In which I tempt fate

I have too little money and too much stress, the economy is falling of a cliff, and a clueless, cranky, senile dinosaur has a (dwindling, thank God) chance of becoming president. Yet I am as happy as I think I have ever been. Is it bad luck to say this? Will I jinx myself?

Cynthia grows ever larger. To the point where there is some small fear that she has gestational diabetes; her glucose test was done improperly the first time (thus its normal result is suspect) and so she has been retested. This worries me far more than the fact that we haven't started to paint the nursery yet. But not overmuch; she seems the picture of health (despite a stupendous, for seven months, belly) and from what I can tell, gestational diabetes is not a problem if detected early. As the chief cook, I can assure you that any adjustments to her diet will be accommodated.

A recent ultrasound of the baby was perfectly normal -- brain structures, renals, etc. The ultrasound machine has a feature which fills in the image so that the translucent blob looks more like an actual picture of an actual baby. The trouble is that the computer enhancement is rather clumsy. The picture they showed us of the baby's face looks like a blurry post-Impressionist portrait. The ultrasound technician pointed to the baby's very bow-shaped lips. "He has your lips," she said to Cynthia. He also seems to have her short, flat nose. Poor Cynthia. She wanted the baby to have her epicanthic folds, but her father's straight nose and full lips. (She's going to be disappointed in her desire for a green-eyed child, too; my German/English genes are no match for 5,000 years of Han hegemony.)

I truly could not care less what the child looks like, so long as he is healthy; life is hard enough without starting out unwell. Life is easier for a good-looking person, though. He'll get that from his mother.

We have collected a vast amount of baby clothing. The child will not be born for two more months, and yet he already has more clothing than I do, thanks to boxes of stuff from friends and family. Cynthia's brother and sister-in-law recently donated a large pile of baby stuff, too: two strollers, a car seat, a high chair, a crib, and some toys. They occupy our living room, at present. There are advantages to not having any furniture!

(Cynthia has decided that a laundry basket with a blanket in it is a suitable substitute for a bassinet. This, from a Manhattanite who had never set foot in a Target before she met me, who thinks $200 is a good price for jeans, who doesn't find anything odd about her friends hiring a gardener to water a few potted plants on the balcony of their condo in the East Village. She gets pregnant, and all of the sudden she's collecting tin cans on the street and stealing packs of Splenda from restaurants.)

A part of me wants to provide an update on the status of the home renovation. A part of me finds it too tiring to get into. I'm going to listen to this latter, paint-speckled, weary part.