Two hours and counting 'til "American Idol....."

And now this update. We bought the Forester.

"Oh," said my Mom, when I called with the news, "you bought an SUV." Dammit!

"It's not really an obnoxious SUV," I said.

She laughed and ignored me. "What color is it?"

"Black, with a gray interior."

"What kind of seats?"

"Leather," I mumbled.

"Leather!" She burst into her aren't-you-fancy laugh.

"We didn't get the leather because it's leather, we got it because when the baby spits up it's easier to wipe that off leather than cloth."

She kept laughing the laughter of totally-not-buying-it.

"And it's got a six CD player," said Adam. My mother laughed even harder. I shot Adam the look of you-are-not-helping-me. He shrugged, and went back to watching "Oz." My mother kept laughing even after I'd changed the subject twice. I am so not telling her about the seat warmers.

Yesterday we had lunch with a friend who's due a week after I am. Once the food had been ordered and pleasantries were out of the way, we got down to business. "Do you have the book?" she asked.

"Of course I have the book," I replied.

"What book?" asked Adam.

"Baby Bargains," we replied in two-part harmony, and went on to discuss what color Boppy pillows we like, and how butt-ugly but fiendishly comfortable the Dutalier rocker-gliders are. Adam was looking at us like we'd started speaking another language....which we kind of had.

And here's another baby-thing I've noticed. When I was in New York last week, people kept asking me, "What's the theme of your nursery?"

"Um, baby?" I'd say. "Is 'baby' a theme?"

Not so much, I was told. Winnie-the-Pooh is a theme. Trains and trucks are themes for baby boys, Disney princesses and the attendant insecurities and eating disorders are themes for baby girls.

We have no theme. Actually, we technically have no nursery, because my husband is superstitious and doesn't want baby stuff in the house until the baby actually arrives. So the room that will house the Bun is, right now, my office, and also the home of the washer-dryer. It's a small room (I keep telling myself it's not small so much as cozy....and that we really didn't just buy an SUV), and it is painted a lovely sunny yellow, and I think the Bun and I will be very happy here.

More later. I'm trying to decide whether I have anything useful to say about the Carnie Wilson/Playboy fiasco. Other, of course, than "Why, Carnie, why?"

But for now I'm running off to birth class. Last week we practiced techniques for managing the first stage of labor. "You know," said the instructor, "it's really a cliche that all mothers wind up cursing and screaming and throwing things at their husbands."

I raised my hand. "But we can still do that, right?"