h.r. giger in my wife.
Bradee had her 20-week sonogram this morning. It's a boy! And, according to the technician, a healthy one. With one wicked-looking spine moving all over the place on the ultrasound screen.
The tech told us that she doesn't tell people bad news until the end of their appointment, because if the mother's sobbing it's impossible to do any more readings. That really perked me up.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch we're renovating as fast as we can. We're having the hardwood floors refinished, so the entire main floor of the house is packed into one small room while we live in the basement. We took out the fireplace mantle and I helped Chris build a new one. I bought another plank of beautiful curly maple. We took out the 50-year-old tile in front of the fireplace hearth and poured new concrete and then levelling compound (that stuff is cool) and now it's time for new tile. I bought a big shop vac. I bought a 1/2" hammer drill. I bought a bunch of chisels and a mini sledge. I bought an 80-tooth blade for my compound miter saw. Chris has spun me out of control. I subscribed to Dwell. I want to renovate the kitchen myself. I want to buy and renovate houses for a living. Bradee looks terrified when I start talking. "How do you think a window would look above those cabinets? Uh, are you okay?"
Pre-ultrasound, I was in the waiting room with all of these parents-to-be and I noticed that everyone looked... old. Maybe it's because all the dads were wearing suits, but I felt like a 20-year-old next to all these grownups. Ah, DC, land of 45-year-old lawyers with toddlers.