I snapped at a very nice woman in church today.

I had been dreading church a little this morning.  I am enormous, and I knew I would get a lot of questions like “Haven’t you had that baby yet?”  I hate those comments.

Sure enough, in my first five minutes I heard comments from four people.  I realize that they are just trying to make conversation  - and managing their own disappointment a little, because everyone wants to meet the new baby - but when the first person commented dramatically on me still being pregnant, I growled something like, “Do you know how often I DON’T EVEN WANT TO COME TO CHURCH because of comments like that?”

Yes, dear readers.  I talk a good game, but the truth is that sometimes I am the grouch in church.

The woman I snapped at is actually one of my favorite people, and after the service she came up to me in fellowship hall.  “Veronica,” she said, “I have never been pregnant a day in my life and I don’t know what you’re going through.  I am just so amazed at what your body can do, and a little envious.  And I’m sorry for making a comment that upset you.”

Can you see why she’s one of my favorite people?

Of course, I felt like an even bigger heel then, and reassured her that she had no reason to apologize when I was just being a grouch.  If everyone apologized for everything that got the cranky pregnant behemoth upset, life would just get far too complicated.  And I would be an even bigger heel.

So now I am home, still full-to-nearly-bursting with baby, but also remembering to be a little nicer to people.  Az the husband will be relieved.

(And for the many of you who commiserated with him, you will be happy to know that Az’s company outing was cancelled at the last minute.  Our pastor suggests this is further evidence for the existence of God.)

My younger sister had her birthday today.  It was not a good one.

First, she is sick.  Strep throat worked its way through everyone in the family.  It doesn’t matter how much you disinfect, in a family full of young kids, it only takes one doorknob licker or inveterate nose picker to infect everybody.

Second, my brother’s family moved away today.  Brother has served the last year in Afghanistan, but his tour of duty is over.  For the last year, his wife, a lovely, open-hearted woman who has thoroughly captured our affections by laughing at all our jokes, and his three adorable children have been living with my parents.  Their kids and Sister’s kids have grown close, and everyone is feeling mopey and sad because today Brother’s family moved on to the next assignment.

But HEY! That’s not all!  A few weeks ago Sister got a call from a woman she has helped occasionally over the years.  This woman wanted a place to stay for a few days after she was released from prison so she could make phone calls to find a treatment program.  Sister agreed to let her stay for a couple of days, but she did not go into treatment.  She disappeared and started using again.  But before she did, she stayed just long enough to expose them all to Stage 2 syphilis!  Yes, apparently in the highly contagious Stage 2, you can contract syphilis without sexual contact.

So Sister consulted her doctor, who recommended they all be tested.  And HEY! Sister’s doctor told her that just getting the kids tested might mean her pediatrician calls Children’s Protective Services.  That’s government working for you.

So after saying goodbye to Brother’s beloved family, Sister herded all her kids to the tiny examining room at the doctor’s office to test for a scary disease.  Presumably all is well, but the tests will take a little while.  And THAT is what makes this her BESTEST BIRTHDAY EVER!

I did not have time this year to write a roast to cheer her up.  So, dear readers, please leave a comment to make my sister’s birthday better.  Tell her your favorite joke, or include a link to the funniest thing you’ve seen on the web lately.  Make my sister smile.

She loves blonde jokes, considering them evidence of brunette’s jealousy of blonde superiority.  And she has three boys, so she is not easily shocked.

Az the Husband has a new request for me.

“Please, please, please.  You have to have the baby this week.”

He knows it’s not really up to me, but I would love to comply.  I ask why the new urgency.

“Because this week is our company outing.  You remember.  We’re going to a comedy club.”

He closes his eyes in pain.

“Do you know who the act is?”  He swallows hard and his voice gets smaller.  “It’s Pauly Shore.”

So unless I go into labor and give him a valid excuse, Az will be enduring a travail of his own.

I’m not sure which of us will suffer more.

Yesterday I wrote about Baby PoppySeed and her party skills.  Today I have a post up at 5 Minutes for Parenting about my oldest daughter, the sprightly JellyBean.  I think tomorrow I will need to write a post about Sweetpea just to maintain family parity.

I’ve been having some mild contractions.  They are nothing drastic, but enough to encourage me that my body is preparing itself.  Of course, they may go on like this for weeks.  That would not be nice.

So have you figured out the name of our soon-to-be-born daughter? I will give you another hint: it is also the first name of a fictional British detective who has a color for a last name.

Yesterday we took the kids to Az the Husband’s company picnic.  It was a relaxed gathering, folks milling around with hamburgers, children playing in the sand of the volleyball court or soaking themselves with waterballoons filled in a nearby pump.

I had been a bit nervous about going.  I have never been to any company event before, even though Az has worked there eleven years, and meeting people for the first time in any condition is a little disheartening.  It only gets worse when I am the size of the Titanic.  But everyone was quite nice, and our girls took the spotlight, so it hardly mattered.

Baby PoppySeed is 16-months old now, and she finally started to walk on her own this week.  Barefooted, in a pink gingham dress and plaid pink hat, she wowed the crowd with her careful, both-hands-free toddle back and forth between the picnic tables.  She grinned at herself.  She gabbled.  She scammed watermelon off of kindhearted women.  Her confidence increased and she walked faster and ranged further.

She was a party success and she knew it.

Then, just as every adult eye was on her and she cockily stepped toward me for a bashful-for-show snuggle, her little bare foot tripped, and she crashed head first into the bench of the picnic table.

Her head CLONKED hard and she began to scream.

Then we really were the focus of the picnic.  Adults groaned, then stared, then tried NOT to stare as a purplish lump grew on PoppySeed’s forehead. I rocked and patted and soothed and (it’s who I am) chuckled.  Babies in great dramatic distress from troubles of their own making always strike me as kinda funny.  I can’t help it.

She was fine, of course.  She calmed down eventually and clung to me until she felt secure again.  I enjoyed the extra cuddling. I and the mother next to me exchanged stories of Childhood Head Injuries We Have Known.  PoppySeed began walking again and all was right with the world.

But as a thirty-six-year-old woman with questionable social skills, I recalled all the times I have felt successful at social gatherings only to have it come crashing down around me, dramatically and publicly, and I wanted to whisper to my sweet baby, “Get used to it, kid.”

She does have my genes, after all.