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The baby, that is.

Sort of. We call him Juan Pancho, just as we called Dally "Little Two" in utero. (Why Little Two? I AM LITTLE ONE. That's what John used to call me when he would ask my sister how much. As in, "How much for the little one?" And she would reply a pack of cigarettes and a couple of goats. Fine family, I know.)

Juan Pancho won't make it on the birth certificate lest my mom decide to never see, call or write to me. Ever.

So now we're getting desperate. I've got less than four months to come up with something. This is the shit that keeps me up at night.

I busted out the baby name book yesterday. I used to turn my nose up at such nonsense. Baby Name Book? Please. NOT MY CHILD. My child's name will have a MEANING. Something IMPORTANT TO US.

I also used to swear my home would never look like Romper Room.