A few weeks ago James says something along the lines of… if this baby is late, it’s definitely a Purnell. My surname’s reputation for timeliness was irreparably damaged when my closest relations missed our pre-wedding photography… NINE years ago. As my mom would say, “That James!”
I just rolled my eyes.
Speaking of rolling, so last night I roll my 40 weeks plus 3 days small pumpkin self into bed for another fitful night’s sleep. James is reading a magazine. I’m starting to doze off when I ask James, “Were you born early, on your due date, or late?”
It’s kind of quiet for too long… I open my eyes. He has a sheepish look on his face and mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like, “I was two weeks late and so was my brother.”
Ummm, what did you just say? I couldn’t possibly have heard you right. Suddenly I don’t feel so sleepy.
“Two weeks late.”
Perhaps I uttered some sort of profanity… who can really remember. The more important question: “When were you going to tell me this?! Were you keeping this a secret?”
“Well, you never asked me directly.”
“So you were keeping this a secret. You know this is going straight into the blog.”
“Yeah, yeah. You’re always tattling on me in the blog.”
Today I confirmed the dreadful truth, straight from Nonna. James was due June 7th and was born June 25th… that’s 18 days late. Brett was born th… th… three weeks late (yes, I’m choking).
You’d think after 15 years I’d know everything there is to know. Although a few years ago I did discover that James plugs his ears by putting his fingers in his ears whereas I was taught to push on my tragus (thanks Google for being able to find anatomical ear vocabulary in less than 3 seconds).
Perhaps Baby Cillo will in fact clear my family’s good name… That James.