As I crouched vomiting for the second time on this morning, the twenty first week and fourth day of my pregnancy, a haiku sprang to my mind. This is the only place I can share it, so here you go:
To be pregnant is
to vomit gut foam as you
pee on your own feet
In other things that resemble updates (there are no actual updates here, in case you hadn't noticed), if you were thinking you might ask Ryan or I what we plan to name our unborn, you won't get a straight answer. I'm giving you fair warning. When I was newly pregnant, Ryan announced that he doesn't think names matter much because regardless the name itself, within twenty four hours it just becomes the kid's name and everyone gets on with their lives. I tend to agree, and I also maintain that if my kid is going to get teased for his name, he would probably get teased about something meaner otherwise and would probably benefit more from boxing lessons than a new moniker. Still, on occasion we do halfheartedly attempt to have an adult discussion about this increasingly relevant topic, and it deteriorates so quickly it even makes our own heads swim.
Me: "Ryan, we are having a child and it is our responsibility to name him. We also need to get him insurance, but I'd rather talk about names."
Ryan: [stares blankly]
Me: "What about Oliver?"
Me: "What about Ebenezer?"
Ryan: "EBEN EBEN!!!"
Me: "Iago? Carlos? Ichabod!!"
Ryan: "ASSMAN CLOBBERFINCH! SPORKEN JORSENHEIMER!"
Me: "Assman might be a good choice. It's at least likely to be a good description of any child with our combined genetics."
Assman it is, folks. Don't bother asking until Child Protective Services demands an name. There won't be one.