Saturday marked the 32-week point in my pregnancy, an important milestone because: 1) That was my doctors’ short-term goal, to keep Baby Freedom cooking in my belly at least that long, because the risk of major complications goes down significantly at this point; 2) The baby’s fruit-and-vegetable status becomes more exotic with every passing week now. According to BabyCenter.com, most babies at this stage are the size of a large jicama — while Freedom is more of a honeydew melon (five lbs. at last week’s appointment); and 3) Freedom and I are supposed to start really packing on the pounds now, making Mr. Candy’s daily morning delivery of my pretzel M&Ms all the more crucial to my health.
Skye has started pointing to my stomach and exclaiming, “BABY!” thanks to her father’s brainwashing, er… I mean, gentle guidance. Although she’s probably wondering why my belly isn’t dispensing plastic kids because the only “Baby” she knows is her favorite doll. If only I could. A bodily toy dispenser would make me the most popular mom EVER. And just think of the extra cash I could make at kids’ parties. Skye can also say the baby’s name, a name that is (SPOILER ALERT) admittedly rather easy to say. Oh yes, we have had a name picked out for this not-so-little fella ever since I was in my early pregnancy with Skye because, well, it’s pretty much the only boy’s name we could agree on. And, miracles of miracles, we still like it. We are not sharing the name with the world yet, despite my mother-in-law’s threats of Chinese water torture, for the reasons stated here.
I know what you’re thinking and, no, I’m not trying to throw you off. The baby soon-to-be-formerly-known-as-Freedom’s name really is a simple one. Which means his name will NOT be Guacamole Ptolemy. So just cross that front-runner off the betting pool.
Great. Now I’m hungry for pretzel M&Ms and honeydew melon dipped in guacamole. Where is my man-servant? Let me grab my bell…