Cue the synthesizer, it's The Final Countdown

There are only three weeks left in my pregnancy. Three weeks. Wow. Hard to believe in three weeks or less (!) I'll be the proud mama of another bouncing baby Chicky. Let's see, are we ready for the addition of another little person?

Braxton Hicks - Check

Lightening - Check, sort of. Not much room there to begin with.

Dilated - Check, though not much yet. We'll see how much more after that last round of BH contractions I had the other night at my OB appointment on Monday.

Bag packed for the hospital - Um, no.

Baby room finished - Uh uh.

Arrangements for dog care made - Shoot, forgot about that. Not yet.

Super special gift(s) I was going to purchase for Chicky to let her know Mama and Daddy love her very much - Crap! Nope.

Co-Sleeper - Purchased and set up but no sheets on it yet. I think the cat's been sleeping in it.

Recently purchased newborn outfit washed in special infant friendly detergent, folded lovingly and ready to go into bag for trip home from the hospital - Still sitting in the laundry basket with other newborn clothes that still need to be washed. Keep waiting for it to walk up to the washer and jump in all on its own but it's JUST NOT HAPPENING.

Name for the baby - BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!

Okay, so we're not exactly ready in the traditional sense, but this baby is coming whether or not there are shades installed in the nursery (there aren't) or if the baby seat is installed in the car (ditto) or even if we're prepared mentally (do you really have to ask?).

I'm a bit overwhelmed by it all. I still have every day life to live, after all. Just the basic care and feeding of Chicky is enough to drive me to the couch with a bottle of Tylenol and a heating pad.

And then there's the anticipation.

Mr. C asked me last night if I was more nervous when I was anticipating Chicky's arrival or this time and I said, unequivocally, this time. With Chicky, I was fearful of the unknown but sometimes ignorance is bliss. This time I know what to expect. And let me tell you, after having a newborn like Chicky who was colicky and unable to sleep on her own, a baby who hated to be held by any other person except me, and who didn't take to breastfeeding easily but wouldn't take a bottle either, I'm still a bit twitchy about going through it again.

It will be easier this time, I keep telling myself. Others tell me that too. Lightning doesn't strike twice. The second one is easier because you've been there, done that, and bought the damn t-shirt. But still...

*shudder*

I can't help but think that my hesitation to tie up loose ends as far as the new baby coming is concerned is my subconscious telling me to Run! Run for your life! In the name of all that is good and holy, Woman, run while you still can!

But have you ever seen a 9 month pregnant woman run? High comedy but not much progress.

Suppose I should at least start working on that hospital bag.


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Your suggestions for baby names have really helped. No, really. Mr. C and I have had a great time pouring over the comments and adding the names we like to our own list. We've gone from one name to six or seven now, which doesn't really seem like a big help now that I think about it.

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Some wonderful women are throwing myself, Her Bad Mother, and Mrs. Chicken a virtual baby shower. There are prizes to be won, people! And a children's charity! All the fun and none of the stupid party games or useless party favors! And definitely no stupid bow hat.

Go on over there and check it out. Don't make me get off this couch and chase you over or there will be hell to pay. Getting off the couch is a 10 step process, minimum, but don't think I won't do it and don't think I won't catch you. I can waddle as fast as anyone.

Name my kid. Please.

This baby still does not have a name.

Mr. C and I can not agree on a first name for this poor little baby. And never mind coming up with a middle name, that might drive us to divorce court. Or at the very least drive me to the funny farm. Mmm, padded walls sound pretty good right about now.

We've had 9 months to come to a decision on a name for this child, 9 fecking MONTHS, and we had, for awhile, come up with a name that we could live with. Truthfully, Mr. C had come up with a name and since I couldn't come up with anything better, I caved. I threw up my hands and said, Fine, you name her. And he did. Just like that he had at least a first name and was beginning to throw around middle names.

Show off.

But I never fell in love with the name. It was nice enough, we even passed it by family and friends and all seemed to like it. Not a sideways glance, a down turned gaze or an uncomfortable pause. No throat clearing. Not one, Really? You're going to name her that? It was a moniker everyone could live with. Except me.

Something was just not right.

It didn't sit with me as nicely as Chicky's name did. So I changed it this past weekend.

Well, not really. I didn't come up with a definitive name. I just came up with two or three other options that we are now considering. You know, just to make things interesting why not go from deciding on one name to choosing between four?

This sucks donkey balls. Seriously.

It shouldn't be this hard but it is. If left up to my husband the child would be named something very conservative, probably something biblical, and she'll be one of three or four little girls with the same name. She'll have to use her last initial for the rest of her life to set her apart from the other girls.

Not that there's anything wrong with that. Ahem.

I want my kid to have a name that will set her slightly apart from other kids. Something strong that will grow with her. Something beautiful and poetic. Something that people will be able to spell without needing to ask, unlike mine.

(Not that I'm bitter, Mom. No, not me. Not bitter at all about being referred to by at least three other names all my life, none of which are right. Nope. Not bitter.)

There is one name we like but the pronunciation is something we're struggling with. And if you're wondering what it is, watch a recap of tonight's American Idol.

Although, after hearing that boy butcher the song I'm reconsidering. Oy.

I'm tempted to let my readers name my kid. Someone has got to intervene. Someone not hopped up on hormones and carrying extra water weight and totally irrational because they can't get their hands ON SOME TWINKIES NOW. And you can't do any worse than me right about now.

How's that for a vote of confidence?

So go ahead, name my kid. If you come up with something we love you win absolutely nothing except my undying love and devotion. Maybe a link every week from my blog. Possibly the role of God Mother. Hell, we could name you in our will.

Or maybe I'm just getting carried away.

Someone please save me from myself. And while you're at it, get me a Twinkie okay?

(And wasn't I right way back when, when I said this baby was a girl. Uh huh. I'm psychic.)

(Or psycho. I'm still working out which one is closer to the truth.)

Don't know what you got until it's almost gone. And not in that cheesy 80s hair band kind of way.

Last week, on the first really beautiful and warm spring day we've had this year, Chicky and I had one of those rare mornings where I did very little yelling and lecturing and she did very little acting out.

(Read: No tantrums! When does that ever happen?)

(Uh, never.)

It seems spring fever had affected us both very positively. So to capitalize on it all, we went out to the park and stayed there, basking in the sun and catching a breeze on the swings, for most of the morning. After that, we drove over to the next town to buy some summer shoes for her and then next door to Panera for a soup and sandwich for me.

I had contemplated sitting there with the rest of the lunchtime crowd but the thought of paying five or six bucks for a peanut butter sandwich and a box of milk was not enticing, so we took everything to go. On the way home, however, I started to regret my decision. Chicky, who to this point was being uncharacteristically cooperative and downright charming, probably would have enjoyed sitting there at a table surrounded by people in business wear while she nibbled her PB&J or grilled cheese sandwich. No doubt the table of women dressed in nurses scrubs would have given her a few smiles and Chicky would have beamed right back. It would have been a nice end to an enjoyable morning with my first born.

That's when it hit me. My first born, my baby, my partner in crime, would very soon have to share her special time with me with a sibling. There soon will be very few opportunities when she and I will have a lunch date on the fly. No more just the two of us, our girl duo is going to become a trio. And I got all weepy thinking about it.

(You'd think this would have hit me all a lot sooner but then you'd be giving me way too much credit.)

In the interest of full disclosure, I've been turning on the waterworks pretty hard for the past week or two. Everything, every little freaking thing, makes me reach for the tissues. Because I am Weepy McWeeperson. Watch out or I might cry on your shoes.

Anyway.

So there we were, driving down the picturesque back roads of our town, sunroof open and radio playing music we both could agree on. Passing people out walking their dogs, everyone in a good mood. And I had tears in my eyes.

"Mommy, are you crying?"

"No, hon. A bug flew in my eye."

"Oh. Do you have a boo boo in your eye now? Do you need to go to the doctor?" She's very concerned about the health and well being of my eyes these days.

"No. I'll just use this tissue to get it out," I sniffed.

Of course, she wanted to see the bug I allegedly fished out of my eye, but I convinced her it had flown away. Because that's what good moms do - they lie to their kids to cover their own asses.

For most of this pregnancy I've been in hurry-up-and-get-this-damn-baby-out-of-me mode but now I'd like to slow the time down a bit. I'd like a few more months to show Chicky a good time, without the interference of a needy, crying infant or a pesky younger sibling. But my way back time machine is still out in the garage, half finished. I just need to find where I put that spare flux capacitor.

I know she won't remember a time before her little sister, but I will. And that's another thing good moms do - wish for impossible things for their children for their own selfish reasons.

It's true. Look it up.

Go, Speed Racer

I got pulled over by a police officer the other day for speeding. It's been forever since I last got pulled over by a cop because since becoming a mother I've gotten pokey in my driving. It's not like I have anywhere especially important to get to in a hurry. Play group? Pssh. If I'm late that's just a few minutes less I have to pretend to care about where little Timmy's mom got those fabulous organic crackers she brought for snack time.

Yeah, the playgroup thing. It's wearing thin. Thankfully it's almost summer and soon I won't have to deal with all that, at least until fall. I'll deal with the dread then.

What was my point?

Oh, yeah. Me. Surly police officer. Toddler in the back seat asking, "Who dat? Who dat, Mama? Who DAT??". Flashing blue lights. Less than 400 yards away from my house. Good times.

And did I mention that my mother in law was about fifteen minutes away? Or that I still hadn't fed my kid her dinner? Or the dogs theirs? And that I had to be at work in less than an hour?

So I was a-speeding.

Yes, the normally pokey little Mrs. Chicky was putting the pedal to the metal - I can admit that - because I had less than an hour to take my kid with me to make copies for my class and get back home. You would think that after the last fiasco at the copy place I wouldn't have procrastinated this long. But you if you thought that you obviously don't know me too well. I am the Queen of Procrastination. The High Sovereign of the land of Dilly, Dally, and Dawdle.

(But this trip did go 100% better than the last. Why? Rice cakes and a stroller. Who knew?)

The officer who pulled me over told me I was going 45 in a posted 30 MPH zone. Which was crap - that was the jackass who was riding my ass who pulled off onto another street just as the cop hit his blues - but who was I to argue?

So there we sat, me trying to explain to Chicky what was going on while trying not to look at the clock, waiting for the officer to deliver my sentence. The minutes ticked away.

Okay, don't have time to make her chicken for dinner. Alright, now I won't have time to make mac and cheese. Well, maybe I'll have time to make her a hot dog, but no vegetables. Fine, I'll just throw some Cheerios on the floor and let Chicky and the dogs have at it.

All that waiting and he gave me a warning. A warning! Hurrah! (But, c'mon, wtf. He made me wait all that time for a warning) Now I'll let you, gentle reader, decide why Officer McGrumpy only gave me a warning:

a. His computer wasn't working so he didn't know that I was wanted in three states.
b. He liked that I was wearing a Red Sox cap - yes, I live in that thing - and felt a kinship with a fellow member of Red Sox Nation.
c. The dumb blonde Gee, Officer, I didn't know I was speeding hee hee act worked like a charm.
d. He thinks moms, especially those who don't care enough to do their own hair, are hot.
e. He saw the police sticker (given to me by my FIL, the retired Lieutenant) in my window.

I don't really know why he didn't give me a ticket, though I suspect it was probably E, all I know is that as soon as he was out of sight I hauled ass back home (I know, I know) and got Chicky some food just as my MIL pulled up in front of my house. Crisis barely averted. I promise, next time I won't wait so long before having to get to the copy store. Unless my loyal subjects decide to make me the high priestess of Shilly-Shally and Stall. I bet I wouldn't have to worry about playgroup then.