Tyrone's got the hiccups.
I know this because my vagina is pulsing at regular intervals, and it's not the good kind -- if ya nah mean!
This is not going to be a post about vaginas, although I know that's what you were hoping for. Get your mind out of the gutter! It's not even going to be a post about what we're naming the baby. That's a SECRET so don't ask me.
In fact, I don't even know. I've left that part up to V. So there's a 99% chance it'll be one of these three names: Data, Jobs, or Lebowski.
Just kidding! I would never leave the naming up to him with no input! Why? Because then my son would be named Lebowski Bokser, that's why! Hullloooo!
So for the time being, we refer to the bump as Tyrone Jr. I've been calling him "Bubs" on this blog, but I'll let you in on the real secret: Come March, we might find out that his real father, Tyrone -- who is obviously a well-dressed African American man with a grabbable and scrumptiously bubbly ass -- got there before V.
Only time will tell...
In the meantime, can someone tell lil' Tyrone to stop waking up at 5:30 am to start dance practice? While I appreciate he'll take after his father in the rhythm department with all this clowning and krumping, it's getting to be a bit much.
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