Lately, I get frisked at airport security.

Can’t imagine why. I carefully remove all removable objects from my personhood. I lift my arms over my head as instructed.

Yet, every single time, I notice one airport security staff person glance at a second staff person with a twinkle in her eye, as she smiles and asks me to move to the side. She is eyeing me up and down as if I were Little Red Riding Hood and she were the Big Bad Wolf.

She is salivating with one thought: Finally, I’ve got me a hot one.

She politely asks whether I would like to do this in private. No, I would not: Who knows what yonder private frisking could bring?

When I was around 11 years old, I announced I would have only girl children. I could just feel it. I never wavered from this insight.

Lo and behold, I birthed four girl children. Not all at once, of course. I wasn’t in any rush. I wanted some mommy time alone with each baby — one at a time.

I was a particularly easygoing, laid-back, confident mom. After all, I was also a girl.

I do not remember me as an infant, but, seriously, how hard could I have been? We were, after all, a sisterhood.

My first OB-GYN was so sure that my she-baby was a he-baby that he drew pictures (emoji did not exist) on my burgeoning belly, indicating I was to birth a boy. This unusual yearning to see me have a boy was explained quite simply. My doctor could not wait to attend the brit milah and indulge in the Jewish food he knew would be served.

Not! I had the first of my four beautiful, magical girls.

My mom (z”l) was so excited about her first grandchild that she did not know what to send me first. My family was up North; Gene and I were attending Louisiana State University, way down South.

The very first package to arrive contained two prayers written in Hebrew and was trimmed in red. I hung them both over my baby’s crib.

Until my mother-in-law (z”l) visited.

“What are those two prayers for?” she asked me.

I explained that my mom sent them to keep the demons away from our baby.

“Why hang them both?”

Hmmm, I thought it was a tradition for the firstborn child, I replied.

“No, you only need the prayer for a girl; you don’t need the one for a boy.”

Oh, good grief, Charlie Brown!

We moved to New London, Conn., after Gene received his doctorate and a position with General Dynamics. Our second baby girl was born.

We took advantage of a wonderful opportunity with a university and moved to Pensacola, Fla. Our third baby girl was born.

An incredible offer we could not refuse brought us to Tampa, Fla. Our fourth baby girl was born.

Relocation was dropped from our vocabulary.

Well, not entirely. We had one more move in us. We felt safe that no new babies were on the horizon. Hotlanta, here we come, and here we stay.

Let’s get back to the airport security issue and what is discovered with every frisking: nothing.

So what’s with the frisking activity? The TSA soon discovers I am not a terrorist. Whew!

What exactly do they see in that ominous machine that makes them stop and take notice? I have no clue. Something sets off the alarm. Something is in my tummy. Perhaps during surgery an instrument was left behind?

Can you guess? No?

It can be explained only in this way: I am carrying a baby boy robot.

Nothing else makes sense. Finally, it’s a boy.