Mama's baby, Daddy's maybe

'Twas a long Thanksgiving day at Cedar Oaks. Cabin fever was epidemic. Michael and his step-brother got a serious scolding from the 'rents for having sucked down a rare and expensive bottle of wine the midnight before without permission. That was the highlight.

My dear spouse managed to duck out of most of the day's social interaction by having picked up a copy of Freakonomics when we stopped to trot Cedra around the Targét in Redding on the way up. So while I spent Thanksgiving day chasing her around the cabin, trying to keep 90 year old McCoy pottery unshattered, an antique spinning wheel unspun and attempting chitchat with the world's two most pretentious rural cabin-dwellers, he sat by the fire, sipped the sanctioned wine, and read Steven Levitt. I could have killed him.

But turns out it was in my best interest. See, we've been dueling for six months now over the subject of Cedra's future sibling. The long-term plan called for a two-year span between them, but when the time came to take the subject seriously last May he wasn't ready. Fine, I thought; we were going to France in a few months and I didn't want to spend the trip looking down the hole of a Turkish toilet. But when we returned, he still wouldn't discuss it. September, October, November passed and there was no longer a chance of a baby with a summer birthday. Baby #2 won't make the school enrollment cut-off, and I'm looking at an extra year banging my head against the walls at home or an extra year of childcare that we can't afford. Remember all those posts where M. and I weren't talking? This was the issue.

He let me know on the way back to California this weekend that he's finally ready. I gleaned from the series of monologues I listened to on the ten hour drive that there were two major catalysts for this change of heart: the first was the stroller display at a swank Corvallis toy store. I know you're holding your breath, but no, it wasn't a Bugaboo. It was a mere Zooper. Zooper? Hhhm, I'd never really considered it. I was a staid Perego fan myself. But hell, now I'm a Zooper lover.

The second factor was chapter six of Freakonomics, entitled "Would a Roshanda by Any Other Name Smell as Sweet?" The chapter includes lists of names categorized according to several themes, and among them are names that Michael has deemed "okay...cool." Especially Asher. Asher? I'd never considered that, either, but it has now replaced Michael's previous first choice of "Eliot" for a boy. I'd always liked Eliot. I figure if you're going to spend three months of pregnancy looking down a toilet you can take some satisfaction in the fact that your son Eliot will spend his middle school years with his head in a toilet, as well. I mean, what's fair's fair. But whatever. Maybe it'll be a girl.

What does this mean to you? It means brace yourselves for some babycentric babble while I bide my time between now and that Clearblue Easy. And wish us luck.