This is Astrid and she is Snazzy and if you’d like to know why she’s here, please see Penelope’s blog.

Astrid is a crocodile. She was originally going to be an alligator, but when I snuck into McPanteses’ room in the thick of the night last night to get a book with an example of a gator head, all I could put my hands on quickly was the book I, Crocodile.

So, meet Astrid the Crocodile. I make no apologies for the thickness of her “arms” compared to the skinniness of her “legs” and ask you to recall women you’ve met with finely turned ankles…

Penelope, this “assignment” was a highlight of the past week, which has been one of the sadder weeks I’ve lived in many years. Thank you.

Please.

Don’t.

Don’t mistake me from the back for a co-worker who is at least twice as large as me.

Please.

Don’t tell me, “Ohhh, it’s just the baby.”

I don’t care how much you and the co-worker laugh. It’s not funny. You try smiling weakly and making the appropriate protestations when the co-worker says, “Oh, I bet she doesn’t think it’s funny to be compared to me, but OOOH, I’d get to be skinny and pregnant!”*

Nooo, noooo, not at all.

I can’t say, YES, IT’S FUCKING HILARIOUS to be compared to you and how WAS the McDonald’s breakfast, anyway, and what in the samhill did you eat that came in that big ole bag and incidentally, when did fast food restaurants get shopping bags? Yes, it’s so funny! That wouldn’t be nice, now would it?

And I can’t say, GOOD GOD, NO NO NOOOOOOOOOO, don’t compare me to her! Please, don’t! I’ve only gained 11 or 12 pounds and my ass didn’t REALLY eat Manhattan. That wouldn’t be nice either.

So what’s a gal to do? Stand there and smile weakly.

And stick her tongue out meanly at the offending co-worker (she of the earlier comment: “girrrl, you look pregnant all OVER!”) as you walk back to your office.

* I am not skinny. I am not fat. I just am. I am a greenish blob of pregnant moodiness whose skin sallows more by the day and whose stretch marks are a roadmap of the Pacific Highway (which will come in handy when we take that cross-country road trip with McPantses from the Deep South to Sunny Cali–doesn’t that sound like a blast?).** I am in no way telling you, the free world, that I am a supahstah of svelte and glowing pregnant beauty because it would be a grand lie. I am not saying that it would be wonderful for any person to look like me because I don’t think it true. I am merely repeating what the co-worker said. Oh, and I’m making fun of whatever breakfast she ate that came in the shopping bag from McDonald’s.

** I am joking. I wouldn’t do this for any amount of cash. Thank you very much and have a nice day. You may pick up your order at the next window.

and it’s so strange, isn’t it?

I stood in line with hundreds (hundreds? a thousand? two thousand? I don’t know) of people last night to tell a husband and a wife that I was sorry. That I was thinking of them. That I didn’t know what to say and that there aren’t words to express my grief for them.

And the husband and I joked for a moment. He said, “You’re pregnant again?” with great mock horror in his voice, like I birth children on a regular basis. And I said, “shutUP, SHUTUP. It’s the second one in four years.”

And they were both unnaturally thin.

Which makes sense.

And the flowers were beautiful.

And I keep wondering about how quiet their house must be, with both of them at home and no one at the hospital. You’d think that the time when they both get to stay home overnight would be a joyous one, but their youngest son will never be at home with them again, so all I imagine is the two of them looking at each other and thinking, we are not supposed to be here together. We’re supposed to be at the hospital. And I think about how unnaturally quiet their house must be and about the funeral today and how they will feel in a few weeks when things settle down a little and they confront his room and his clothes and his toys and everything. Just everything.

What do you do? Do you pack it up? Do you leave it out and make a shrine? Do you pick and choose and donate and shuffle belongings and scents and loveys and just what do you do?

And the knife in my gut twists again.

God bless you, I think. God bless you.

For whatever it’s worth.

As I unstrapped McPantses this morning when we got to her school, she said something and ended it with “maw-maw” instead of “mama” or “mom” or “mommy” or “mommy-moms.” She laughed and said, “I called you maw-maw. Can I call you maw-maw?” And I snapped my dentures in and moved the wad of chaw out of the side of my mouth and spit on the street and said, “Naw, baby girl, yew cain’t call me maw-maw because it makes me feel like-n-old woman.”

Wonder if my kid just gave me my grandma name? I sure hope not.

Maw-maw.

I am sure that the depth of your sorrow is immeasurable.

Please know that tonight, I grieve for friends.

Soon, I will be able to celebrate the life that a little boy had.

But tonight I mourn his loss.

God bless those of you who suffer this loss.

I can’t tell you how it happened. All I know is that I ran into my LYS right after lunch with a friend and ended up casting on for a quick scarf in the car at a red light on the way back to work.

**pushes yarn-nerd glasses up on nose**

Yessiree, I was knitting at a red light.

I snagged two skeins (balls?) of Skacel Hip Hop, color 1002 (it’s a variegated ribbon/tape yarn that goes from chartreuse green to turquoise blue to deep indigo/grayish blue-violet) and my first pair of fat needles (Clover Bamboo size 11). I will be honest and tell you that the colors in the link I provided don’t look great, but the stuff is deliciously bright and crazy in person. It’s winking at me from the murky depths of my purse (’neath my desk) right now, saying “kniiiiit me, kniiiiit me. You know you want to.”

It’s like crack.

The crazy LYS lady’s husband helped me pick out yarn and needles. He’s at the shop sometimes, usually with food for his wife, and he’s always helped me out. He taught me how to cast off. He said, as I left, “we recommend sitting down to knit a scarf and not stopping until you’re done.”

Methinks my employers would not approve.

I’m tempted to hide it under my desk and get cracking anyway.

Really.

Buy from these people because they make gorgeous things.

Check the Nashville Stitch N Bitch page and look at the ebay store goods. They’re things left over from a weekend craft sale and I’ve been watching pictures go up on the website for weeks. Her knitting is divine and her stitching is equally as lovely. I’m envious of the talent! I warn you: back away from the gorgeous sweater coat on page 2 because it’s coming to McPantses.

Need a deliciously soft blankie for a shower gift or for the fave kid in your life? Visit my lovely friend, Box of Blankets and stock up. There’s something there for a new big brother or sister, too.

More to come, I promise.

Here are some stats for those who obsess over old wives’ tales and gender prediction:

According to every Chinese gender prediction ancient secret chart thingie, I am having a girl (wrong).

According to the laws of vomit (which say that the sicker one is, the more likely it is that one is having a girl), I am having a girl.

According to the laws of how one carries a baby (boys are basketball-shaped and carried all in the front), I am having a girl.

According to the laws of how one looks while pregnant (girls “rob” your looks), I am having a girl.

According to the laws of heartbeats (girls have faster heartbeats), I am having a boy.

So, for those keeping score, I got knocked up a the wrong time of the year to birth a boy. I am sicker than I was with McPanteses. I am carrying this boy entirely in my ass, which could be a real medical miracle when it comes birthin’ time. And, I am getting uglier by the moment–really. I look like Rosemary’s Baby, except with the addition of the ass that ate Manhattan.

And there you have it for the old wives’ tales.

we’re having a boy!

I am stunned–I spent most of the ultrasound thinking I saw girl parts, but the girl parts were the cord hanging between the little snapper’s legs and when he got un-bashful enough to move around (he was incredibly wiggly the whole time, but the nether regions stayed put), lo and behold, there was a penis sticking out for all the world to see.

I never in a million years imagined I’d be the mom of a boy, but there you have it. He shall be known as “Third” online, but worry not. We will call him a real name in real life.

While I am certain the inlaws were holding me responsible for producing a penis in utero (they pretty much told me so), I’m not sure how much credit I’ll get now that it’s happened, but they are genuinely happy.

More important than the gender is the fact that he looks healthy. We saw everything that one wants to see at a level II ultrasound and I was leaking tears (as opposed to many of the other vile things one can leak from any given orifice while pregnant) of happiness. As soon as we got home, I vomited in celebration (because, HEY!, that’s what I do!) and we went for breakfast and I stopped to buy a boy daygown (because, HEY!, it’s the South and we own no boy daygowns–for anyone not a Southaaaaaan gal, that would be a dress for an infant boy and get the hell over it because it’s my boy to ghey up in baby dresses and not yours).

And I’ve watched the video and studied the pictures. Somehow, we managed to get two money shots and no face shots and the Husband said, “I cannot take penis pictures to my office to hang on the refrigerator–how did we not get a face shot?” I guess the only explanation is that penis trumps face? Don’t ask me. I know nothing about baby boys.

A note to those whose kids aren’t often sick: NEVER EVER EVER say, twice in one week, even while knocking on wood, “Hey, I just realized that McPantses hasn’t had a doctor visit since her 3-yr-old well check almost a year ago!”

What kind of total idiot tempts fate that way? This one did and was rewarded with a 2:45 a.m. wake-up call to snuggle McPantses of the snuffed-up nose two nights ago and a 5:30 a.m. wake-up call today.

So, Gods of Toddlers, please forgive me for speaking aloud about McP’s good health. It shan’t happen again for a long while and I do not take it for granted. Just don’t make me have to go to the pediatrician, please. I’m going to the doc every four weeks myself–isn’t that enough?