So…I’m not having the greatest day. Nothing has gone wrong, necessarily. I’m just feeling sorry for myself because pregnancy is currently making me miserable. I have that weepy feeling you get when you’ve gone one too many nights on fewer than four hours of sleep. I’m crampy and achy and physically weary.

So, I was just sitting here on the couch with my laptop, hoping that a little mindless Internet surfing would distract me. But I got something even better. C. came over, sat next to me with a book on trains and said, “You know what?” “What?” I asked.

“I love you.”

I tell you…nothing beats that. Thanks, C..

Yesterday, Nancy, the lady who works at Panera and knows what my “usual” is, advised me to not name our baby Moses. Apparently, this is the name that Gwyneth Paltrow chose for her second baby, and Nancy is concerned that any child inflicted with a name that is too uncommon is doomed to a life of teasing and misery.

We’re trying to keep that concept in mind as we work toward choosing a moniker for our newest family member. We still have about 5 weeks, but we’ve found that coming up with a name that manages to be unique without being too strange is not as easy as you might think. Especially for a boy.

Of course, we had the perfect girl’s name picked out. But the sonogram authoritatively put an end to the confident ‘picking-a-name-is-easy’ feeling that we had. So this little boy who is scheduled to arrive in about a month is still without a definite name. We have a name that we’re strongly leaning toward, and some days we think, “Yes, that’s it for sure.” And then we have two close contenders that we like just enough to keep us off-balance and unsure.

The name-picking journey to this point has been interesting. Here are some options we’ve considered (or not) along the way.

• Hoss – our 7-year-old’s first suggestion, inspired by the steakhouse.
• Max – suggested by C.’s first-grade classmates, in honor of the dog owned by one of them.
• Cyrus or Cyril – my husband’s top two picks. I only vetoed these because I fear the nicknames they would be saddled with (Cyrus the Virus or Cereal). Honest.
• Caesar Augustus – also suggested by C. because “we should have more famous names in our family.”
• Hannibal – my father-in-law’s daring recommendation.
• Felix or Richard – C.’s most recent picks, since it appeared that we weren’t taking Caesar seriously enough.

Let me assure you that the three names on “the list” are not included in the selections above. I just hope that by the time the baby is born (or very shortly thereafter) we agree on a name. And can stick with it.

I’d never make it as an Italian woman.

I don’t wear Prada, I don’t enjoy dipping bread in olive oil, and I look nothing like Giada from the Food Network. But even beyond than those qualifiers, I compare quite pathetically to the women of Italy when it comes to housework.

I read an interesting article in the Wall Street Journal this morning where I learned that Italians spend, on average, 21 hours per week engaged in non-cooking household chores. I had to read that sentence over several times. 21 hours?! I come in much closer to the American average of 4 hours per week.

Five of the Italians’ 21 hours are spent purely on ironing. In fact, 80% of Italians iron all of their laundry, including bath towels, socks, and underwear. Me? I avoid ironing as much as possible.

“Hmmm…this shirt is pretty wrinkly. That’s okay – they’ll come out while it hangs in the closet.”

“My husband’s polos have a few creases from being left in the dryer a bit too long (read: 4 days). But if I fold them nicely and smooth them into place, I bet he won’t even notice and by the time he wears them, the creases will have disappeared.”

The average Italian household makes sure that the kitchen and bathroom floors are scrubbed four times a week. I suppose I shouldn’t admit that I tend to do a quick Swiffer once or twice a week and just spot clean most of the time.

Oh, and let’s not forget dishes. Barely 30% of Italians use dishwashers, because they don’t trust that a dishwasher can do as good a job as hand-washing. I’ve made a solemn vow that I will never again live without a dishwasher.

So I’m pretty sure that if my neighborhood were a pleasant little development in Italy, I would quickly become known as “that lazy woman with a filthy house.” Sigh… I’m happy to say, though, that my husband and son have cleaning standards that are approximately equal to mine, so we all live rather happily in our “comfortable, lived-in” home.

But the article did make me think about how I spend my time. If these women manage to scrounge up 21 hours a week to clean, surely I can set aside 21 hours a week to spend on things that are important to me: time with God, quality interactions with my family, writing. And if I were as dedicated to my spoken priorities as the Italians are to spotless floors, I bet the “time management issues” that I’m known to talk about would be resolved.

A few thoughts on this pregnancy…

Things I will not miss about being pregnant:

• Incessant indigestion that can be set off by something as benign as a glass of water
• Having to sleep on my side (I’m a belly-sleeper at heart)
• The fact that I have to partially recline while driving since sitting at a 90-degree angle is almost impossible at this point
• Exhaustion (although I realize I’m in for at least a “4th trimester” of tiredness)
• The realization that “I have nothing to wear…I mean I really have nothing to wear” as I continue to expand

Things I will miss about being pregnant:

• My husband changing the kitty litter
• The ease of caring for this baby (he’s much easier to care for now than he will be once he joins us out in the big wide world!)
• The extra hunger that allows me to justify an occasional huge bowl of ice cream
• The little kicks and flips that remind me that there’s a new life growing inside me (well, except for those well-placed kicks to the kidneys…I won’t miss those)
• Okay, I admit it…I’ll miss the extra attention. “Here Katrina, take this comfy seat.” “How are you feeling? Can I get you anything?” It’s nice being spoiled just a little bit.

Happy Easter!

This morning over breakfast, I said to C., “He is risen!” and C. just looked at me and said, “You’re right!” He felt he had to answer, but had no clue where I was coming from. So we spent a minute or two talking about the church tradition of greeting one another with, “He is risen,” to be echoed by “He is risen indeed!”  Then we did it ourselves and C. beamed with delight.  After church, I said, “Hey, C..  He is risen!” to which C. promptly answered, “He is risen indeed!”  And as we sat down to Easter dinner at my mom’s this afternoon, she began the meal with, “He is risen.”  And as we all answered, “He is risen indeed,” C. chimed in with the rest of us, as he looked around the table with shining eyes to watch everyone participating.

He loves tradition and is admittedly more sentimental than I am.  He treasures being part of something bigger, something shared.  So this little church tradition meant something special to him – a bond to others, and not just our immediate family, but Christians throughout history who are connected by this common practice.  He loved it.  And I am so thankful that we can share these kinds of traditions with him.  Sure, coloring eggs and hunting for them in wet grass and eating our fill of Peeps are fun traditions.  But how wonderful to impart customs that go deeper, that touch the soul – because honestly, that’s what proclaiming Christ’s resurrection does.  

He is risen!