Today Audrey was running around in a flouncy little Hanna Andersson sundress, which happens to be one of the half dozen or so outfits she has ever owned that were not handed down to her. No, this one was purchased specifically for her, and it’s a cotton Hanna. It should last forever. But I noticed a faded spot on the back, probably from spot treating too vigorously (the kid can stain anything, I tell you, ANYTHING), and I started wondering whether I should keep it when she outgrows it.

I was leaning toward sure, keep it, who’s going to notice a faded area on the BACK of a dress, when she smeared apricot all down the front of it. And then, just in case I didn’t quite get the message, she sat down next to the open front door, caught on the corner, and crawled away, tearing a sizeable hole in the skirt.

So I’m thinking that particular dress wasn’t meant to be. That’s fine. We can survive without the dress, cute as it may be. Audrey is nearly too big for it anyway, and this next baby may very well be a boy. Or it may be a girl. I really have no idea.

We have one name picked out. Not one boy name and one girl name; just one name. It won’t work for both.

We’ve never yet managed to come up with more than one name per pregnancy, even though we don’t ever know if we’re expecting a boy or a girl ahead of time; I suspect it would take us an extra nine months to agree on both a boy name AND a girl name. So far, the baby has fit the name every time. And, like I said, we have one name.

And now I’m entirely convinced we’re getting the other sort of baby. The sort for whom this name would not be a great match. But we’ve still got plenty of time to think. Weeks and weeks! As many as nine! Or as few as… five-ish! Oh dear oh dear oh dear oh dear oh dear. How long do you think a newborn can be nameless without inflicting some kind of psychological damage? Tell me that you think it’s a long long long time, won’t you?