Stripper names need not apply

Sam and I decided we should probably start compiling a list of baby names for our next addition - a girl this time. Last night we solicited name suggestions from our two boys. I'll admit I expected at least a little bit of consideration for something as momentous as what their little sister will be called.

Paolo's contribution: Mama Jr.

Luca's contribution: Yo Gabba Gabba

Considering that Sam's number-one pick is Summer, its' safe to say I'll be picking this name, too.

Ten days ago

Gianluca came to hang out with us on September 3rd. He sleeps a lot, which can be normal for a newborn or a self-defense escapist mechanism. Hard to say.

How you know you're going to have a big baby

He simultaneously reaches for your hipbone and kicks you in the esophagus.

Dear Second Son, I'm Apologizing Already

We've finally named the kid. It was a lot like naming Paolo. We knew we were possibly doing a great disservice to our offspring, but we couldn't help ourselves. We're doing it again. Brace yourselves.

We are waiting for you, Gianluca.

OverHeard at Home

Your orange juice intake this pregnancy has been abominable. Our kid's probably going to have some horrible disease that you could have prevented, like citric fibrosis.

Okay, okay, let's play Simon Says again, Mama. This time you be Simon...and I'll be Says.

L&D Books dying to be written

Since I'm a veteran, I'm not planning to attend childbirth classes or watch Babies: Special Delivery marathons on TLC this time around. I'm thinking it might be a good idea to check out a labor & delivery book just to refresh my memory about stages of labor and whatnot. I'd prefer to skip the blessings and miracles and promises of painlessness, but there don't seem to be any books out there that fit the bill. Where are these titles?:

• Preparing a Birth Plan, and Other Wastes of Time
• It's Supposed to Hurt
• Mirror, Mirror on the Wall: Take That Down
• Exactly How Much is This Going to Suck?
• Negotiating the Pitfalls of Labor/Management Relations: How to Tell Your Doctor What He/She Can Do with Those Forceps Without Sounding Rude
• What Goes Up Must Come Down
• Not All Babies Are Cute: How to Love a Conehead

Round update: Week 35

It turns out every other kid in Paolo's class knows what a woman walking around toting an enormous belly means. Each time I enter the classroom, another ankle-biter runs up and asks if I have a baby in my belly, if I'm going to have a baby, or why my belly is so fat. I should really work on an answer to that last puzzler that's better than, "Because it is" or "Well, your belly isn't so small," both of which are things I have actually said. If I could be sure that Paolo knew the current location of his brother, I'd respond like I had two brain cells to rub together, but I don't think he knows. As I've mentioned before, we decided not to bring it up unless he asks.

This morning I was fending off another probing question when Paolo hooked one arm around my leg and put his other hand protectively on my stomach and steered me away from the interrogation. It reminded me of the phase he went through at three when, if another child approached me, he would jump between us, arms out to ward off the interloper, and shout, "MY Mama," as if I were his greatest possession. On the other hand, he may have just felt bad for me because his friends keep calling me fat. Whether or not he has a clue what's inside, Paolo loves my belly. He likes to pat it, lay his head on it, or - my favorite - grab me around the legs and look up at me from beneath so only his eyes and the top of his head are visible. Cracks me up every time.

Paolo has picked up on the whole pampered pregnant thing, too. Last night he asked me if I wanted a glass of milk, and I said I did. (I drink about a cow and a half a week.) He instantly called out, "Daddy, you gotta get Mama some milk." That's how it works these days: I have two boys attentive to my comfort and every need. It's overwhelming, slightly embarrassing, and lovely. It's also temporary, so SOMEBODY FETCH ME SOME LEMONADE AND RUB MY FEET.

Baby name suggestions, by Paolo

1. Carlo (also the name of Paolo's imaginary dog that he's had for two years)
2. His father will come and tell us what his name is
3. I don't think we should call him ANYTHING
4. Luke, like Luke Skywalker
5. Bruno
6. John Cheffer (We were watching Top Chef at the time, or it may have been Gordon Ramsey's Kitchen Nightmares, unless it was Hell's Kitchen, although definitely not Anthony Bourdain's No Reservations because that comes on past my bedtime. Two hundred channels, and all we watch are cooking shows.)

The blinding and unwelcome dawn of realization

Everywhere Paolo and I go, people ask him about his impending sibling. Since he doesn't know where the little guy is right now, he always gets the same expression on his face: DUDE, how do they KNOW? In all other respects, Paolo is a smart and observant boy, but he has no idea why I have an enormous belly. He knows he's getting a baby brother, but he thinks someone is bringing him to us. We're okay with that. As Sam puts it, if Paolo ends up thinking that we went to the hospital to pick up a baby, that's just fine with him. A four-year-old doesn't need to understand the logistics or start thinking of his mother's abdomen as a tank of sea monkeys. Because once that line is crossed, then come the uncomfortable questions: how did he get there and how is he getting out? I expect to have that talk much later, when I can lay down the mechanics of the process and lecture that he must never, never engage in it until he is at least in college and never with a skank.* I can't control what his dad tells him, but he better back me up on the skanks.

After one such encounter with an impertinent grocery checker (seriously, people, please direct your questions to me instead of the child), Paolo and I discussed his baby brother in the car on the way home. I asked Paolo for name suggestions and, after thinking for a minute, he answered, "His father will come and tell us what his name is." Oh boy. "Paolo, Daddy is your baby brother's daddy." With near-hysteria in his voice, Paolo declared that I am HIS mama, and Daddy is HIS daddy and any would-be usurper can just suck it. That last part was implied. My explanation of how the newbie would be a part of our family was met with cold silence. I tried to continue our baby-naming conversation, which had been interrupted by the elephant falling on his head, but he blasted me with, "I don't think we should call him ANYTHING." Discovering that he will be expected to share the center of the universe has Paolo completely over the baby brother thing. This is not going to go well.

*I was watching VH1's "I Love the 80s" wherein the term skank was featured as extinct slang from 1987. Perchance I'm showing my age, but when did skank die? I can understand if I were going around calling Juicy-butted girls ho-bags, but skank? Skank is timeless.

Armchair psychology

I've been worried about Paolo. Lately he seems to be trying to regress. He has been having accidents overnight and at school. Around the house, he clings to me like a spider monkey, wrapping himself around an arm or leg. He requires constant assurance that we're friends and gets nervous if he thinks I'm mad at him. He picks at his fingernails and whines rather than using words when he's upset. I convinced myself these behaviors indicate a heightened level of anxiety about our impending family addition.

I think Paolo understands he's going to have a baby brother, but he doesn't want to talk about it. He asks no questions, shows no interest, and takes no notice of my expanding belly. We haven't forced information on him because he doesn't seem to want it. However, once I decided Paolo was a ball of anxiety, I concluded that he is aware a big change is coming and it's making him afraid because he doesn't understand what it means. I ran this theory by Sam, who dismissively told me I was projecting my own worries onto Paolo.

Undeterred, I sat down with Paolo yesterday and, as tenderly as I could, explained to him that he didn't need to be a baby for me to love him, and that I will always take care of him, no matter how big he is. I then asked if he thought he had to be a baby in order to cuddle and be close to me, to which he replied furiously, "I'M NOT A BABY!"

Thus, the theory I had cultivated for weeks was shot down. Sam was right, and I'm done projecting now. I'm the one who is worried about our happy family dynamic going all screwy; I'm the one having useless second thoughts. Is there such a thing as pre-partum depression?

And the results are in...

I passed the second glucose tolerance test! You'll recall my last blood sugar score was 140, just one measly point over normal range of 69-139. This time I knocked it out of the park with an 82. Wooooo! Who says cheaters never win? Somebody give me some chocolate.

It's only cheating if you get caught.

I totally cheated on my glucose tolerance test. I've never cheated on a test before in my life, academic or medical, so this was a first. My doctor had told me to sit during the hour-long wait between the sugar drink and the blood draw. I disagreed with that approach, so I took a walk around the building...five times. And also I walked a block uphill...twice. What? I was bored! I walked at a leisurely pace, and I sat the rest of the time, honest.

Besides, while the lab lady did my paperwork, she told me I was supposed to be fasting. That information would have been good to have BEFORE I ate breakfast that morning. She wrote down that I was fasting anyway. And I'm supposed to be concerned about the results being skewed because of a little exercise? Please.

And another thing: while I was waiting, I witnessed a parade of round ladies coming and going for their glucose screens. Only two of them were in for the three-hour test, and they were cows. "I am not one of you," I shouted inside my head, and then I went for another walk.

I expect to receive any bad news by mid-week. What if my score is still abnormally high, you may wonder? I will yield ever so gracefully to whatever medical atrocities they want to inflict on me because, if I didn't manage to pass the test this time, there is something seriously the matter with me. Moo.

I don't feel diabetic.

Last week before we left for the wedding in Omaha, a nurse from my doctor's clinic called to tell me I had failed my glucose tolerance test. This is the routine test that screens for gestational diabetes. The test subject drinks a highly sugared solution and, after an hour, her blood is drawn to see how much sugar remains. The normal range caps at 139, and I scored a 140. The nurse insisted I come in the next day for the more intensive three-hour glucose test. This beauty of a test entails fasting from midnight, having my blood drawn upon arrival at the lab, drinking even more of the sugary mess, and having three more blood draws at hour intervals. Jesus H. Considering I failed the test by one point, am very low-risk for gestational diabetes, and just plain don't want to take the miserable test, I refused. So I had to go see my doctor yesterday to argue about it.

In this age of opting-out, you'd think I could opt out of a lab test, but you would be wrong. I find that extremely messed up because, you know what it is optional? Testing for Down syndrome and neural tube defects. If I don't want to find out if my fetus might possibly NOT HAVE THE RIGHT NUMBER OF CHROMOSOMES, I don't have to. Like I would ever waive something like that. Hells no, test me twice!

I did score a minor victory at the visit. My doctor agreed that it makes no sense for me to have gestational diabetes, but she still wants to rule it out. I got her to agree to let me take the one-hour test again tomorrow. If I pass, I'm off the hook. If I fail again, I have to suck it up and spend three hours in the lab starving while they drain my life's blood away. It's either that or, at every visit from now on (and I've got about seven to go), I would have to undergo a two-hour postprandial blood sugar test. It seems a round lady can't catch a break. Wish me luck.

Five-Point Recap of Recent Events

1. Marriage on the Rocks. Sam forgot to tape the first leg of the Coppa Italia final between Roma and Inter Milan today. The FINAL between ROMA and Inter Milan. By the by, Roma won 6-2, and all of my favorite players scored. The game won't be replayed, and there probably won't be that many goals in one game for another one hundred years. Would have been nice to see.

2. Sweetness. Saturday morning as I buckled Paolo into his booster seat post-Farmers' Market, he told me I'm his friend, his best friend. He loves me, and we're going to be friends FOREVER. The only response I've ever gotten to telling Paolo I love him is a calm, considered "I don't love you, Mama." He has professed love for other things like cheese and swings, but not for me. Although I know he adores me, the spoken words are golden, and they will drown out every hurtful thing he says to me in his teen years when I become a clingy idiot out to ruin his life.

3. The Pregnancy Stupids. Place empty coffee pot under drip. Pull out filter holder. Throw out old grounds. Put in new filter. Open coffee creamer. Pour into filter. Watch as cream flows through onto the counter and floor. Do this in front of a co-worker.

4. What Child is This? Paolo had his annual checkup on Monday, accompanied by both parents so that one could muffle the screams while the other one righted all the furniture. Imagine our surprise when our boy turned into Prince Charming instead of his usual incarnation as a Viet Nam vet in the throes of a village-burning flashback. Several times during the exam he announced proudly, "I'm not scared at all and I'm not crying." We were finally able to have an EKG done to find out if he inherited his dad's heart condition, and I'm so happy to say his heart is just fine. Like I didn't already know that.

5. Disconcerting. I walked into the breakroom, where the lunch topic immediately switched to an historical analysis of my belly growth by a three-member panel. I escaped as quickly as politeness allowed, and as I walked away, said panel commented, "See, you can't even tell she's pregnant from behind." Has the hallway always been this long? It's one thing to think people are staring at your backside. It's another thing entirely to know they are.

On Being Round and Objectified

Now I know how big-bosomed women feel. People walk past me, even greet me, without once lifting their gaze above my waistline. During conversation, they sneak glances with a knowing smirk.

Hey, Bozo! My eyes are up here.

Maternity Fashion in Action

Here are a few looks I will NOT be rocking at the wedding.

Nice Recovery

I walked downstairs this morning wearing a dark purple stretchy long-sleeved T-shirt. Sam looked over at me and a huge grin broke out on his face. "Aw, look at you, you look like an eggplant! Let me see your profile. Yep! You are a super-cute eggplant." I glared at him, lost for words. "What?" he asked. More glaring. "Hel-loooo. I said a super-cute eggplant."

Any Mammal Can Do It

It's been a quiet week hereabouts, which is just the way I like it. Sam took Paolo to get measured for a tux for an upcoming wedding, which is insignificant except for the fact that, while I wasn't looking, Paolo shot up to 41 inches tall. Huh. It does grow.

So, yeah, Paolo has been requested by his future aunt to be a ringbearer in her wedding. It's no secret that neither his father nor I are thrilled by the idea. You see, we harbor no illusions about our offspring. When the idea was first proposed to Sam by the bride-to-be, he replied, "He's going to ruin your wedding." My response was far more diplomatic, "You'd better have a backup plan." The chances of our kid walking down the aisle are about as good as the sun not coming up tomorrow. Sure, it could happen, but every scrap of historical data tends to indicate otherwise.

Which MEANS I'm going to have to walk with (drag) him to deliver the rings. Which MEANS I need to be looking good. Which MEANS I have to find a maternity dress that doesn't suck. Good freaking luck to me. Oh I could easily rant about the horrors of maternity clothes, the tents, the bows, the belly pouch, gahhh!! True, the clothes are improving, and it is much less painful for women WHO ARE NOT A SIZE 2 to purchase them. However, what does one do when a Small is too big, when the sizes start at 8? One moans about it on one's blog is what.

Apologies. No one wants to hear about pregnancy except other pregnant women...excluding me. Even I don't want to hear about it. People ask me how I'm feeling (instead of how I'm doing) and it still takes me a few seconds to figure out why they're asking. I guess I don't get the fascination. You swell up and then you have a baby. It's just gestation. Go ahead, say it. You won't be the first. Pregnancy is wasted on me.

Why I hate you, Romance-Novel-Cover Fabio

"Hey, Sam?"

"Mm-hmm?"

"Did you read that article about Fabio Capello, the tactical genius who coached our favorite Italian club, Roma, to a championship a few years ago? Well, apparently, he's very successful at Real Madrid, too, and they're saying he's one of the best coaches in the world right now."

"Yep."

"Also, you know Fabio Cannavaro, the defender I have followed and worshipped for years, from his humble beginnings at Parma to serving as captain of the national team, which he led to its fourth World Cup victory last year? Dear Canna, who, if I had to choose, I would name as my absolute favorite Italian player? You'll remember he also won the Golden Ball and the FIFA World Player of the Year for his performance in the World Cup."

"Uh-huh."

"And let's not forget Fabio Grosso, who also put in an outstanding performance at the World Cup. Not only was he a solid and creative force in midfield throughout the tournament, it was the foul he suffered against Australia that Totti converted to give Italy the win, and he scored a goal against Germany in the dying minutes of the game, putting Italy through to the final. And finally, it was Grosso who scored the fifth and final penalty kick that won the game against France. You could almost call him the face of victory."

"Yeah, he's good."

[Deep breath] "So, if we have a boy, can we name him Fabio?"

"No."

Damn you, Romance-Novel-Cover Fabio, for ruining a perfectly lovely name. By the way, when you did that promotional roller coaster ride and killed a goose with your face, I totally laughed at you.