It’s six weeks yet, baby. It’s barely been two. Leave that poor fellow alone. He’s starving. It’s not that it’s that big a deal, right? It’s one of those reverse psychology things. Just listen for a minute. It’s not that we’re being pushy and selfish. It’s not that we just cannot wait. It’s because the doctor says we can’t. I’m a man. I love some pie. All different kinds of pie. Pumpkin, lemon, meringue, sweet potato, hair. And you sit a piece of pie on the table, but you look at somebody and say, don’t eat that piece of pie. Well, they probably wasn’t thinking about eating that piece of pie until you said that they couldn’t. And, well, now that piece of pie is looking pretty damn good. Especially since that piece of pie just walked around for nine months in a freaky free for all with no consequences of your fruitful actions. I don’t know what it is, boys, about when your woman’s pregnant, but, man, everything is just amplified. They’re glowing. They’re beautiful. They’re beautiful anyway, but now they’re really beautiful. Everything is just accentuated. Hmm. Hmm. Hmm.