The Adventures of Little Steve, Vol. 2

The name Little Steve just kind of fell out of my mouth. Brandi and I were on the phone, and my mind was grasping for a word I could ascribe to this weighty new addition, some sort of endearing title that would humanize the sudden impact this tiny object had made upon our lives. I hadn't given what we would call it more than a passing thought; all I knew was that I didn’t want to call it “it”. So I called it Little Steve.

If you have ever seen the film The Tao of Steve then you know where I’m coming from. More than being the basis for my belief, the movie only serves to reaffirm what I have always known to be true. Steve’s are cool. When I was a child, and no one was yet familiar with the name Cobey, I longed to be a Steve.

From the beginning, we simply assumed Little Steve was a boy. Brandi was certain of it. I shared a similar opinion myself; several nights before her pregnancy was confirmed, I had dreamt of a male infant. It wasn’t until after we had already spent a couple months calling him Lil’ Steve that we even considered the very real possibility that Little Steve might well be a Little Stephanie.

For generations, Williamson progeny have tended towards the male, at least on our branch. My father has two brothers; I have five. My uncle has two sons. It wasn’t until my brother’s daughter Arianna arrived that a female member was actually born into the family. Since then, however, Williamsons had produced nothing but girls. Seemed the tide had finally turned, ad infinitum.

All of the old wives' tales lent credence to the possability that we would continue this new trend. Little Steve’s fetal heart rate was high, supposedly typical of females. The Chinese gender prediction calendar pointed unequivocally toward our having a Little Stephanie. We solicited the opinion of a handful of other quizzes and legends, all of which suggested a feminine outcome. Our attention turned from the list of boy names to the list of girl ones.

The McCoy’s came to visit the weekend before our Week 22 pre-natal exam, and we encouraged John and Cindy to attend. Her mom was thrilled at the prospect, but Brandi’s dad politely declined the invite with an assurance that he already knew which name would follow the descriptor “Little”. As we headed out the door en route to the doctor’s office, John told us to bring him the envelope.

As soon as he placed the ultrasound transducer on Brandi’s midsection, Doc Laraway was inquiring whether or not we desired to know the sex. He walked us around the image, pointing out legs and buttocks, drawing out the suspense, but the conclusive evidence was apparent even to a lay person. That was boy stuff there. The Chinese, old wives, and Brandi’s dad had been mistaken. Against the odds, Little Steve truly is a Steve.

The Adventures of Little Steve, Vol. 1

If you have ever floated swift water then you know that sometimes the only thing you can do is point your boat downstream and paddle hard with the current. Humanity may be graced with free will, but this frequently serves only to set us upon a course that no later action can alter. Still, let it be said that while such tides may well serve to steer us unto unknown waters, these voyages, however daunting, are oft considered the most rewarding of our lives.

I was still in Alaska when a chemistry test confirmed Brandi’s suspicion that she was pregnant. It wasn’t exactly a surprise. Her senses had been alerting her to the fact for awhile, haunting her thoughts both asleep and awake, and she had grown more and more convinced of its certainty with each passing day. Several less than subtle dreams indicated that my own subconscious mind had already sided with Brandi, and although I continued to maintain a skeptical facade, I was actually just as positive as she. But I didn’t tell her so.

We hadn’t really planned things to happen this way, and when Brandi called me with the news I’m not stretching the truth in saying that she wasn’t exactly ecstatic. Frantic would be a better description. She didn’t say hello, but rather greeted me with sobs.

Perhaps I grossly overestimate my own importance, but I think things would have gone better had I been there by her side. I know it would have made it easier on me. Having to face the situation alone was a terribly unpleasant experience, even from my perspective. When I imagine Brandi, sitting on the cold tile of the bathroom floor with only a plastic stick for company, I am awash with guilt. She is my hero, for that reason and a million others beside.

Until I was in the doctor’s office, staring with awe at an ultrasound image of what I’d begun affectionately referring to as Little Steve, I had maintained an air of plausible deniability about the matter. In keeping with my general approach to life, I preferred to consider Steve’s existence a myth, a legend akin to Bigfoot, until I had something more to go on than the opinion of a popsicle stick. But the tiny being swimming about Brandi’s insides was undeniable, and the silly look developing on my face while I watched Little Steve’s antics was even more so.

Now that we are back under the same weather pattern, with the full support of our family and friends, things are better. I’m still a bit concerned, about such things as the dirty diapers I accepted responsibility for by insisting we use cloth or emotionally scarring our daughter by calling her Little Steve, but I’m no longer worried about Brandi. She is like a tree in the storm. Though she may sway, she is quite unlikely to break.