It seems we’re having another boy?

So, according to my former neighbor – a no-nonsense, motherly Lao woman who spends half her year in Australia – I am destined to have my second son.

I dropped in to see her with Dominic the other day. She hadn’t seen him since he was about six months old, and was suitably delighted with all the new skills he’s gained since then. Like, walking. And helping himself to an enormous fistful of crackers from the box she offered him. And, uh, then putting some of those crackers back into the box after having gummed them to a soggy mess and tossing others into the pristine swimming pool.

While Dominic was busy putting pre-licked crackers back in the box of precious imported treats, my neighbor was telling me in no uncertain terms that we were bound to have another boy.

“How can you tell?” I asked.

“Oh,” she said, looking me up and down. “When you are pregnant with a girl you put on makeup and wear nice clothes and brush your hair and try to look more pretty. When you are pregnant with a boy you don’t care. You wear sloppy clothes and no makeup and look messy.”

“Aw,” Mike said loyally when I acted this scene out for him later that night. “You don’t need any makeup to look pretty.”

Then he paused.

“It is a nice touch when you brush your hair though,” he said.

So there you have it. Sorry to disappoint Nana Rose and my niece, Tahlia, who are both hoping for a little girl, but it seems that we are destined to have another boy.

Dominic’s asleep. The house is quiet. I really should be working on revising my next book on long distance relationships (more on those projects coming soon) but all I want to do is eat chocolate chip cookies and go back to bed.

The cookies I blame on baby # 2. The sleepiness I blame on husband, baby #1 and baby #2.   

It was still dark this morning when Dominic cried out for the fourth time last night (Dominic, whatever else his talents, is not a skilled sleeper). Mike groaned and got up to him. Five minutes later, instead of sweet silence, I heard banging and voices and got up to investigate.

As I rounded the corner, my child charged out of his bedroom, fully dressed and bright eyed.

“Mike,” I said. “It’s 4:30.”

“Really?” Mike asked. “I thought it was time to get up.”

It’s going to be a long day. But at least I brushed my hair.