Nate handled the phone call — his parent, his news to tell. That’s how we roll.

MIL: “How did this happen?!”
Rude Blair thinks: Idiot. How do you think it happened? You want specifics? I was on my back during an episode of Gossip Girl. How’s that for detail? Now go back to 5th grade sex ed.
Polite Nate says: “Uhh, well, the usual way.”

MIL: “Was this planned?”
Rude Blair thinks: Well, now. Aren’t we full of entitlement to detail that’s NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS. It’s a good thing you’re 5 states away, because I’m about to go spidermonkey through the window for a good MIL throat-punch.
Polite Nate says: “Yes.”

MIL: “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”
Rude Blair thinks: Are you saying I should abort Harpie? OMG. You sinful wench. I will cut you. (hormones, I know)
(Less) Polite Nate says: “Definitely. I already told you it was planned.”

Interruption for background on final question: This summer, MIL told Nate she’d be happy to help with a grandchild if it’s a girl. Nice. Klassy, too.

MIL: “Is it a girl?!?!”
Rude Blair thinks: I knew it. I knew it.
(Even less) Polite Nate says: “We won’t know for several months. It doesn’t even have a heartbeat yet, Mom. And it doesn’t matter whether it’s a girl or a boy.”

oy vey. How did my amazing, handsome, well-spoken, thoughtful DH come out of this woman’s uterus? She better watch out, though. Because I’m armed with pregnancy farts that could choke a cockroach.