No It All

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.

So, it’s February 24th… D-day.  I mean B-day!  Supposedly.

I guess we’ll see soon enough.  They assure me that you can’t stay pregnant forever.  So say the “experts.”

BabyCenter.com abandons produce metaphors next week… probably because there seems to be almost no end to how big a pumpkin can get… not really a comforting thought.  Pretend I didn’t write that.

Fingers crossed that my next baby blog features an actual baby.

In high school, my friend Alesia and I spent a summer in Mexico living with host families and practicing our Spanish.  One conversation I’ll never forget was with our dear friend Yayo.  Yayo had a new girlfriend who had signed a note to him, “xoxo.”

“What does “soak-so” mean?” he asked us in Spanish.

“Soak-so?”  We were perplexed.

“Oh!  XOXO?  Hugs and kisses!”

Fast forward more years than I care to count.  “Hugs, Mama, hugs.  Teeses.”  I have to say, Jakey has turned into a truly talented hug and teese giver.  At school, Miss Dulce is always commenting on how friendly and sociable our little Romeo is.  “He’s been giving hugs and kisses to everyone.”  I just can’t understand why I’ve been sick off and on since October…

And just recently, he finally warmed-up to Miss Leti.

Miss Leti seems to be the only person Jake has ever encountered that he didn’t immediately take to.  Every morning she would greet him and he would cry and cling and refuse to go to her.  I’ve personally had my own challenges with a Leti who stalked and bullied me for weeks in eighth grade… so really, I can’t blame him.  But then, a week or two ago, Miss Leti told James that Jakey is the best kisser… he really knows how to give a good smacker.

I too have noticed considerable improvement in his embraces and smooches.  His hugs incorporate that all important, genuine squeeze.  And whereas his first kisses basically involved him opening his mouth and putting it on your face, or sometimes over your nose, leaving you wet and slobbery– his more evolved pecks do not leave you reaching for your shirt sleeve.

Some mornings when he’s woken-up at 5am and he’s made his way from his crib, into his favorite place with his head in the crook of my neck and his feet kicking his Dad in the back, he’s sometimes overcome with affection.  I’ve had a handful of morning wake-ups with almost a dozen kisses planted on my cheeks and forehead.  And then mouth-to-mouth whispering, “Mama, baba, Mama.”  It’s the sweetest thing.

For at least a year, Jakey’s favorite word has been “no.”  It used to be the response to just about everything.

“More cereal?”  “No.”
“Do you want a cookie?”  “No.”
“Do you want a million dollars?”  “No.”

Then a few months ago he started to mix it up with “nope” and “nah.”  The worst is when his face turns a deep red and he points his little finger up in the air and shakes with rage as he yells, “NOOOOO!”  As previously described, this is sometimes combined with tears springing from his eyes in defiance of gravity.

For maybe three weeks it’s like angels have descended from heaven and blessed us with the most miraculous word.  It’s a simple word, one you think you’ve heard a million times and would therefore be unremarkable… and then you hear it and it’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.

You guessed it: YES.

All of a sudden our questions are validated, endorsed, approved, confirmed.  “Yeah.”  “Yep.” “Yes.”  Accompanied by an affirmative nod.  I’ve never appreciated agreeableness so much.  It’s even better when followed by, “Daddy, Mama’s funny.”

Is this parenthood heaven?

Mini watermelon?!

Instead of thinking about produce I’m trying to focus on how excited we are to finally find out who Baby Cillo is.  I’m back on the fence about whether it’s a boy or a girl.  I just can’t tell this time.  It’s definitely not Baby Jake.  But it could be a gentle boy, like his daddy.  People have also been especially talkative when I’m out and about these days.  Either that or I’m looking more approachable than usual.  A run-down of the latest guesses:

The Chinese Baby Gender Predictor (http://www.thelaboroflove.com/chart/pred.html) says it’s a girl.  It said Jake was a girl.

During my last week of work, in the parking lot, I was hugged by an older Mexican nanny who’s daughter works at Specialty’s.  She said it’s a boy, practically kissed my stomach, and gave me a hug goodbye.

In Pizza Antica’s women’s restroom an elderly Eastern European lady declared it a boy, threw her paper towel away and left.

At Trader Joe’s, the mother of two daughters chatted me up while her husband stood quietly in the background.  She decided “boy” and wished me luck.

Jill’s mom, Laurie, is in the girl camp.  Her husband, Andy, is surprisingly confident in his “boy” prediction.

I’m totally undecided which is not like me.  It’s probably because some scientists just decided that the astrological signs are different and are trying to switch me from my highly decisive Libra, to an indecisive Virgo.

What am I sure of?

I’m ready to reconvert my body into an owner-occupied dwelling.  OK, “mini” watermelon?  This is your official eviction notice.  I love you.  Get out here.  I mean it.

Somehow leek week passed me by in a blur.  I have to say that leek was a much better mental labor image than…