I’m nuts. I stayed up and watched the first half of the Superbowl last night, and would probably have gone the distance if my eyelids had been any more cooperative. They weren’t, so I didn’t get to watch the Colts win. Oh, well. I can’t really say I gave a poop one way or the other about who won. I haven’t really followed football in the six years I’ve been here. I just wanted to watch for old time’s sake, to see a bunch of over-paid burly men beat the crap out of each other in the name of good clean fun.

Of course, watching the Superbowl in France is nothing at all like watching it back home. There are no commercials—probably the beast reason for sitting in front of your TV for five hours. And the pre-game show, instead of being all about the post season playoffs, the players, the coaches, &c, is more about how to play the game, why the players wear the protective gear they do, and crap like that—football for kindergartners, although I know several kids in preschool who know more about the game. Still, kudos to France 2 for their presentation.

On to the real reason you’re here…

We had our visit with OB-GYN Kenobi yesterday. My blood pressure is back down in the normal range again, although it does appear I have a bit of the way too high, way too low thing going on like I did with Muppet. I’ve got some additional blood tests to do to see if there’s anything bad going on, but I think it’s probably just fatigue. We’ll see.

Baby’s growing well. All the parts are there, they’re all in the right places and have the right shape. My placenta is in a really good spot, so it shouldn’t interfere with the Exorcism. Always good news. Of course, baby moves a lot—not a good sign if we’re hoping for a calm child—and we had to keep coming back to get all the right checks done. We did get there though.

I had a hard time sleeping, of course, because I was worried about the sex. I’m obsessed a bit, sadly. I’m honestly not too concerned about this baby. No, I’m more worried about Pooplette, our baby in the middle. First children are usually more accepting of subsequent kids, but the second child often feels she looses her place as the baby. I have been really worried about this. All I remember is those first few months of her non-stop screaming because she was pissed off about being brought into the world. It’s not an experience I want to repeat because she’s pissed off we brought someone else into the world. And she’s blossomed into such a wonderful creature lately that I don’t want to do anything to mess that up. And the first two get along so well, how can we possibly not screw that up by bringing a baby home. And how great would it be if Pooplette remains The Baby Girl of the family? And won’t it be great not to have to buy any more baby clothes?

So The Great Doctor is scanning and checking and, although it’s right there on the screen plain as day, she doesn’t want to say it until she’s absolutely sure. Finally she got the shot she wanted and said, “A priori ça va être une deuxième choupette”. A girl. Another girl.

And you know what? I don’t honestly care. I’m not sad or let down or upset. Another girl. Hell, we made it through the first one, we’ll make it through this one. And Pooplette? You know, she’s so awesome anyway, she’ll be a great big sister. And she’ll have back up when dealing with her big brother—something I could only dream of growing up.

But damn, there’s the clothes issue. Agh! So many clothes, all the wrong season! Gah!