If I say "f$@%," and the baby's ears haven't developed, does it still...

At the bar on Saturday evening (I did not drink anything, I swear,) I mentioned that my new blog was called "Beer and Sushi."

"You should have called it 'Tiny Fists of Rage,'" my husband said.  "Is that one registered?  If not, could you register it?"  Our friends nodded.  "Beer and Sushi" was okay, but "Tiny Fists of Rage" was awesome.  

The Sunday before I learned I was pregnant, I screamed at the dishwasher, which had spewed the grainy residue from my latest baking project onto every flat surface and into every glass.  I had a full plate that afternoon, pun intended, and the last thing I wanted to do was clean what should have been clean in the first place.

My husband, far more even-keeled than I, sent me away from the kitchen.  It took him two hours to re-clean the dishes amidst his other chores.  (Thanks again, sweetie.)  Always excitable and opinionated, blaming the increased frequency and intensity of my rage on the baby, as convenient a scapegoat as it is, makes me a little uncomfortable; for now, I'll continue to hope that our offspring will inherit my husband's temperament.  Last week's ultrasound indicates that the baby has his head, but all babies have his head.