Pregnant-rainbathIF you’ve been following this column the past weeks, you will notice this little Tuesday space we have here has become a sort of repository of my experiences as an expectant father. I didn’t know that until last Sunday, when I bumped into fellow Sun.Star Cebu columnist Mayette Tabada at the mall.

“I follow your baby blog,” Mayette told me. Baby blog! That disturbed me, because I was expecting her to say, “Since when did you start thinking you’re the marrying type?”

Then it hit me. What a disservice this column has been to you, my dear readers. As a columnist in this paper’s Opinion Section, I am supposed to give you my expert’s opinion on what’s going on in the world around us: Libya, Japan, New Zealand, Joavan “The-Son-Of-God” Fernandez, The Fall of Sharon Cuneta, The Showbization of Philippine Football, and Justin “What-Have-We-Done-To-Deserve-Him” Bieber.

That’s why I promise you now I will never talk again about anything even remotely related to unborn babies and pregnancies in this column, ever! Which brings me to my topic today: Bathing in the Rain with Your Eight-Month-Old Pregnant Wife.

The tons of pre-natal literature I’ve been reading these days tell me that pregnancies bring out the child in all of us. The sight of pregnant women is believed to transport us back to our childhood days when everything was a source of wonder and amazement.

And rain, my readings tell me, has a way of speeding up the unfolding of this phenomenon.

I didn’t believe it until one rainy morning last week. While it was pouring hard outside, I looked at my wife in bed and, by some mystical force of nature that surprised me, told her, “My wife, how about experiencing the little child in all of us once again?” And the wife, by the same mystical force of nature that surprised her, answered, “Of course, my husband, I want to experience the little child in all of us once again.”

So we stripped down to our boxers, with her also leaving a little piece of clothing that barely covered her eight-month-old bump. In a split second, we were outside in the rain, joining other kids, real nasty five- to six-year-old kids, honestly convinced we looked like a cute, romantic showbiz couple.

Then reality struck. In the rain, everything is totally different from what your pregnancy books tell you. First, whoever said a pregnant wife is the sexiest woman alive hadn’t seen his woman eight months pregnant in a skimpy, wet-look outfit.

Second, when you’re a pregnant couple surrounded by real kids happily splashing through puddles of rainwater, you feel stupid. They follow you around laughing at your bump, like you’re some freak of nature.

“What now?” the wife said, shivering from the cold rain. “I don’t know,” I said, also shivering from the cold. “I think we’re supposed to dance in the rain or something.”

While we couldn’t make up our mind, the kids moved on to their next game and started running around while shouting, “Earthquake! Earthquake! Tsunami! Tsunami!” which reminded us of a text message we received earlier about some nuclear plant explosion in a faraway place. We had laughed at the message as a hoax.

So what we did next was what any well-read, intelligent, mature adult couple was expected to do under the circumstances: We panicked and rushed back inside, wondering if our tons of pre-natal literature said anything about acid rain and radiation.