Livingston, I Presume

I'm still standing

I know what the ticker says, but it's not true. The baby is stubbornly insisting on not following the edicts of the Internet. Let's hope she remembers this when she's 15 and on whatever Web 16.0 application is all the rage. You can't trust the Internets! Anyway, I'm feeling fine and hoping that Chip will get over the cold I gave him in time to be yelled at and have his hands crushed during the delivery. That's not too much to ask, right?

Still, I must confess to being a little on edge. Connery and I had several morning scuffles that escalated far beyond what they would have normally. (Culminating in his saying to me, "You're not a very good problem solver, Mommy! That's not a good way to solve the problem.") Always sad when your 4-year-old is more capable of reason than you are, but I guess I can blame the hormones. My doctor was on duty last night, and I was rather hoping that the baby might cooperate and come while she was at the hospital. Oh well. I didn't give birth with my doctor last time, either.

I'm not the only one on edge. I needed a nap first thing this morning thanks to a crappy night's sleep and so went back to bed as soon as I got home from dropping Connery off at school. By the time I got up an hour or so later, I had three panicked phone messages from my mom and more from Chip. They were alarmed when I didn't answer my phones, but in my defense I must say that it would have been hard for me to get any sleep if I had.

Did you say something?

As I've mentioned, I've been weathering the pregnancy pretty well. Well enough that one fellow pregger I see often probably wants to kill me, based on her incredulity when I insist that I still feel good. The one thing that's really taken a hit is my ability to concentrate. Like, I can't. At all.

Let's take today as an example. I was proud of myself for remembering that there is a retirement party this afternoon for one of Connery's former teachers at his old childcare facility. I was doubly proud of myself for remembering this in time to bake something to bring with me. My pride vanished when I realized that the brownies I had just baked were smothered on top with peanut butter--an absolute no-no at that childcare due to one of its charge's severe peanut allergy. Sure, I could still bring them, but I'd have to invite people back to the mini-van to actually have a bite, like some kind of pusher. (Pssst, wanna go back to my van? Duncan Hines, man. The good shit. It'll rock your world.)

I remember this happening with Connery toward the last month or so as well. Luckily, working in the Czech Republic, I was required to go on maternity leave a full six weeks before my due date (being an American, I fudged it to four weeks, but still). That meant only a week or so of my sitting at a hellfire hot desk in Zizkov, trying valiantly to concentrate on the finer points of European integration and non-native English and Central Asian dictators before I could say my goodbyes and go be flaky in the privacy of my own home. This time, I'm planning--in the great spirit of America--to work up until I actually go into labor, possibly through the first few hours, assuming it's not too messy or loud. (See "Loudest woman ever gives birth at Bulovka Hospital" for an idea of how likely that is.) Here in the land of no maternity leave, it's what one does.

In the meantime, I'm trying to keep myself on task. Lists help. The Internet decidedly does not. Deadlines help. Understanding editors and bosses do not. (Why are you all so nice?) In a clear act of desperation, I resurrected my Palm Pilot this morning. Of course I haven't had the concentration necessary to do anything more than charge and sync it, but it's the thought that counts, right?

Don't bother answering that. I'm already thinking about something else.

A Rosenleaf baby by any other name

I'm a little bit of a freak about the whole baby naming thing. I don't want much, really, just a name that does not appear in the Social Security Top 1000, will not be the subject of derision on this site or on the hypothetical playground, has not been used or held by any of my friends, acquaintances, co-workers, relatives, or unlikeable celebrities, and is not weird. And doesn't start with an 'R. Or end with an 'R'.

I can't figure out why I'm not having better luck. There must be...um...six girl names in the universe that fit those criteria.

Is it a bad sign that we had to hold a contest at my work to name our cat when we got her seven years ago?

IT'S A GIRL...maybe

So we had the big 20-week ultrasound yesterday and everything looked great--all the expected numbers of organs and appendages and a strong heartbeat. However, Baby Fetus decided that this would be a good time to get all modest, so we couldn't get a good look at its business. Both the ultrasound tech and the radiologist felt pretty strongly that it was a girl--there was a decided lack of dangly bits, from what little could be seen--but weren't ready to go a hundred percent.

So I'm putting off painting the nursery pink (because you know that's what I'd be doing...in some alternate universe where I enjoy enforcing rigid gender roles), but I'm going to tell people that we think it's a girl. Just like I'm telling you now, Internets.

Dirty

When we first told Connery about the pregnancy, he told us that he wanted to be at the birth. Once we explained to him--in general terms, mind--what that would entail, he changed his mind rather quickly, which was just fine with us. I know there are people who believe that giving birth is just another day in the human race and so should not be hidden away in a hospital room, and I respect that. But I think it would be hard to explain to a four year old exactly why his mother sounds like a rhino imitating Ethel Merman. Anyway, the point is that Connery does not want to be at the birth, and I am relieved.

I was, however, hoping to take him to the big 20-week ultrasound, the one where you can usually find out the sex of the baby. We've talked a lot about taking "pictures" of the baby, and he has been all for it. Which is why I was surprised when someone asked about his coming to the ultrasound and I said he would be coming, he looked at me like I was crazy. Confused, I asked him why he didn't want to come.

"When babies come out, they are dirty," he proclaimed. They need to be cleaned up before anyone sees them."

I don't ever remember telling him that babies come out dirty, but that's how a preschool mind works, apparently. When I reassured him that I only wanted him to come for the picture-taking, he was mollified. I expect this will not be the last misconception we're clearing up.