Some People Call Me Maurice

Yes, it's another disjointed update post with points. No, there's no reason for that title except that we've been fixated on names lately (of the baby variety) and that the title and artist are worth five points. If anyone can tell me what the hell a "pompaduce of love" is, I'll kiss you. Okay, fine, five more points.

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Danke schoen, darlings, danke schoen. (So easy, five points for the artist and five points for the movie. Anyone? Aha, I know, not funny.)

I am so behind, with the trip and visitors and life, etc., that I want to say it here. Thank you for your comments on the Good Mother post and the anniversary post. First, you made me feel like a normal, non-committable screaming lunatic and then you made me feel like the work I put into all those little life stories was worth it. I'm validated as a mom and a person and a writer. Thank you. I'm working on replies. If you've emailed me in the last ten days and you're thinking I'm rude as all hell, give me a few more days.

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I can see the city lights. (Title and artist for five.)


Seattle was awesome. Three days without our children, awesome. Shopping at the two story Anthropologie (with a short breakdown during which I had to call my sister and get permission to buy ridiculous, beautiful things with my pre-determined spending money, like adorable fabric covered initials for the kids' rooms), still awesome.

Cute, no? (Just say yes, I get shopper's remorse easily.)

Hugs from the kidlets after three days away, priceless.

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You ain't getting a hound dog (or a Great Dane), cry all you want. (Ouch, that one is a stretch, and Matt probably will get the damn dog. He's already got the kids calling it the "dog's little house.")

The mudroom groweth. Eighty square feet of muddy-stuff-storing heaven.


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Oh, baby, baby, it's a wild world. (Last five, make them count.)

So, oh, yeah, I'm still pregnant. Thirty-two and a half weeks.


I'm big, like catch-a-glimpse-of myself-in-a-window-and-gasp big. The baby's big too, with kicks that are now more like punches to the gut than little bubble flowers.

It's almost certainly a girl. Matt and I agreed on a girl's name over fish and chips on Bainbridge Island. We have never ever agreed on a girl's name. I threw a temper tantrum over his rejection of all my names for Ess and he caved. Last weekend, we were talking about favorite micro brews and a name just happened. We both love it. Girl. For sure. And yes, she is named after a beer. That's not really weird here. Gee is named after a bar and Cue's name I noticed on the bottom of our TV screen while watching football one night. Last name of a quarterback. We're not proud. We'll take names where we can get them.

I don't know what else to say about the very last eight weeks of pregnancy in my world. I'd like to put it into sweet, flowery words, but I can't find them. I feel great. I feel sad. I want it to last and end. I feel cute and happy and wonderful, but simultaneously whale-like and tired and scared because oh-my-god-it-she-he-has-to-exit-still-and-that-shit-hurts.

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Tiptoe through the tulips. (Okay, one more, because they're so darn cute.)





Have you smelled the flowers lately? Because it's spring and they smell heavenly.