Little Things

Most important news first: My sister, Kelly, had her baby via C-section on Wednesday. He was born a very-healthy-considering 6 pounds, 1 ounce at just 36 weeks gestation. All accounts have him doing well, although he is in the NICU for breathing troubles—tiny lungs aren’t quite sure what they’re supposed to do just yet. I’ve only seen one picture of him, but from what I can tell it seems we’ve got another Kelly clone. (Her firstborn, Jack, was an absolute carbon copy of her, a startling sight to behold as he peered with her eyes from her arms in his bundle of blankets.)

Kelly’s Boy #3’s name is Andrew Paul (Andrew because they liked it; Paul as a compromise from what Kelly wanted but also my maternal grandfather’s name), and I hope to meet him soon.




In other news, my boy is a preschool graduate. I’m such a sap. I knew I would cry, and I fought it from the moment the director made her speech about how our children had touched their lives but now it’s time for them to give them back to us and blah blah blah other pretty clichés. I’ve known some of these kids since they were babies, and I do have a tendency to get attached, so seeing them walking down the church aisle (the same one I walked down to marry Steven, by the way, which added its own element of sap/sweetness depending on your POV) in their little blue caps and gowns was pretty hard-core.

Here, mine's third from the left:


...second from the top left:


...and second row from the top, second kid from the left:


They sang their little hearts out—choreography included, and even some sign language!—on three songs, two of which made me misty, one that just made me laugh.

But it was really the photo montage that got to me. Set to music about how great kids are, there was a baby photo of each child followed by his/her cap and gown picture.

This one was met with laughter and “awws” from the audience and a fresh wave of nostalgia for me.



In other other news, I’m finished, for all intents and purposes, buying things for baby girl’s room. Now it’s a matter of taking care of a few details like covering my responsibilities while I’m temporarily incapacitated (either by labor and delivery or by that peculiar brand of post-baby shock and awe that can masquerade as catatonia) and finding a way to deep-clean the house without kicking off contractions. I’m seriously considering a one-time maid service. Is that too indulgent?

Everything in her room smells like Dreft, and I think I’ve become a junkie. I’ve been going in there before bed and sitting in the glider to soak in the what’s-to-come and ... sniff things.

A few more weeks. Wow.