And no, sadly, I’m not jumping on the post-election bandwagon. If you want my views on that, well, just let me plagiarize my dear Nicole as she said exactly what I felt—just change URSSAF to MSA (because we be farmers over here—and scarily the MSA is worse so be afraid) and bingo—my thoughts exactly.

No, I’m talking about a NAME! We have a NAME for the wee bit of growth growing in my ever-expanding-probably-never-will-see-its-original-shape-again belly. Aren’t you shocked?! I am. And what’s even more shocking (to me) is that Marc found it! And I LIKED it! Oh, God, am I destined to agree with this man now? (shudder)

It was totally random. He picked the phone book up and poof! There it was staring at him. So he thought on it for a while and then came and asked me what I thought of it. I wasn’t sure at first, because, c’mon, Marc suggested it. But it took a short time and wow, it just fit—fit our criteria, fit what the baby feels like.

So unlike Pooplette who is named for her god-momma, god-father’s wifey-thing, Marc’s cousin, my dearly departed friend, and a myriad of other people who were just blessed enough to have the same name and who both Marc and I adore, and unlike Muppet who’s name actually means something (to me at least because I’m weird like that), this baby has a totally random name, plucked from the universe just like that—which I think is fitting, since this baby was one of those totally random things plucked from the universe just like that.

And no, I’m not telling. My husband would be very unhappy with me if I were to do so—that whole French spooky-creepy don’t mention she’s pregnant until the baby’s here kind of thing—which he’d deny, but what other possible reason could he have, right? Besides, it kind of grabs you, doesn’t it, this great big mystery name, and makes you want to come back for more, right? Huh? So, come back in four weeks, because hell, that’s all I’ve got left, and hopefully Mr. Wonderful will be computer literate enough to figure out how to post a birth announcement (with actual information this time).

Other fun stuff going on: Pooplette is trying to kill me. I know I’ve had this same line since she was born, but damn, it’s beginning to become very true. After the latest round with the new antibiotic she popped out in a rash. At first it was just a bunch of tiny red dots but now, oh no, nothing so pretty. She is covered from head to toe with these HUGE BLOTCHES of red skin. And while they don’t seem to bother her, she looks rather pitiful. So we’ve been back to the doctor, who agrees with me in that it’s probably just a reaction to the antibiotic (it’s one that I’m allergic to, as well), but who refuses, given the weeks upon weeks of illness the child has suffered patiently through (she’s been patient; me, less so), to rule out a possible viral illness. LOVELY. So on top of all the shopping, cooking, baking, cleaning and other fun fun fun activities I have to supervise and occasionally participate in this week in preparation for the PARTAY, I now have to worry about having the screaming demon around because she’s been kicked out of daycare until the doctor says she can come back—which she won’t do until the allergy meds have had time to kick in, in three days or so…. Do these people never entertain?

Pooplette got her first baby doll yesterday, and no I’m really not trying to reinforce gender-specific roles or anything. It’s just that I’ve read in more than one place that having a baby of her own may help her adapt to having a baby sister—because I’m freaked out that she’ll feel lost and stuff when N° 3 comes home. Of course, she’s always so determined to get her own way whenever the mood strikes her (often) that there’s no possible way to forget about her or even push her off to the side…but I still worry. So she has a baby now, and Jeezus, you’d think I’d have given her the moon! She’s in love. She cuddles it, loves it up, kisses it and sticks her finger in its eye. It’s really reassured me, well, all except the finger in the eye stuff, but live and learn, right? Even Muppet is really tender to Pooplette’s baby. And she says “baby”, too. In English! Not bébé, noooooooooooooooooo! BAY BEE!! Rock on little Piglette girl.

Wheww. 8 AM on a public holiday and I have to get crackin’! We’re invited over to a friend’s house for a big cook-in orgy type thing where everyone brings their own raw materials and then we cook for each other, and after that we lay around in fat-happiness and moan with pleasure—at least that’s my plan. And I’m doing twice-baked taters, so I think I’ll bake ‘em before going over…because who, really, wants to wait that long?