A pat on the uterus

Today U.B. reached 37 weeks and is considered by anybody to be full-term. He could come along at any time in the next 4 weeks and be a fully-developed little person, with tons of body fat and Mama's antibodies and all. For this acheivement, I would like to thank him, but I would especially like to send a shout-out to my uterus, who managed to carry two fat baby boys to term with almost no complications or other stressful weirdness. Way to do your job, Girly Parts.

Not that there are any signs of his impending arrival, but I give U.B. official permission to show up, for two important reasons. First, after weeks of searching, today I found the Baby Bjorn, buried in a box in the basement. Now it's in his room, and if he's an 8-pounder when he comes along, he can start his Bjorn career right away. I'm really not sure how one is supposed to take care of a baby and a toddler without some sort of manner of affixing the baby to one's person, so at least that is taken care of.

Second, on Saturday Dada picked out the perfect name for U.B. I've even got Isaac calling my belly by this name, which he thinks is pretty cool. The funny thing is that this name was the first name we came up with for U.B., but we ditched it along the way for one reason or another. I know I've teased about having picked out a name before, but before when I resisted blogging it, I did tell people in real life. For some reason, whenever we have revealed potential names to anyone, it immediately sours us on the name for one reason or another. This time, with this perfect name, no one knows except Isaac. Not even Grandma Jane, who I must admit I had the most fun ever with on IM Saturday night as she guessed her brains out and I would just e-cackle and say that even if she guessed right I would still not tell her.

I will tell you that our previous pick, now discarded, was William. After about a week we decided that was a little too generic and courted Willem for awhile, and then decided that sounded like we were trying too hard for it not to be William. Our new name (not William or derivations thereof) follows all posted rules, and even its meaning is appropriate, and slightly hilarious, when one thinks about U.B.'s relationship to Isaac. After her guessing and my not telling her, Grandma Jane is convinced that we have picked a weirdo name, the boy equivalent to Gwyneth's Apple. I promise you, despite Dada's coworkers insistence that we name our child Gunnar Prometheus, or Oliver Neal (get it -- O. Neal O'Neal?), we stuck to our guns and refused to name our child something which would overtly scream for a playground butt-kicking. At this point I would go on and tease you about how I am withholding such juicy information, but really, no one has that much longer to wait.