The Whining Resumes

Now that my OB has declared, "everything looks just fine" and the sonogram technician has given me an imperfect weight guestimate of 5 pounds, 4 healthy ounces--I can go back tobitching about frivolous things like maternity bras the size of a minivan, my slightly troublesome new compulsion to eat a daily Reeses, and of course, the ongoing saga of what to name (or rather, what not to name) the baby.

Because she's coming in 4 weeks or so. And she's looking good, so say the experts.

(Here I squeal, just a little, but don't tell anyone. I have a reputation to uphold.)

All of your supportive comments and emails definitely talked me off a low ledge this week, and in fact, I now feel a wee bit embarrassed for an anxiety attack that seems disproportionate to the actual chance of any fears coming to pass.

Of course that's easy for me to say now, after hearing the words "everything looks fine." From an expert. In a white coat. With framed diplomas on the wall. Which is just who you want to hear those words from.

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Speaking of what to name or not name the baby:

(And I can assure you that Pear Fart is now officially off the list, despite Thalia's most recent suggestion.)



Huge thanks to Sandra who nominated She Who Shall Remain Nameless for a ROFL award. I'm in some pretty outstanding company, and duly flattered.

Although the closer I get to that 40 week mark, the less funny that post is starting to sound.