the pieces of my life

I am duty bound to inform you that exactly two weeks from this moment I will be in a tizzy trying to decide if I want to see Savoy Ducet on the Fais Do-Do stage, C.J. Chenier & the Louisiana Red Hot Band on the Congo Square Stage, the New Zion Trio Plus One in the Gospel Tent, or if I’m feeling mainstream, Los Lobos. Sigh. What’s a girl with a belly full of beignets and a Brown Brown to do? And no, you can’t come with me in you’re not a KAG (and if you don’t know what that is, you can’t come, but no, it’s not a sorority).

If we had lived 2,000 years ago, we would have had to put lamb’s blood on our door so that during the tenth plague, little Brown Brown wouldn’t have been smote. (Seems to me that that word should be “smoted,” but Mr. Merriam and Mr. Webster tell me that “smote” is the past tense. But I like “smoted” better.) We went to a really terrific seder last night at friends of my family. Since one of the couple is an HBS professor, he and Adam went off to talk about boring things together, but I had a great time talking with their daughters who are my and my sister’s ages. Of course, as I get tired so easily, I started to fade at about 10:05. I said to Adam, “I know we’ve got to get you home so you can read cases,” and he said, “Oh no, I don’t have any cases to read for tomorrow.” You can tell that we’ve mastered the art of the secret spousal language. It was actually a lot of fun hanging out longer and chatting, but I was absolutely exhausted when we left at 11:20 . But the food was delish and it was wonderful spending the evening with a bunch of smart non-CWITs. And I was very excited when their daughter told me I definitely look “fat.” Yeah! I have finally “popped” and the last remaining non-maternity pair of pants I own went in 48-hours from “decent fit” to “couldn’t even get close to buttoning even if I held my breath the entire day.”

What is up with a weather day that is “High: 87 Low: 32.” A friggin 55 degree difference for a single day. On another note, why doesn’t weather.com adjust its site so when the actual temperature goes above their high, it automatically readjusts the day’s high. Yesterday our high was 80 degrees, but the temperature was 84. Yes, this irritates me. But not as much as the fact that it’s going to be a high of 37 degrees tomorrow. That irritates me even more…. I went to see my all-time favorite band, The Iguanas, at Johnny D’s last night. It’s been a long time since Adam and I had been on an actual date together. Of course, by 11 p.m., we were both falling asleep. But we made it until the bitter end. Which means there’s danger of me passing out in my matzoh ball soup during the Passover seder tonight. It also makes me fear for my ability to pull the late nights at Jazz Fest…. Either Brown Brown (formerly known as Baby Brown Medros) either really likes the Iguanas or I had gas bubbles. I can’t tell if he’s actually moving around in there or not…. The next person who tells me I don’t look pregnant will be kicked in the kneecap. Seriously. Don’t even try me on this one. That is, if I don’t fall asleep before the kick can be executed….

…would stink. Really. Try it. Call it cabbage. It just doesn’t work. Which is why this name thing is so important. Forget the first name. What about the last name? Baby Brown? Baby Medros? Baby Brown Medros? Baby Brown-as-middle-name Medros? Baby Medros-as-middle-name Brown? Baby with other middle name and Brown-as-middle-name Medros? You can see the difficulties. I thought about asking you guys, and then realized if I didn’t care what Adam thought on the situation, why would I care what you think? (Well, in all fairness, I do care a little what Adam thinks–it’s just that he really doesn’t seem to care, which means he really doesn’t care or this is one of the most cleverly played out reverse psychology tactics I’ve ever seen.) So tonight, I suggested Brown as a first name. I mean, why not? And he said that would have been fine, if UPS hadn’t gotten to it first. Now, I know I’m not the one in b-school, but isn’t that just more incentive? I mean UPS has already gone through the branding exercise, so our son would just reap the benefits. The company claims loud and clear, Brown and a Better Life. They say, “Brown is more than a color — it’s a tangible asset that people associate with all the things that are good….” Would you rather have your kid associated with all the things that are bad? I rest my case. Although, that still doesn’t solve the last name issue (Baby Brown Brown? Baby Brown Medros? Baby Brown Brown-Medros…).

We went in yesterday for our ultrasound. I thought it would be about a fifteen-minute affair, but we were there for about an hour. Very thorough. Checking the kidneys, the heart, the brain, the spine, the bone structure. All there. Ten fingers, two nostrils, one mouth, and a brain. At least that’s what I was told. Really, to me, it just looked like one alien blob. (The technician said, “There’s the heart. And there’s the brain,” to which, of course, both Adam and I had the same thought: “All we need now is courage,” I said, and Adam continued, “And we’d have the entire The Wizard of Oz cast.”) They said the spine looks terrific, and I made sure there was no tail on the kid. The feet are nice and straight (this was necessary to check as the Tweedle Twirp was born with little club feet and had to spend her first years of life in casts and braces). But there was one odd mutant factor that I’m not quite sure how to deal with. My daughter—my beautiful, feminist daughter who will travel the world three times over, have Martha tendencies, and yet be the first female NFL player (as a kicker, of course, for the Miami Dolphins)—my wonderful daughter is a mutant. Apparently, my daughter has a penis. (Which reminds me of the Mel Brooks/Marlo Thomas skit from Free To Be … You And Me in which Mel Brooks says [or something awfully close to it], “Don’t look! Ugggh. A girl with a penis. Yuck. Disgusting.” Now, don’t worry, I’ll love my mutant just as much as I would love my non-mutant. This will just take some mental adjustments, but I think I can make this hurdle. Babies with penises can be feminists, too, you know.

By the way, we are not 100 percent sure about our name choices (last name included) and we are no longer going to discuss them with anyone. You may refer to him as Baby Brown Medros for the time being or by the nickname we’ve been calling him, if you happen to know what that is. The baby name will be announced when he makes his first actual appearance.

My eternal thanks to Jennifer (aka Beene-Baby) for brightening a very gray day with the oh-so exciting news that the Peeps Fun Bus is going to be in my part of the world! They’ve even mentioned me by name (well they say “Attention all Peeps Fanatics,” which is pretty darn close). How much more fun can it get than this: “The buses will be filled with Peep-tastic games and activities. Get a chance to make fun Peeps crafts, win some Peeps prizes and take a tour of the Peeps Fun Bus.” You people think I’m kidding. But it’s going into my calendar right now. Anyone in the Boston area who wants to come with me is invited. Just don’t stand between the fat pregnant lady and the peeps if you don’t want to get waddled over as I trample anything in my way to the bus.

For those of you who live in cold-weather states where people drive (I don’t want to hear from the NYC crowd), you know how there’s always that one asshole on the road who was too lazy to clean the snow off his car, so when he drives down the highway, the snow goes flying off, into your windshield, and it’s just so darn annoying? Well, today that asshole was me. No, the snow was not too heavy to clear off. No, I was not late to work. I just felt like being an asshole because I was so pissed that it’s friggin’ April 8th–yes, a full two and a half weeks into spring–and we had about two inches of snow last night that I decided to take it out on the world. And let me tell you, I feel much better for it now.

The pregnancy brain is already starting to set in. Among the misplaced keys and cell phone, I walked out of two–count ’em two–places this weekend, blithesomely leaving my purse (with wallet, Handspring, keys, etc.) behind. Then yesterday, I got out of the shower, feeling like something was off. I realized what it was when I began to towel off–I had forgotten to rinse the conditioner out of my hair. And it’s only going to get worse, folks.

Let’s just admit that flattery gets you everywhere in this world. And so I am adding a link to Michael, a soon-to-be Wharton student who also shall wear the badge of “an ok MBA,” a term I’m sure he deserves because it sounds like his wife (and I use the term wife, because he does not mention her by name) is just the type of woman to start the Anti-CWIT club at Wharton, spreading the news that we spouses have actual identities and that pussy power is not a force to be reckoned with. (I know, I know, you’re thinking what’s up with that? I won’t say the procedure-that-shall-not-be-named, but I’ll use the word “pussy.” It’s my blog, dammit, I make the rules. You don’t like them, go start your own blog.) Good luck, Michael. You’re going to need it, big time.

So, I have a friend–who shall remain nameless–who I have referred to in this weblog as “my friend who is not a CWIT.” Last night, it became official. “My friend who is not a CWIT” shall now officially be known as “the CWIT who is my friend.” All evidence is pointing solidly in the direction that she has succumbed to the HBS ways and is now embracing her status as CWIT. The turning point in this transformation? When she said to me last night, “Well, if I get pregnant, I’ll have a planned c-section, because that way they can do a tummy tuck at the same time.” And after I laughed at her, she said, “Seriously, you’ll ask your doctor if that’s possible, right? I mean, it’s the same scar.” And I won’t put in the other CWIT comment as it referred to the procedure-that-shall-not-be-named (utter the word around me, and it will be the last word you’ll say to me–or to anyone for that matter), and I think most of my readers are too sensitive to read it.

For the record, no, I will not ask my doctor.