So, this was life around here on April 1st, one week ago:
Snow in the backyard.


And that's me, 36 weeks huge... er, I mean pregnant. I forgot how that last month is a paradox of desperately wanting to get it over with and being terrified of actually having to take on the responsibility for another human being. I'm looking forward to meeting this little boy. He's relatively quiet during the day and then twitches and rolls and has, what feels like, seizures all night long. Apparently neither one of us is sleeping very well at night.

Yesterday Greyson asked me if I was having three babies. I was like, "No, why?" and he pointed at each of my boobs and then my belly and said "Well, it looks like you are." Ummm... thanks.
Haydn would like the baby to be named Alex or Bolton. Alex because he thinks that's an A+ name, and Bolton because he really liked the movie Bolt and thought it would be cool to name his little brother after it. I didn't tell him there is a male singer with long blond permed hair that would prevent me from EVER naming my child Bolton.
Greyson would really like the baby to be named "Little Rose" because "he's going to be cute like a little flower." I asked him how he would feel if I had named HIM Little Rose, and he just shrugged and said "Okay, then, name him Greyson Two"
Rowan couldn't care less what we name him, he just thinks I've gotten fat. He likes to sit on my lap and use my stomach as a backrest, although when the baby kicks him he looks over his shoulder at me suspiciously as though I am sneaking pokes at his back. Occasionally he lifts up my shirt and pats my tummy and kisses it as if to say "I really like the beach ball look, Mom"