoes and shirts. We sat together that evening, thinking about wise men and the village they inhabit. We thought about how a community contributes to the development of a child, and that one day these guys will probably meet our little girl. She’ll learn about the kindness of others, to not fear every stranger, and that wisdom can come in all shapes and sizes. While technically we’re two weeks out, it’s amazing that beyond the modern “medicine” practice, there are those who can know more and see more. Maybe it will be a week. This kid could easily show up early. The Doctor has already changed our due date twice. Who’s to say who knows best at this point? We contemplated this together with a smile.

Then I woke up this morning, read over this, and it hit me.

“Wait a sec,” I said. “He’s a dry cleaner. What the fuck does he know?” And why the hell is he getting all up in our business? Just press the pants and steam the collars, pal. We’ll leave the medicine up to the practitioners, thank you very much.

Two weeks to go.