Gone to a bachelorette party. Nothing like a bachelorette party when you’re knocked up, I tell you.  I was tasked with bringing the old college blow-up doll (some people have scrapbooks, some have blow-up dolls with terrifying faces; judge not lest you be…well, you know). I also participated, minimally, in a champagne tasting, otherwise known as OHMYGOD THESE THREE BIG SIPS ARE THE BEST OF MY LIFE GOOD LUCK TO YOU FETUS

Visited IKEA for Swedish meatballs baby furniture. For some reason, I was overtaken with the need to act out some semblance of real baby preparation early Sunday afternoon. So we piled into the car to go to IKEA, where I was promptly distracted by the signs.

“It seems to me that they just add -ka to the end of English words!” I announced as we passed a display of Beddingka and Textileska, realizing belatedly that I had thereby offended anyone of even questionable Swedish descent in hearing range.

Happily, I was able to drown my embarrassment in a lunch that turned out to be free because we purchased over $100 of baby furniture. I’ll be the first to admit that the changing table looks a little shifty, but at the same time that complimentary apple cake was delectable.

Started to go through Aura’s baby clothes. Although I really didn’t think we’d have a second child, I never gave away Aura’s outgrown clothes. Which means I now have approximately one trillion items of tiny clothing to sort into Donation, Consignment, Keep for Nostalgia’s Sake, and Unisex Enough for a Boy piles.

SOB MY BABY HOW IS SHE FIVE

Aura is helping, by which I mean she is insisting that every piece of infant girl clothing is also appropriate for her impending brother. If I hint that a particular item is “a little too pink” or has “perhaps too many flowers,” she reminds me that WE DON’T DO THE GIRL-BOY THING.  And I can’t exactly argue, yet it’s so much easier to practice this concept when your girl child is playing with trucks than when your future boy child is potentially wearing this, as lovingly chosen by his sister:

Disgusted a young, impressionable, and apparently blunt daughter. Aura walked into my bedroom as I was getting dressed this weekend. I turned from the closet to find her with her face buried in my comforter.

“Sweetie, what’s wrong?” I asked, pulling some socks from a drawer.

“It’s just…well, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but your breasts look really gross. I’m just going to close my eyes until you put a shirt on,” she muttered from under the blanket.

So, in sum: Milk pre-production going well. Turns out that I’ll be able to feed the second child while I TOTALLY AND BITTERLY NEGLECT THE FIRST ONE.

Which is why this blog post is a bit of a departure.

Please allow me to announce: I am so, so proud of my kid.

I mean, I’m always proud of Aura, for vast and various reasons—her behavior, her empathy, her sense of humor. Oh, and her steadfastness in the pursuit of a handheld video-game system. (Keep savin’, child. That $169.99 is just, oh, five really full piggy banks from becoming a reality.)

But this time I’m proud of how she handled something. Without making a long, not-necessarily-intriguing-to-anyone-outside-the-family story even longer, suffice it to say that Adam and I aren’t taking our town’s September 1 birthday deadline for first grade lying down. We already missed the September 1 deadline for kindergarten this year (Aura’s birthday is in early October), which is why Aura is now in a fairly pricey half-day private kindergarten, instead of a third year of preschool.

So we’re taking advantage of the first-grade petition process that the town offers (and for which we are grateful). I don’t know what the final decision will be, if Aura will end up having to go again to kindergarten next year or entering first grade, and we won’t know until probably sometime next week. But the process is finally underway, and yesterday was Aura’s screening.

We didn’t even tell her about the testing until the night before, and even then we obviously downplayed it as more of a “chat with a nice teacher.” Still, I wondered how she’d do, being ushered into another room by a man whom she had never met and being asked to answer a series of questions.

And yet? She did beautifully. She warmed up immediately to the school official and bounced away from me and to an office down the hall, never glancing back. As for me, I sat in the school lobby, nervously picking at my maternity top (update: still not one stranger has asked me when I’m due IT’S AS IF THE SOLID FAT MASS OF NON-PREGNANT-LOOKING TORSO IS DETERMINED TO FOIL ME) and envisioning how I was now to be known around the school district as The Pushy Mother Who Won’t Adhere to School System Policies and Is Determined Her Kid Is a Genius.

All this while Aura…aced it. She enjoyed the testing, enjoyed the screener, enjoyed the entire thing. And from the brief feedback I received afterward, I gather that she did very well on the tests. There’s still a classroom observation and committee meeting ahead of us, so who knows what will happen. But honestly?

Watching her walk away to her test, ready and willing and maybe a tad bit nervous, proves to be me that we’re doing the right thing. Turns out it’s not so much about that she knows how to read, or that she knows how to add double-digit numbers and tell you about various groupings of five. She’s just…ready.

Good thing I’m having this other baby to make up for the one who is preparing to leave me. Ungrateful twits, all of ‘em.

So! My top five pro-and-con list for those of you considering the jump from office to home:

#1

Pro: You no longer have to deal with a commute.

Con: No more catching up on the latest songs on the radio. No more time to listen to those little news updates in the car.  From now on, you will be the Awkward Guest at dinner parties who imparts months-late current events: “Can you believe that Brad and Angelina now have three kids?!? Geez!”

#2

Pro: You save tons of money by not having to buy office-appropriate clothes.

Con: You become too comfortable in sweatpants. It no longer occurs to you that there are other clothes besides sweatpants. You sigh, harassed, when your husband or child suggests you change into a “nice pair of jeans.” It’s like this country is INCAPABLE of getting past its obsession with non-elastic waistbands.

#3

Pro: You see more of your children.

Con: You see more of your children.

#4

Pro: You get to spend a lot of time in places like OfficeMax and Staples, picking up necessary provisions like the cutest packages of colored paperclips.

Con: Turns out no one uses paperclips anymore. Or, say, paper.

#5

Pro: In the quiet of your own home, you are freed from those annoying co-workers who always interrupt you just as you’re sinking your teeth into the important part of a project.

Con: You suddenly have no co-workers. Where are your co-workers? Why isn’t there anyone interested in talking to you? WHY IS IT SO DAMN QUIET ALSO WHY DOES NO ONE LIKE ME

Blanching with something akin to, oh, I don’t know, extreme dread, I chuckled and shook my head. “Nope, I’m pretty sure we’re just going to stay a family of four, sweetie.”

Aura furrowed her brow and looked at me pityingly.

“But you grow a baby when you LOVE someone and you and Daddy are IN LOVE and you’re not going to stop BEING IN LOVE, so you’ll just grow more babies!” she explained, looking mildly astounded by my dimness.

I for one suddenly became very astounded by my dimness. First of all, her father had just told me the night before that the new fish recipe I had tried was “kind of dry” and “maybe needed to be reevaluated,” so the whole staying-in-love thing wasn’t looking like a slam dunk at the moment. Second, perhaps my sweetness/light/looooove approach to explaining how babies are made was backfiring.

Somewhere out there, my good friend Becca is cackling at this comeuppance. She has been telling me for years to get Aura the below book, since her son started loving it. But I couldn’t, and I still can’t. Maybe when Aura’s older, like six, or seven, or…thirty-one. Maybe then we’ll begin using terms other than, er, “peephole” and “down there.” Come on. She’s my baby. BABIES DO NOT “GET SMART ABOUT THEIR OHGOD PRIVATE PARTS.”

Alyssa at Near Normalcy recently wrote a seriously fantastic post about this very subject—explaining sex to a child around Aura’s age. I nodded my way right through the post, thought approvingly of how Alyssa described a very mature approach to parenting, then proceeded to edit the entire babymaking chapter of Double Fudge when we read it before bed that night, because it seems pretty obvious that Judy Blume was a sex maniac.

I just…can’t do it. It’s not that I won’t do it, or that I’m not prepared to do it. It’s just that, for us, it hasn’t gotten to that point yet. I do sense  “that point” rapidly approaching, what with a little brother on his way with his little penis and all.

It’s just that there are so many years stretching ahead of five-year-old Aura, so much time when so much of what she’ll do and hear and think about will be tinged with the concept of body parts and what they can do and what people can do with them. Hazy though the memories are, I remember elementary school. I remember “liking” a boy as early as third grade (oh, Tommy D.; how I kicked him often and repeatedly on the playground to show my love, which is how we western Mass girls used to do it, Springfield UNIIIITE).

So. It’s coming, and there’s no way around It, and soon enough Aura, our baby, will be thinking differently about the clothes she wears and how people perceive her and how all that translates into non-let’s-play-with-Polly-Pockets! relationships. She’ll be kicking boys on the playground and giggling about it on the phone with her best friend and OH GOD SHE MIGHT WEAR A BRA SOMEDAY.

Nah.

So, for now, we’re waiting her out. We’re sticking with the Babies Are Made From Love concept, and I’ll kind of gloss over the part where her father is actually in danger of having the locks changed on him because he also said something a tad derisive about my baked chicken the other night (DAMN YOU, ALLRECIPES.COM AND YOUR TOO-LIGHT HAND WITH SAVORY FLAVORS).

Either that or we’ll just kick the entire thing into high gear by throwing in some fairies. I figure you can’t go wrong with baby-making fairies. Elusive little suckers and very, very easy to blame.

And when you tell them you'll miss them when they're on their field trip, they just go on trying to erupt the kitchen.

1. You all are a creative group. Thank you for all the baby name suggestions. I must say, this sticking-with-four-letters theme is trickier than it first appears. Especially because I’m not married to the idea. My three top name choices are all at least six letters long. They suffer in other ways, too, including that TWO freakin’ celebrities just used a name each. That leaves me with my last choice, which I love because it harkens to the beauty of Arthurian legend. Of course, when I say things like harkens to the beauty of Arthurian legend, Adam just snorts and drinks more, which is completely unfair since my Twentieth-Century-Female-Figures-of-Literary-Infamy name choices (THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH WILLA OR ZELDA) were shot down the first time around. And this is basically why we have to overthrow a paternalistic society, in case that wasn’t clear.

Willa, Willa. How you made me love you. Oh, and hate Nebraska.

2. Speaking of celebrities, we watched the forever-awaited season premiere of Mad Men last night. I mention this because–as if this is not already abundantly clear–I have very little else of import going on in my life and I would probably sell at least one fully delivered child and one still-baking child (now a temptingly barter-able eight-and-a-half inches long) for some quality time with Jon Hamm. That being said, I was a little let down. Maybe it was the lack of Betty, maybe it was my ambivalence about New Wife Megan, or maybe it’s because I realized just as it was about to start that there wasn’t a single Cadbury Mini Egg in the house and suddenly colors didn’t seem as bright.

(But was it just me? Anyone else finish the episode with a so-so feeling?)

3. My final ramble, directed to those of you inclined to let your kindergartner tackle her What I Did This Weekend homework on her own: DON’T.

For if you should let her do it on her own, she will draw a stick figure secured by multiple ropes to a variety of sturdy structures with the explanation “I WENT TO LEAH’S TO TIE HER MOM.” And somehow your hasty explanation to the teacher that Aura and her friend played a knot-tying game with the friend’s mom won’t make up for the fact that yes, your child is looking a lot like a home invader in the making.

“Oh!” said the one woman at the table whom I didn’t know. “You’re pregnant? I couldn’t even tell you’re pregnant. I thought you were just…”

Then her voice trailed off and she looked down busily at her plate of stuffed shells.

“Fat?” I prodded gently, nodding and pausing to shovel in a bite of a large slice of strawberry cake (COME TO ME, TRANS FAT FROSTING CORNER PIECE WITH THE BIG ROSE NO ONE ELSE WANTS). “Yep. I know.”

You people who avoid slices with frosting roses are dead to me.

And it’s true–and just like I predicted and just like last time. My body has done a meritorious job of putting on weight since November (let’s all be polite and keep the exact number to “just somewhere slightly south of 20 pounds” and then forget we read that), but I still just look like a misplaced porn star who got pretty paunchy since her last film.

(If I’m ever an honest-to-goodness porn star, my debut will involve something with great big corner pieces of strawberry cake. I decided this somewhere around my third slice this weekend. It was rather momentous.)

Anyway, no one at the doctor’s office seems very worried about the weight gain, or the lack of pregnancy-looking-ness. Then again, they probably take one look at me during appointments and then bite back remarks, fear as they do that I will club them to death with my Breasts of Hugeness. These nurse practitioners might be medically trained, but they’re not stupid.

For now, I’d settle for just a few more signs of the baby himself. Turns out that I have an anterior placenta this time around, which I understand to mean that the baby has rested himself on his comfy organ of blood supply at the front of my uterus instead of the more common back of the uterus. This also seems to mean that kicks and punches are very muted and difficult to feel.

Or maybe he just needs more, er, strawberries.

P.S. Next post! Will need your help! Adam has decided that since his name, my name, and Aura’s name all consist of four letters, the baby’s should too. Adam’s best suggestion so far is Shiv. I’m going to need some advice. Either that or I’m going to need to find a real shiv to settle the issue. And you know what they say about fatherless boys.

I have a few friends who are pretty big fans of Disney (Hi Becca! Hi Dann!), and their glowing reports of the parks gave me hope that Adam and I would like it enough to survive six days there. Well-organized resorts! Fluid bus system! Endless opportunities for family-wide joy!

Six days later, I’d like to report that I am officially missing the Disney Gene. You know, the gene that makes it seem sensible that everyone in the family is wearing matching “Disney or Bust!” t-shirts and  and proceeding commando-style from the Peter Pan ride to Space Mountain while muttering well-informed decisions about how best to use the Disney dining plan once they Park Hopped to Epcot since it was open for Extra Magic Hours that night HELP I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT ANY OF YOU ARE SAYING. ALSO, YOUR MATCHING MICKEY EARS SCARE THE CRAP OUT OF ME.

So, for those families still mulling over the wisdom of a trip to Disney World, I present the following checklist. Because if this blog is anything, it is helpful. Like, super helpful. The most helpfulest of all helpful blogs. (Example: PSA! Cadbury Mini Eggs are now in stores! Minus the bags I already ate!)

HOW TO KNOW YOU ARE NOT A DISNEY PERSON

1. When the 1,642nd employee tells you to “Have a magical evening!/Have a magical day!/Have a magical vacation!” you do a quick scan of his/her body for soft, kickable parts. Right after your ears start bleeding.

2. You take one look at the Magic Kingdom’s Main Street, U.S.A. and your first thought is that there is a blatant, glaring absence of bars offering stiff drinks. Non-magical drinks. Big ones.

3. The very mention of a Hidden Mickey makes you form fists.

4. You walk around Epcot and actively resist telling everyone in the World Showcase that you’re pretty sure they’re just faking their accents. Plus all those so-called Germans just look smarmy.

5. Every time you hear Mickey chirp “See ya real soon!” you ask your husband to restrain you from smacking a mouse OH MY GOD HOW DIFFICULT IS IT TO JUST SAY “YOU” STUPID STUPID RODENT

You do not want to know how long we waited in line to get this photo. Oh, wait. You do? Okay, I'm going to go with ETERNITY. TIMES INFINITY.

There are many other items in this list, but I am starting to realize that this post is becoming a bit…hostile. I probably should take a good, long look at myself in the mirror and examine why this is, but for now I’m just going to go ahead and blame it on that Toy Story Midway Mania ride for which we waited eight hours. You should have seen me shoot off Buzz Lightyear’s head.

It was downright magical.

The first: The baby looks healthy, with everything in its perfect place. No third head, and therefore no three-headed-hat-buying, which sounded rather expensive, if we’re going to get right down to it.

The second: The baby is a…

BOY.

How I, a Mother of Only a Girl Thus Far, Feel About This Startling Development

1. Startled

2. Terrified

3. A little more startled

4. Not sure I mentioned terrified

5. Oh, and ecstatic. In a SUPER HUGE TERRIFIED way.

First, thank you so much to everyone for the wonderful comments, e-mails, and tweets. Since we play it close to the baby-growing vest over here in the Kate-Adam household, it was really great to be able to share the news with more than my mom (eagerly poised to buy out T.J. Maxx’s baby section) and a few close friends (all of whom are evidently finely tuned to the weakness of “I know! Turns out I have the stomach flu for the SEVENTH week in a row!” excuse, the cagey buggers).

HA HA ANTI-NAUSEA GUM

Everyone living everywhere has fallen victim to at least five pregnant women’s Huge and Hulking Stories of Early Pregnancy Woe in their lives, so I’ll spare you the details of the first trimester, except to say OH NO NEVER AGAIN THIS IS IT YOU CAN BET BIG WADS OF MONEY ON THAT. My pregnancy with Aura was so easy, so hey!-sure-let’s-go-out-to-dinner-at-a-place-with-smelly-foods-then-stay-up-until-midnight! fancy-free. And I think I vomited all of twice in that first go-round. I guess this pregnancy isn’t all that different, as long as you multiply the vomiting towards infinity and add in a huge helping of Hell. Then they’re super even.

ALSO: KIND OF-HA HA ANTI-NAUSEA WRISTBANDS

If the past three months have taught me anything, it’s that I’m prepared to take whatever steps necessary to ensure nausea of this magnitude never happens again. Adam doesn’t seem to appreciate this quite as much as I would expect, so to emphasize the point I like to walk around the house making scissor motions with my fingers and yelling “SNIP SNIP GET READY” when he least expects it.  Because that’s what love is.

Things have been much, much better the past few weeks, though. In fact, I went out to an actual dinner and an actual movie with some friends last Friday. As we walked out of the theater, I took a deep breath of late evening air and announced gleefully, “So THIS is what 9:30 at night looks like!” (Note: Best not to say this around women who have not yet committed to the whole having-kids thing.  Though the panicky expressions are kind of fun, especially if you throw in “And WOW is it nice to not have thrown up that sandwich! YUM!”)

I am a two-month-old photo of a blob. I am immensely difficult to blame, which is immensely frustrating.

Anyway, I’m beyond grateful to be feeling better. Now if we can just get through next Tuesday’s anatomy scan with no complications or oh-my-God moments, I’ll be golden. After our experiences with prenatal testing with Aura, we chose to forgo some of the tests this time around. I will say that the baby better not have three heads, since I have not drunk Diet Pepsi/Diet Coke for three months for that very reason. I see a third head, I’m setting up an aspartame IV and going for it. There’s sacrifice and then there’s sacrifice, if you know what I mean.

My one request at this point, besides a healthy, third-head-less baby, would be to look even vaguely pregnant. So far, it looks like things are going to be go the same way as they did with Aura:

1. Grow giant, porn-star-sized chest. (check)
2. Develop two stomachs: one larger lower mass of fat and presumably baby, then a second, higher mass of more fat and presumably Thin Mints.  (check)
3. Wait until six months for a single stranger to ask when you’re due. (ongoing)
4. Accept the fact that you now appear to be nothing other than your run-of-the-mill Hefty Girl. Or Big-Boned Girl. Or Simply Fat Girl with Really, Really Big Knockers.  (door #3)

Thanks again for all the well wishes. Countdown to boy-or-girl: six days. Since I only know how to raise girls, this next blog post might be offering a boy for sale. Head’s up, bargain seekers.

And here’s one from me.