When strangers stop me on the street, the usually always ask, “Is it a boy?” Not a single person has stopped and asked if it was a girl, probably because they are proponents of the old wives tale that a boy is more “pointy” and I would have to concur. The belly is no longer a bump, but a pointy protrusion that shape shifts in confounding ways. One minute he's chilling cozily, the next minute my belly looks like Half Dome, with high peaks and steep surfaces, and at other times I’m convinced ...