I think it’s less that I want three children, and more that that I want to be the type of person who wants three children, I guess.

I mean, I am CERTAINLY not cut out for three pregnancies, considering the hyperemesis, the dairy intolerance (which my doctor is suspecting is actually an allergy! HURRAY!), the general aversion to all things food-related, bizarre yeast infections ON MY FACE, two ear infections, crippling fatigue and OH YES, less-than-robust fertility. And that’s just the pregnancies that worked, because if I were to get pregnant again, it would actually be round seven. Two out of six intended pregnancies working out AIN’T GREAT ODDS. I mean, the WRITING IS ON THE WALL, PEOPLE. I’m finished here. But it sort of sucks, even though I do not even WANT to continue on! What is this?

None of this makes any sense at all. Then again, neither does having children, when you get right down to it. Hey, let’s give up sleep, an astonishing amount of money and EVERY LAST BIT of personal freedom and/or free time for this tiny person who shows zero appreciation for any of it for AT LEAST thirty years! And let’s do it TWICE! Jesus, a pet shark is probably more rewarding and/or predictable. At least you can go on vacation alone, and a shark sitter is probably cheaper than one who watches live children.

Obviously, it’s much better than that. It’s great, actually. It’s just . . . I mean, WHY ELSE WOULD WE WANT MORE?

There seems to be no arguing with biology. I remember about a minute after I had Sam, my body was screaming MORE MORE MORE! LET US ALL HAVE MORE! It wasn’t until the hormones wore off that I adopted a more reasonable approach of only, say, ELEVEN, instead of forty. And then, even as sleep grew more easy to come by and life became easier and she became FUN, I realized I am not cut out to be the mother of more than two children, due to my personal limitations and more practical constraints like finances.

Ah, but still. As Swistle rightly pointed out, though, there will ALWAYS be a last baby, and it will ALWAYS be sort of bittersweet, I expect, no matter when that baby comes. Even if it’s the seventh, I guess.

I mean, I’m pregnant! Miserably so! Why am I sad not to do this again? LOGIC HAS NO PLACE HERE. But still, I am a little sad, knowing that this is it. Once she’s here, that’s our family. And it will be a WONDERFUL family, the precise one I wanted, but I think seeing the end of anything is always a little sad, even if it’s the right thing to do.

In other illogical news, I’ve had a sore throat on my left side since about January. An excruciating one, in fact, that started at the tail end of a rather brutal plague-like sickness that felled our entire household. Like a moron, I just let it go, because I’m pregnant! It’s just a sore throat! Everything lingers! Post-nasal drip! Whatevs! Until things got rather out of control and I could barely swallow iced tea, and finally, FINALLY, I sucked it up and went to the doctor.

Ear infection. EAR INFECTION. Eardrum so swollen, it was about to burst! But no ear pain. Just a sore throat. One day. ONE DAY of antibiotics and you guys, it’s gone. It’s GONE. I AM AN IDIOT. PLEASE DO NOT BE SO STUPID. Although realistically, you’re all grown-ups who don’t get ear infections, because you don’t go to preschool. And really, neither do I, I AM JUST PREGNANT, WHEN THESE THINGS HAPPEN.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go clean out every closet in the house, because for some reason, I can’t have a baby until I have eliminated all of the clothes that I don’t wear anymore. Babies CARE about outdated capris, you know.

Happy weekend!

*Snow Patrol

I hate when I do that. Not because I think YOU care, but because I then procrastinate writing again, as I feel like I have to say something VERY PROFOUND, either about what I’ve been thinking about or what I’ve been doing, when the reality is I’ve been busy . . . gestating. And gesticulating, I suppose, when I have the energy to move my arms. I mean, HONESTLY, y’all, when did pregnancy get so EXHAUSTING? Again! I never got the honeymoon period of ALL THAT ENERGY that is purported to happen in the second trimester, which is not surprising, and it’s fine, really. It’s FINE. Although here I am in my third, so, ah, yeah. I did enjoy a man telling me that I should be feeling better by now. ORILLY SIR? Tell me about the last time you were pregnant!

That’s one thing that gives me hope about newbornhood this time around. Pregnancy is annoying and miserable and fraught with food issues (I’m lactose intolerant, what IS that?), but it’s positively FLOWN by, and I know it’s temporary, and once it’s over, I . . . well, honestly, I never have to do it again. Frankly, even if I wanted more children, I think the nail was placed in that coffin shortly after I unknowingly ingested sour cream and was doing every gastrointestinal-related horrible thing at once, to the tune of having to throw away TWO garbage cans and Lysol the living daylights out of our bathroom at 2 a.m. NO THANK YOU, EVERYONE. I am good with two.

I’ve also finished Downton Abbey (TEAM MARY!), am reading Maisie Dobbs (Meh?) and working on the wackiest book I’ve ever encountered in my life (Tom Robbins on acid, but for children. I don’t even know), PLUS, I also take a nap every afternoon. Obviously I am the busiest person who ever lived, so stop pretending your life is hard. THIS IS THE HARDEST. You think it’s easy to nap every day AND get the laundry done? I NEED A BLOG FOR MY UNIQUE CHALLENGES OF GETTING IT ALL DONE. WHERE IS MY ESSAY IN SOME SORT OF “JUGGLING IT ALL” COLUMN IN THE WALL STREET JOURNAL?

Oh, wait.

No, seriously, that’s pretty much how it goes. By the end of the day, I am so pooped from all of the exertion spent doing light parenting (totally a thing) and keeping us out of a general state of total squalor that I just . . . God, well, I feel like I’ve been working as a nurse on the front lines in Afghanistan, and it makes me feel so pathetic that I’m embarrassed to even admit it, but admit it, I must. I am also strangely impressed with my ability to still sleep on my stomach, despite it being gigantor, thanks to a jury-rigged contraption consisting of a feather pillow and my best friend, the body pillow. Sure makes the urge to evict this tiny parasite a WEE BIT LESS urgent than it was with Sam, when all I wanted to do was lie flat on my belly in blissful slumber. If I’ve got that NOW, what’s the motivation for anything else? I’m a parent of two! And yet I am also sleeping on my stomach! LET’S GO FORTY MORE WEEKS!

Fine, not really. Because the sooner we move past this, the sooner we’re all sleeping through the night again and then life will REALLY BEGIN ANEW. So, look for some new vim and vigor sometime in 2014, if Sam’s example is any indication, I suppose.

ANYWAY, that is what’s new. I mean, other than an excessive amount of hand-wringing and facepalming about politics and SCOTUS and health care and women and racism and The Hunger Games (OOH OOH I LOVED THE MOVIE) and OH MY GOD, YOU GUYS, THE WORLD HAS LOST THEIR DAMN MINDS. I seem to recall a similar panic when I was pregnant with Sam during the crash of 2008 and that ying yang on CNN was screeching, “Will your ATM cards work tomorrow? FRANKLY, I DO NOT KNOW.” He said that! On television! While pregnant ladies across America watched in horror! GOD, WHY DOES NO ONE THINK OF THE PREGNANT WOMEN?

I’ll see you next week, promise. I BROKE THE ICE NOW.

SO MANY ASSUMPTIONS, DISPROVED. Also? I don’t care. We’ve established that pregnancy is a generally disgusting state of being for me, and since we reached a new low this week — that of angular cheilitis — and I’m smearing Lotrimin on my lips three times a day, let’s be real here. Should I be concerned about yoga pants? Should a person who regularly pees in a bladder protection garment, barfs all over town and smears JOCK ITCH cream on her FACE really be concerned about yoga pants in public? REALLY?

Besides, I’d forgotten that one of the small gifts of pregnancy — the only gift, really — is that once your belly eclipses your boobs, every single OTHER part of you looks delightfully tiny. For the first time in my life, I have an ass the size of an elf! A very large, elephantine elf, but compared to my belly, IT IS AN ELF’S BEHIND.

(Leave me to my illusions, friends.)

These are the things that make me wonder about people who claim to love pregnancy. If you love pregnancy, you have to tell me: Do these things just not HAPPEN to you? Do you not barf for nine months, pee through your pants and get YEAST INFECTIONS ON YOUR FACE? Or are you just made of tougher stuff than me?

Separately, and despite all of this horror, I often forget that I’m pregnant. I guess I’m just used to living this way, but sometimes I glance in the mirror and wonder WHEN my midsection got so FAT and my God, was I not paying any ATTENTION TO WHAT I EAT? Then I remember that oh, right, there’s a person in there (I HAVE TWO VAGINAS) and also, I barely eat, so obviously, I am pregnant.

Anyway, I have a question for you. What do you do for your kids’ birthdays? Sam’s birthday is March 7 6 (OMG, I got my OWN CHILD’S birthday wrong the first time), and we’ve only ever had a family party for Sam, and cupcakes for her little playgroup, but most of her friends have had capital-P Parties, with other kids and sometimes at outside locations. I don’t know, you guys, this is so hard for me because I just don’t see myself doing it, but then of course I FEEL GUILTY. And I don’t judge anyone who DOES fun/big parties for their littles at ALL — we love going to them — but I am generally a lazy mom, and also, she’s GOING TO BE THREE. Is she going to remember this? Or care? PROBABLY NOT.

(Small irony in this statement is that one of my first memories is of my third birthday party, held at — wait for it — Weiner King. Yes, Weiner King.)

So, ugh. I just don’t want to do it because it’s just not my personality to do so, but then I feel bad NOT doing it, like I’m missing my opportunity for her to have a good time, and everyone ELSE is doing it, but them I’m like SHE IS THREE, GET A GRIP, MY GOD.

At any rate, it’s time for my nightly salad of hummus, lettuce and cabbage with a drizzle of vinegar and some feta. Adam LOVES when I eat it in bed, as you can imagine.

Happy weekend!

*Bon Iver. I’m meh on the guy, but I try. Also, get it? Kind of like babies? BUT NOT AT ALL, REALLY.

(I think most people knew this.)

But seriously, I would gladly do ADVERTISEMENTS for these things. Before their discovery, I was doing laundry up to SIX TIMES A DAY. FOR MYSELF. THIS IS SO HUMILIATING.

One of the things that I keep thinking about is how if this baby works out (NO ONE COUNTS CHICKENS UP IN HERE), I am done with having children. Done. D O N E. Done. Whenever I hear other people having this conversation, it’s almost always after their child is already born, and they find themselves looking around, asking if everyone is here yet.

I want to be that way, I really do, but there are so many factors that help me realize that this is it. I would LOVE more children, honestly, I would, and I think if I’d started having them in my twenties, there would be a real possibility of having more. Alas, I’ll be halfway to 37 when this little peanut is born, and if my experience with Sam is any indication, I wouldn’t be remotely ready for another for at least three years, which puts me halfway to 40, and let’s be honest, here, my fertility is not particularly ROBUST, and at current rates, I’m guessing pregnancy would strike naturally at age 65, at which point my fetus would doubtless have nine limbs and four eyes, and I just don’t HAVE twenty years of trying to conceive in me, you know what I’m saying?

I would have — and will — fight for two. I don’t have the fight in me for three, which is sad, maybe, but there it is. And frankly, I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to the hard parts being over forever. I don’t want to say that I want to wish any of it away — certainly not — but there is something thrilling about knowing this is likely my last pregnancy. I will never, God willing, barf for nine consecutive months again. I can put the Poise pads away until I’m geriatric. Save for nursing, I’ll have my body back to myself again, forever. Ibuprofen and I will be lovers again, forever and ever amen, and never shall we part.

And you know, I just . . . is it bad to admit I’m not a newborn person? I want to love them, and I do, of course, love my newborn babies, but I don’t enjoy them the way I do, say, babies six to nine months and even up. If humans gave birth to the equivalent of a one-year-old, I would have THIRTY CHILDREN, YOU GUYS. I WOULD.

But ugh, newborns. The non-sleeping. The mystery of what they could POSSIBLY NEED from a long list of MYSTERIOUS THINGS. They just . . . aren’t enjoyable. Then, of course, there is the potential for screaming and not-sleeping and newborns are SO STRESSFUL and so help me God, the only way I’m getting through this next child of mine is because I know, deep-down, that I’ll never have to do it again. When she sleeps through the night, that will be it, save for the usual regressions and sicknesses and setbacks, which are all infinitely livable compared to the everyday stress of wondering just how long your eyes will stay closed—if they close at all—before you’re jolted awake by that teeny tiny wail of neverending need.

God, though, I am also acutely AWARE now of how worth it they are. With Sam, I had no idea. I thought that was my life forever. I thought this tiny little pupa-like THING was all I would ever get, and I didn’t see how much fun kids could be. I had no idea she’d turn into a mail-obsessed comedienne who loves to be naked and hates purple popsicles and enters a room with, “What UP, Daddy?” when she’s feeling feisty.

Thank goodness there’s an ROI I’m aware of this time, is what I’m saying. But even so. I’m done. I’m looking forward to taking things in our family from the GROWING a family stage to that of raising one.

So yes. Two and done.

Is it weird to know that while she’s still in utero? Related: I will be handing my maternity clothes out to LITERALLY ANYONE. ON STREET CORNERS. HERE, HAVE SOME PANTS.

Happy Tuesday!

*Snow Patrol

Adam, on the other hand, uses earplugs, as I mentioned, but cannot fall asleep unless he’s watched a few minutes of television with wireless headphones (so as not to disturb me). The headphones, however, HAVE to be over the earplugs, so that he can seamlessly take them off when he starts to drift off to sleep. It’s absurd. It’s ABSURD.

(People expecting babies, we are hope that you will be able to somewhat reliably go to bed and expect to sleep through the night just like you used to someday. Swear.)

(I’m going to read this post in June.)

Second, I brought this up on Twitter because I so rarely stay angry for, say, more than five minutes. I’m a quick-tempered, quick-cooling personality. I get really fired up, really fast, and I’m pretty good at addressing it right away (though sometimes TOO aggressively, as is the pitfall of this personality type), and then once it’s out, it’s out. I’m not angry anymore. Grudges, smudges, really. I don’t hold them, except in rare instances when someone’s unkind and or disrespects someone I love, when I strangely become a CHAMPION GRUDGE-HOLDER and can’t forgive anything, even things that should be forgivable.

(This is not to say I blow up often, because I don’t.)

ANYWAY, a few times lately, I’ve found myself irrationally holding on to things that wouldn’t normally linger, and frankly, they SHOULDN’T linger (hello, pregnant), but what it makes me think is that people who are long-simmering types must be VERY STRESSED OUT. How do you carry all that anger with you for more than a few minutes? Grudges! So exhausting!

Finally, if I were the type to write one of those pithy bios I would write that one of my major dislikes is when the big cups flip over in the dishwasher, filling up with ganky water. I like laundry—LOVE laundry, in fact—and would literally rather wash an entire load of EXCREMENT-FILLED CLOTHING than deal with the wet food issues that accompany dishwashing of any sort. I hate the dishes. I hate that we have to eat off of dishes. I wish it were environmentally acceptable to use ALL PAPER PRODUCTS and disposable pots and pans. No dishes! DOWN WITH DISHES.

Now I want to know everything about your quirks, because I feel naked.

Happy weekend!

*Jackopierce

GIRLS. I am in so far over my head here. But I’m also so excited. GIRLS.

I have said before that I always thought I’d have boys, and I suppose that’s true only in the sense that it’s all I really saw modeled. My sister had two boys. My brother had two boys. Adam’s brother had two boys. Of course it would stand to reason that *I* would have two boys, because EVERYONE does.

The truth, though, is that deep down, I knew this was how it would be. If you’d asked me years ago, I would tell you that of course, I’m having daughters. I was a horror show of a teenage girl. I am not that girly (at all). There is nothing about me that indicates that I should be a good mother to little girls, but man, here I am. There I’ll be. In crazytown. But oh, I am so happy.

The upside is that I have zero plans to scrimp on my daughters’ clothing budgets. Well, Sam’s, anyway, because after all, it needs to LAST. RIGHT?

At any rate, I’ll tell you, I’m really done with being pregnant, and I feel like such a douche saying that because I wanted it — want it — so badly, but it turns out, even when you want something, it can still suck AND be terrifying and MANY OTHER NEGATIVE THINGS. I am thrilled every day, of course, but I am less than thrilled that I haven’t felt normally in MONTHS. I don’t remember what it’s like not to nurse low-grade nausea on a constant basis. Or to sneeze without peeing. I’m legitimately not sure if I peed every time I sneezed before I got pregnant. Was it always like this? I can’t even remember. I know my bladder lost some functionality post-birth, but was sneeze-peeing on the list of things that went south? Or am I doomed to a life of panty-liners? I DO NOT EVEN KNOW, YOU GUYS.

(I JUST SAID PANTY. HOLD ME.)

I was AlSO thinking, a la the sinus infection diet theory, that losing weight will be a CINCH after I have this baby, because my God, food isn’t even that appealing, RIGHT? What was I thinking? Why do people overeat? You can’t even eat that much in one sitting, and it doesn’t even TASTE good when you do! I have these absurd, ill-conceived fantasies of wearing teeny tiny jeans and T-shirts in extra small and nibbling daintily on healthy salads and roasted veggies within WEEKS of childbirth. And my hair will be magically grown-out and I will resemble Heidi Klum on her best day! Because, as it turns out, FOOD IS YUCKY, HOW DID I NOT NOTICE THIS BEFORE?

Riiiiight. Obviously I have blocked out the creepily delicious meal of hospital-prepared chicken marsala I devoured the night Sam was born. Y’all, I don’t even LIKE chicken marsala. And then, when I finished that, there was pizza Adam got me from the cafeteria. And the PANCAKES the next day. I felt like Jane Fonda in that pot scene in 9 to 5 as she sucks the pimiento out of a jar of green olives. “This is so wonderful. Everything tastes so WONDERFUL.”

You know why dieting is hard when I’m not pregnant? FOOD TASTES GOOD. Eating food is not a JOB, it is something to ENJOY. So perhaps I should lay off the smuggy pants attitude of “HOW HARD CAN DIETING BE?” as I watch people struggle with New Year’s resolutions to drop a few pounds. Because most people don’t have to stare down a bowl of Kashi GoLean, wondering whether eating it will make them feel better or worse? BETTER OR WORSE? No, they ENJOY that bowl of Kashi (or you know, whatever) and then think about having SECONDS. LIKE NORMAL PEOPLE.

The saddest part of this whole thing is that weight loss is not the desired option, and even when I don’t want to eat, I HAVE to force myself to eat that damned bowl of Kashi GoLean. It’s like some sort of twisted version of hell! You can eat all you want, but it will taste terrible! OR! You have to eat a restricted diet and EVERYTHING WILL BE FABULOUS. You hear that, Satan? This is how you torture people. I assume you’ve got this in your arsenal already.

Wow, I am sorry for whining. What I am going to do now is snuggle my ass up to a body pillow and call this whole thing a DAY. But not before eating that bowl of cereal, natch.

Happy Tuesday!

*10,000 Maniacs

At least that explains why she didn’t want to do it. Not that it’s an excuse, but I suppose I’d be reluctant to do something I knew I sucked at. But more likely, I would TRY TO GET BETTER, HELLO.

Anyway, I had to have the ENTIRE ultrasound redone, but the good news is that there is a healthy girl in there, still, and she’s tall, like Sam (long legs, long femur) and I had a delightful conversation with my super-talented, super-friendly ultrasound tech who is — wait for it — twenty-five years old. At twenty-five, this woman had more skill and grace than the forty-plus ying yang who left me crying on the table.

She ALSO regaled me with stories of how much she loves her job, although she admitted that eighty-year-old vaginas make her not want to get old, which: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA, I’m sorry, that’s hilarious. I mean, we’re all going to be in possession of one eventually, God willing, but you know, I imagine it’s disconcerting at twenty-five to be face to face with a vagina that has been through a lot more adventure than a fresher, more youthful one.

This whole thing has me sliding down the double-edged sword of guilt, which is always a pleasant excursion. On the one hand, there’s my Sam, whose life I am theoretically about to completely ruin, at least for a little while. I think of it this way: I keep picturing Adam coming home with another wife who is nothing but a needy asshole for the first three to six months, and no matter how many times he tells me he loves me the same he always has, I’d doubt I’d be able to say anything other than, HELLO, YOU BROUGHT HOME ANOTHER WIFE, DICKFACE. And while yes, the sister-wife and I might be BFFs eventually, in the meantime, I am stuck sharing my husband.

That would blow. So here I go, about to bring home a sister-wife to my kid. What a great idea.

On the OTHER hand, I felt like a total shit going into my ultrasounds both times, because each time they asked me if anyone was with me, and both times I was just like, uh, no? Second kid? Also, he’s home with our first, so . . . ? I mean, neither ultrasound experience was all that MAGICAL, because I am a jaded asshole who thinks all babies look the same in utero, and once I know the sex, I’m like, GREAT, THAT LOOKS LIKE AN ARTICHOKE, WHO CARES, DOES SHE HAVE ALL THE RIGHT PARTS?

And — and! — this kid’s a wiggler. An insane wiggler, way more than Sam ever was. The movements! The kicking! AND YET I AM NOT REMOTELY BOWLED OVER BY THE MAGIC. I’m like, meh, kicking. MEH, knock it off. I mean, these thoughts are all secondary to being BEYOND grateful she’s alive and healthy, but you know, with Sam, I was always, LOOK SHE’S KICKING and guiding Adam’s hand lovingly toward my abdomen.

Basically, I feel guilty that I am having a second child that will ruin my first daughter’s life, while simultaneously feeling like a turd because I am not fawning over my second daughter ENOUGH and she’s NOT EVEN BORN. What kind of bullshit racket is this?

(But seriously, will I be excited when she’s born, or will I be all, OH LOOK, a NEWBORN? Call me when you’re TWO.)

Happy Wednesday, folks.

*Avett Brothers

Well, except don’t, because I’m totally kidding, and then we’d all be living in some creepy John Malkovich world. Malkovich, Malkovich, Malkovich!

[Aside: Anyone else find John Malkovich COMPLETELY sexy, or is that just me?]

The only comment that perplexed me was Maya’s, because I had not previously heard that direction names were going to be popular. I . . . don’t know anyone with a direction name, except for West, who was the contestant on The Bachelorette, i.e., the season that poisoned the entire show for me. I could not TAKE Ashley’s insecurity and her creepy fawning over guys that are literally a dime a dozen up in here. She picked JP, who is a nice guy, but you know, she could have just come up here, hit the bars in Southie and gotten the same guy for a lot less agony and embarrassment, my GOD.

ANYWAY, you guys, I’ve written this all over the place, but since I got pregnant, I am having this ISSUE with my underwear that involves them cutting the inside of my thighs. CUTTING! I HAVE DRAWN BLOOD. And it’s very random, and I have found the solution, but Target only had ONE pack of them and I have to go back to get more. UNTIL THEN, however, I am stuck with my normal supply and OH! the results are not good, which is how I am—God help me—lying in bed as I type this with a smear of Desitin on the inside of each leg. The VERY INSIDE, where there is ACTUAL DAMAGE. DESITIN. That’s DIAPER RASH CREAM for the uninitiated.

(It . . . feels fabulous. No wonder Sam asks for it by name.)

This is worse than the hemorrhoid cream situation of Sam’s gestation.

Speaking of Sam, we have reached the endless narration portion of childhood, because everything that happens in this house needs her running commentary. “Daddy, are you putting on your pants? And your socks? To go to work?” “Mommy, you brush your TEETH?” “Sunny’s walkin’!” And every statement needs acknowledgement, or she repeats it, oh my GOD. The thing is though? I sort of find it endlessly entertaining, as I have most of motherhood, in a surprising way. This should . . . not be news, given that I’ve opted to have a second child, but I’m sort of surprised by how enjoyable it is to have a little chatterbox following me around the house, even when she perpetually asks, “CAN I HELP?” with tasks that would be MUCH FASTER without her assistance. Or—OR!—when her helping with the laundry consists of taking things from the clean dryer and putting them BACK into the (running, full of water) washing machine. NOT HELPFUL.

But you know, it’s kind of hard to stay mad at a kid who wants to help AND is obsessed with a guidebook on Boston terriers (Sunny is a pug, yes . . . long story). You guys, she takes it EVERYWHERE. We do not leave the house without it. We do not go to bed, either for naps OR bedtime, without it. She reads it no fewer than fifteen times a day, out loud. The story, if you were wondering, is simply, “Once upon a time there was a good doggie. He’s so cute. THE END.” And then she closes the book with a remarkable amount of satisfaction, as though she has just read the annotated Lolita and understood every word. (This would make her better than her mother.)

I’m super excited to have another one. But damn, I am terrified, too.

Have a great weekend.

*Peter Gabriel. And I don’t think inner thigh chafing is what he meant.

I am, however, bothered by the Tori Spelling Pregnant Lady Face. I had a chin! Where did it go? WHITHER CHIN AND JAWLINE, FACE?

(It is important to note that I adore Tori Spelling AND her Pregnant Lady Face, because she gives hope to all of us with this terrible affliction.)

Anyway, because I am already unattractive, I have also decided to let my super-short pixie cut grow out, and at this moment, I have reached the critical phase where I can no longer make this shaggy thing into anything even SLIGHTLY presentable, and it is time to call in the professionals. (You know how Dooce looks cute in hers? I do not. Mine does not look like that, despite being the same length. Mine is thick and puffy and matches my Tori Spelling Pregnant Lady Face. Also, there are roots. IT IS TIME FOR A HAIR APPOINTMENT.)

I am using this time for transitions, is what I’m saying, I suppose. Come June 4, I plan to emerge like Ally Sheedy’s character in the Breakfast Club after Claire gets a hold of her. I shall have great hair! Be thin! Have a normal face mere MOMENTS after birth! METAMORPHOSIS.

HAHAHAHAHAHA. Oh, dear. It’s going to be a while.

Anyway. Now that we know that this fetus is a girl, can we talk about names? I mean, she already HAS a great name that we’ve had picked out FOREVER, and so we are D O N E, but I am weeping for all the names we won’t get to use, either because we aren’t having a boy, or because we can’t agree or because they just don’t fit with us or our last name. But really, there will ALWAYS be names left behind, won’t there? My guess is that even Michelle Duggar has Naming Regrets.

SO! Here’s a partial list, and I would LOVE to hear yours:

Boys
Tobias (WEEP)
Alexander (XANDER)
Benjamin (nephew’s name!)
Nicholas (DITTO!)
Nathaniel
Finn
James (JAMIE!)
Callum
Emmett
Beckett
Desmond
Tucker
Cooper
Grady
Griffin
Gus

I COULD GO ON.

Girls
Alexa
Danielle
Stella
Sophie
Alison
Felicity
Cordelia
Olive
Sarah (my favorite. MY FAVORITE. Alas, it’s a no-go.)
Leah
Katherine (KATE!)
Caroline
Natalie

SIGH. Sarah or Natalie or Alexa Rubin will never come to pass. Or Leah. LEAH. Leah Rubin is AWESOME. But no.

Do you have unusable awesome names?

*Yes, I went Rihanna. I DO NOT EVEN KNOW.

It’s a big step from a few weeks ago, when she would literally rend her garments in horror, screaming and wailing as though I was being stabbed by the devil himself. The lowest point was when I had to HOLD HER IN MY ARMS while simultaneously losing my lunch in the toilet bowl.

Baby steps! Baby steps!

I feel better, though obviously not 100 percent, but you know, better in the sense that I’m not sobbing myself to sleep every night because I just! feel! so! SICK! I eat sometimes! I had toast for dinner! THIS IS WINNING!

Also . . . we’re having another girl. I could write a treatise on how horrible my ultrasound experience was, but ultimately, I’m getting a healthy baby girl out of it so far, and Sam is going to have a flipping SISTER. SISTERS! I have a sister, and I love her so, so I am VERY EXCITED ABOUT THIS. (I also have brothers and I love THEM so, so I would be VERY EXCITED about THAT, too.)

But the ultrasound. Oh. Oh my. It was over an hour long, as I flipped from this side to that side, while the (inept) ultrasound tech sighed and prodded, desperately searching for body parts that were either missing or two small, according to her mutterings. “Ugh, heart too tiny!” Jab jab jab. “Leg! The leg is very bad.” She squirted on more gel.

“WHAT?” I was understandably alarmed. “But . . . is something wrong?”

Her only reply was to herself as she made a note on her checklist. “Pulmonary artery missing.”

At this point, my unborn child—the one I conceived after MULTIPLE PREGNANCY LOSSES–had a too-small heart, a bum leg and was missing a major artery. And the tech still hadn’t said a word. I sat up, pulling at the towel at my waist, “STOP. Are you saying these things are BAD?”

She snapped to earth. “Oh! No. I just can’t get a good picture because the heart at this age is so tiny, the leg is blocking the kidneys, and the pulmonary artery is blocked by an arm.”

OKAY THEN. MAYBE REALIZE YOU ARE TALKING IN YOUR OUTSIDE VOICE, THEN.

She then took a moment to peek at the sex—at my request, not her initiative—spent three seconds (I WAS WATCHING), declared it impossible, and when I protested, replied, “I’m not required to do that. It’s not a requirement. I’m happy to have the radiologist explain that to you.”

OH YES, PLEASE. And then, as I sobbed, she simply left the room.

(The end here is that the radiologist came in, found the sex, treated me like a mental patient as I cried, and OH YES I HAVE TO GO BACK NEXT WEEK TO HAVE A RE-DO ANYWAY AHH AHH)

(Yes, this is the same as my Twitter rant, but I HAD TO GET IT OUT THERE.)

Anyway, I’m happy to see you all again. Alas, I am nauseated again! TIME FOR BED.

*Ani DiFranco