Today your application for the University nursery arrived. It seems weird to be putting you down on a waiting list for a nursery place before we've even met you, but needs must, poppet. That is, unless you've got a black AmEx and the trust fund to pay off the monthly bill tucked away somewhere I don't know about. . .
Money is not everything, just so you know. It just feels that way sometimes. And we won't even talk about the first inkling of guilt that has set in over 'farming you out.' I -- as a baby and toddler -- was lucky that for the most part, I had my mom at home. I didn't become the bolshy and independent creature writing now until I was at least 4. I don't think. Your uncle was farmed out, first to a lovely Mennonite woman, then to a very active Le Leche activist so really, how much more Mother Earth can you get? Again, there are countless therapy couches that await you.
I'm still (unsurprisingly, I suppose) on the mend. It does occasionally take me aback how long it takes one to mend after an illness. Walking to the corner shop or the high street sends me into a fairly decent rendition of a narcoleptic siezure. This of course, makes Josephine beyond thrilled. She loves when I nap because a) I'm sleeping and b) I'm in one place. Plus, she can use my ever-increasing stomach as a pillow. What's not to love?
It has also occurred to me that I should clear up any confusion re your last name. Though it will be a (rather dignified) mouthful, it isn't Biffington-Smythe. Biffington-Smythe is the name bestowed upon us by the amazing and stupendous Mary Stuckey, who (in addition to being a gorgeous redhead) is incredibly brilliant, with a mind like a razor blade and a wit that rivals Mrs Parker and Benchley combined and she does political rhetoric. I know. She's the best. Anyway, I digress. She coined the nickname as an in-joke and I, well, I took it to a whole new level. By the end of the conversation, I was desperately trying to convince your father that we needed to get two neutered rabbits, one named Mr Biffington and one named Mr Smythe and they would get married and be Messers Biffington-Smythe and wear matching bow-ties. And we could train them, and they would be cute, and . . .
I know. Your poor papa has always had the deck stacked against him. You can only imagine what has insued since Pregnant Me has come on the scene. Even Josephine has been known to take cover at times. In fairness, your father was warned: at our wedding, my daddy did tell tell that I was not unlike a 'lynx trapped in a phonebooth' when I get angry.