Last weekend, I helped my brother and his wife with some last-minute home-improvement projects before their baby arrives. Mrs. Poochie is a glowing 34 weeks, and Poochie is, well, a little freaked out.
“Did you know the baby could come early?” he asked, honestly surprised. It’s so sweet and wonderful to see my baby brother nervous and giddy, yet more prepared to be a dad than he realizes. I love them both.
I have to admit, though, that I have a few problems with these people.
First of all, they don’t seem to be taking my name suggestions very seriously. Currently, I’m pushing for “Vonjelica,” and don’t seem to be getting a lot of traction. You can’t tell me that “Vonjelica von Noodleroux” isn’t an awesome name. Or maybe the name of a burlesque dancer. But memorable nonetheless.
Secondly, my freakishly tall brother and his lithe wife looked at me like I had horns when I asked where they kept their ladder. I was painting their kitchen, and the stepstool I was perched on just wasn’t going to make cutting in the ceiling an easy task.
They own a stepstool and a 14-foot extension ladder. Because they don’t need anything else. Because they are tall and can reach stuff.
I’m a foot shorter than my brother. We look enough alike that I’m pretty sure we’re related, but DUDE.
So, I cut in the ceiling by standing on my tippy toes on a woefully deficient stepstool. The painted kitchen looks gooooood, but my calves are still burning.
I’m short, and no one likes my ideas for naming their baby (See also: my friends who declined to name their son “Ferdinand.”).
Woe is me.