As we were saying the “Bad Dreams” prayer tonight…

Lucy: “Maybe we should write God a letter about the bad dreams.”
K: “Okay, we can do that.”
L: “Do you have his address?”
K: “No, but that’s okay.”
L: “We need his address otherwise the mailman won’t know where to take the letter.”
K: “Well, God doesn’t exactly have an address. He’s kind of all around us, all the time.”
L: “Maybe we could just call him.”
K: “I don’t think he has a phone number, but if you talk to him he can hear you.”
L: “Opa has Santa’s phone number. I bet we could just ask him.”

I am clearly outside the target market for American Apparel, but is this a good idea even for a younger, hipper and lither model mom-to-be? I have a certain “go on with your bad self” sense of pride that American Apparel would market to me, that this woman would even put such a get-up on her sexy, fecund self. And yet…I will be the one in the muumuu, thank you very much.

…sandwiches are not for dinner?

SURPRISE. During our 20-week ultrasound, we resisted the urge to find out the sex (sorry Pie, call Dr. P. if you really must know), but did find out everything is AOK. The kind sonographer even told us the baby’s arm position was “very advanced” and its brain was “really smart-looking.” Well, duh. Pictures below. Good luck making any sense of them (Jason tried valiantly to find out the sex), but we are told everything is beautiful.

A footprint on the left, then another shot of a foot profile on the right.

Profile. Schnoz looks okay so far.

Five toes.

Sideways front view of face, with little hands in front, boxing.

Yesterday, Lucy was rubbing my belly, which has gotten pretty round and pregnant. Upon encountering the indentation of my belly button — she couldn’t quite make it out over my shirt, and it’s getting kind of weird and flat anyway — she asked, “Is that your vagina?”

“Uh, no. That’s my belly button, see?”

“Then where’s your vagina?”

“Same place it always was.”

She woke this morning at 2:30, calling for us.

“Mom, I’m afraid I won’t wake up on time and we will be late. So I am going to stay awake in my bed until morning, but I will be very quiet.”

She left for Disneyland with Baga and Opa just now. I have never seen her so excited.

Dearest Lucy. This is official notice of me holding your teenage years hostage. Have a nice day.

My dears,

I’d like apologize to you for my ill temper these last several weeks. If I’ve been snippy, or thoughtless or irrational or hysterical, I’m sorry. Please let me explain.

You see, it’s my pants. For at least a month, I have been squeezing myself into my “regular” pants. And apparently they have been cutting off the circulation to the happiness region of my brain.

I am realizing this now because I have on MATERNITY PANTS. Stretchy, cradling maternity blacks in a forgiving shade of black. I am reborn. The birds are singing more sweetly. The colors of spring are more vivid. Everyone is kinder and more attractive. I love you. And you and you and you.

But mostly I love these pants. Sorry I have been so awful lately. I am better now.

Sincerely,
Kate

P.S. I truly believe we could have a shot at peace in the Middle East if every person came to the negotiating table wearing these pants.