So, Helen, just how ARE you feeling?

I don't get asked that question all the time anymore, largely due to a constant stream of invective-filled PSAs directed at those who ask me, but I've been asked twice this week and find that it still rankles, but for a different reason. I don't want to tell anyone, really, how I'm feeling, for two reasons. First, you don't REALLY want to hear about how much my rib cage hurts, how much the hip pain slows me down, how tired I really am, and how much I wish the baby would quit exploring every crevice of my abdomen while trying to figure out what limb he can stuff into each of them.

Second, if I do share that with you, I don't really want your advice on how to make it go away. It's not that I don't appreciate your caring; it's that on the whole I'm not good at taking advice (my midwife put it as "you're strong-willed"--in a good way) and that, coupled with my pregnancy moodiness, makes for a sour reception. (Same thing that causes me to sprain an emotional socket when I'm told not to change the litterbox.)

So it's been fun to have this blog where I can retreat and complain to my heart's content and not feel like I'm going to be jumped on. At times I wish I'd kept it totally anonymous, but I've learned from experience that it's just impossible for me to pretend I have some other name. Perhaps a bit ironic, given how much I hated my first name as a kid.

Which brings me to names. I think we've come up with a name for the little one. Still not entirely positive, though, but we will go into the delivery room prepared.