You know just how much I love baby name posts. (Here’s the post where I asked you to help me name Little Girl. It’s the all-time most popular post on this blog!) And I know just how much you love baby name posts. So let’s get down to business…

As many of you know, Sister C is expecting her second child (yes, a girl!) in early March. She’s actually due on Little Girl’s birthday which is pretty cool, I think. Anyway, she’s getting close. A mere six weeks away. And she and her husband are still without a name for this little chickadee.

That’s where we all come in.

Okay, a little information to get our baby name radars pointed in the right direction. Sister C’s two-year-old son, known affectionately as Baby Bulldog on this blog, has a wonderful and unique name in real life. I will not disclose his name, but I will tell you that it is a three-syllable Irish surname that is quite obscure when used as a first name. (Think: Garrity, Gulliver, Callahan.) Their last name is two syllables, ends in an “y” sound. (Like: Rowley, Donnelley, Terry.)

I asked C to describe the kind of name they are looking for. And she said they are looking for a name that fits the following three criteria:

1. A name that is either unusual or not very popular;

2. A name that is two or three syllables; and

3. A name that is both strong and feminine.

I know this is still somewhat confusing and cryptic. How much simpler this would be if I just told you their son’s name and their last name? Alas. Not going to happen. But I will list a few names they like very much, and have considered, but have decided at this point not to use for one reason or another: Georgiana, Annabel, Henrietta, Bridget, Petra, Genevieve.

Okay, it’s your turn. Our turn. Oh yes, I plan to brainstorm today and post my suggestions too. Any ideas? I’m sure you’re full of them… Particularly you, my friend Abby Sandel of the fabulous baby name blog Appellation Mountain (where I stumbled upon Little Girl’s name last December!)

Ready, set, go! Let’s name my sister’s baby girl! If the above confuses you (it kind of confuses me) just throw out some unique baby girl names you love.

{Oh those exclamation points. This is becoming a bit of a problem…}

Calm down. I’m not pregnant again! That would certainly be happy news, but a bit soon. Little Girl is just six months and the reality is that she’s probably our last child. It is hard for me to even write this. I know that we are infinitely blessed to have a trio of happy and healthy blue-eyed babes at home, but the notion of never being pregnant again is quite tough for me. It is.

So, no. I’m not announcing that I am with child. But I am announcing a pregnancy…

Exactly one year ago today, on September 13, 2010, I shared the news here on ILI that I was pregnant with Little Girl. And today, on September 13, 2011, I am announcing that my Little Sister C is pregnant! And, get this, she is due on Little Girl’s birthday. How fun is that? Fun, I tell you.

So. I am really excited for C and her hubby N and their little dude Baby Bulldog. Those of you who have been reading my words for a while might remember the story of Baby Bulldog’s debut in this big, bad world. If you haven’t read that sweet and silly story, click here. Anyway, it’s absurd how quickly time flies. I remember that day like it was yesterday. And I remember the day I announced my own pregnancy like it was three hours ago. Time is a nutty thing.

So. We are all really excited that the Donnelley fam will continue to grow. And believe it or not, I’m not envious of C and her burgeoning belly (okay, only a bit). Just extremely pumped for them. For all of us.

C will find out whether she is expecting another boy or a girl in just a few weeks. My money’s on girl… We shall see!

Congrats, C and fam. I love you guys and can’t wait to meet your little one in a few months’ time.

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Did you honestly think I was pregnant again? Isn’t it awesome that C is due on Little Girl’s birthday? Do you think she will have a boy or a girl?

Hands down, one of my favorite aspects of blogging has been the connections I’ve made in this odd and wonderful land. Truth be told, I didn’t enter the blogging ranks to find new friends, but it turns out I’ve made some. This has been a tremendous, if unanticipated perk, of being here. What’s even more amazing is that I’ve been fortunate enough to meet some of these blog buds in real life.

Who are these “virtureal” friends whom I’ve now encountered in person?

Well, first, there’s Lindsey. If you’re a regular here, I imagine you’ve visited Lindsey’s exquisite blog A Design So Vast as well. If not, please do so. I would say Lindsey is the first true blog friend I made. Over the past two-plus years, Lindsey and I have traded countless emails and have indulged in scores of meaningful phone conversations. Even though Lindsey lives many miles from Manhattan in Cambridge, Massachusetts I’ve hung out with her several times; she even attended my Life After Yes launch party. Lindsey has become a good friend of mine; Often, we blog about similar topics, about embracing life’s melancholy as rich material for our own thinking and writing. But even beyond our blogs, Lindsey and I have very similar attitudes it seems about life and love and parenting. She’s the real deal.

And then there’s Danielle. Again, many of you have likely heard of the fire-starting genius Danielle LaPorte. Well, I stumbled upon Danielle’s brilliant blog White Hot Truth when I first began blogging myself. Immediately, I was in love with her musings; It’s not often that you encounter a brethren modern day philosopher. I first met Danielle when I hosted a Firestarter gathering in my old apartment. And Danielle didn’t disappoint. She sat cross-legged in my big white wing chair and inspired us all. To think big and do big. To be who it is we are supposed to be. Recently, Danielle was in town for business and she made the effort to stop by and meet my girls. We sat in my garden sipping water from blue plastic wine glasses. She fed Little Girl a bottle while the big girls skipped around us. We talked about books and babies, about life and loss. I said to myself, She is a friend of mine. A real friend.

And then we have Gale. Gale was one of my first and loyal commenters here at ILI and these days writes beautifully at her own blog Ten Dollar Thoughts. I can always count on Gale to make me think, and to notice things I might not have otherwise. Gale and I email regularly and she is an exceedingly thoughtful and generous person; She checked in all the time during my pregnancy and sent me an incredibly meaningful baby gift when Little Girl was born. I’ve had the privilege of meeting Gale in person twice now. The first was a double date with our respective husbands. We went for a yummy Mexican meal and had a great time. More recently, Gale came to Manhattan on business and she and I went for dinner a-deux. Again, the conversation was rich. Another good and genuine friend.

And most recently? One week ago, I had lunch with Kristen of Motherese. Kristen is a fellow Yalie and mother of three. In fact, Kristen just welcomed her littlest babe (Baby Sister) one month before I welcomed my littlest babe (Little Girl). Kristen’s blog is one of my all-time favorites; She writes eloquently and uniquely about the world and wilderness that is modern motherhood. Over salads and ice coffees, Kristen and I covered much territory; the delicate balance between parenthood and prose, the dilemmas that come with blogging, the postpartum haze from which we are both just now emerging. I guess it could have been weird having lunch with someone I’ve never met before, but it just wasn’t. I sat there and quickly realized something: This is just a lunch date with a friend.

And there are others, wonderful others whom I’ve met more briefly. At BlogHer last summer (when I was newly pregnant with Little Girl and feeling terribly nauseous), I met some fabulous other bloggers: Mama from The Elmo Wallpaper, Denise from Musings de Mommy, Corinne from Trains, Tutus & Tea Time, Becca from Drama for Mama, Sarah from Momalom, Christine from Coffees & Commutes, Heather from The Extraordinary Ordinary and Heather from Theta Mom. I wish I felt better at the time and could have spent more time getting to know these women, but I trust we will all cross paths again. I hope so at least. And many months ago, I had pastries and coffee with Nic from My Bottle’s Up and her handsome husband. A few weeks ago, I finally had the privilege of meeting the fabulous and smart Kathryn of Marbury v. Madison Avenue at a delightful book party downtown.

I’m no doubt forgetting a few of you here. Hope not. The point though is not to rattle off a laundry list of names. The point, I think, has something to do with the fact that there are real and amazing people behind the blogs we all read. I think it’s easy to forget this, to lose ourselves in well-polished words and stunning stories, to stop at the screen. Blogs? They aren’t just cyber-stops. They are bits and pieces of real creatures, living and breathing and thinking and worrying individuals.

And I’ve been lucky enough to meet some of these individuals. To glimpse the smiles and souls behind the screens. To meet some new friends.

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Do you ever forget that there are real people behind the words you read – online or off? Have you made any friends online? Have you met any bloggers in real life? Were these people like you expected them to be or do you think we are all probably quite different in real life?

Are you a blogger in the Manhattan area? If so, would you be interested in possible “real life” meet-ups?

On June 25, 2009, almost exactly two years ago, I wrote a letter to my four best law school girlfriends. In that letter, I celebrated the fact that among us, we had welcomed six baby girls. No boys, just girls. And guess what? In the last two years, we have popped out five more girls! Now, that makes eleven little girls among the five of us big girls. And zero boys. There is something remarkable – and bizarre – about this statistic, no?

Anyway. One of these friends – let’s call her J – is expecting her second child in October. A few weeks ago, she had that big ultrasound and learned something quite shocking – to her and to her hubby and to all of us – she is expecting a boy! The streak was bound to be broken at some point, right?

The other week, J and I were catching up – about my circus of a life with three kiddos, about her adorable toddler and her pregnancy, and the topic quickly turned to baby names. Now many of you know I am a wee bit obsessed with names in general and baby names in particular, so this was fun for me. Together, J and I brainstormed what she should name her little guy. Because I am 99% sure I’m done having children (wah), I was quick to toss out my favorite boy names. J rattled off some possible names. And then she asked me if I would be willing to whip up a blog post and let all of you help name her baby.

Of course! I know you guys like the name game. After all, the all-time most popular post on this blog is Name My Baby. And even though I didn’t end up selecting a name for Little Girl from among your fabulous suggestions, I found your feedback very inspiring and Husband and I ended up deciding on a name a mere five days later!

So, here’s the deal. Her beautiful little girl is named Sloane. I will not reveal their last name because I don’t want to compromise their privacy, but it is something along the lines of Johnson. So we need to find a good (neither super-popular nor super-obscure) name for Sloane’s little bro. A name that sounds good with Johnson.

Are you up to this challenge? Hope so! And so does J!

Okay. Ready. Set. Name my friend’s baby boy!

(Pretty please.)

I know I have been terrible about reading and commenting on your blogs and am thus entirely undeserving of your comments here, but please take a moment and suggest some names for my friend’s baby boy! Depending on the response, I might leave this post up for a few days to ensure a good number of name ideas.

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Do you enjoy brainstorming baby names as much as I do? Do you think it is trickier to name a second child since the second name must “fit” with the first? Do you think sibling names should go well together? Do more of your friends have girls or boys?

Alas, I am not one of these people. I’ve never wanted to be. Or so I thought.

It has occurred to me recently that there is something wonderful – and incomparable – about chatting with friendly strangers, about trading bits of bios, about indulging in random riffs of conversation.

And so. The other day I tried my hand at the art of small talk. I was in a salon chair. On the other side of the mirror another woman was having her hair done as well. I could only see her feet – a bit swollen in flats that appeared too small. And I heard her voice. It seemed young to me. But it was her words that captivated me. It turned out she was quite the talker. In no time, I learned that she was 39 weeks pregnant with her first child. A boy. I learned that her husband was traveling on business which made her nervous because she was having contractions. I learned that she felt huge and was ready to give birth. I also learned that she and her husband were just approved for a car loan even though they’d been rejected at first.

I smiled as I listened to her. I smiled because her words stirred up something familiar in me – that phase of giddy anticipation, of can’t-sit-still excitement. I smiled because three kiddos later, I still get it. The profound precipice of parenthood on which a young woman stands only once.

As fate would have it, this girl and I ended up in a little waiting area of the salon at the same time. I flipped through fashion magazines and she was focused on her laptop. I didn’t think much about it, but just did it.

I said something.

When are you due? I asked, making sure to smile. I asked this even though I knew the answer.

In a week, she said, and looked away quickly.

That’s so exciting, I said. I just had my third girl two months ago.

She smiled. Said nothing. Retreated to her screen.

And that was that. There was no conversation, no sprinkling of stories. There were just a few strained words and half-glances and then silence. Pure silence marred only by the nearby buzz of hairdryers.

Oh well. I tried!

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Are you good at striking up conversations with strangers? Do you think there is something important and instructive about chatting with people we do not know? Why do you think this girl was so willing to spill her life story to her hairdresser, but was almost unwilling to acknowledge me? Do you think blogging is in many ways akin to making small talk with strangers?

Once upon a time, I was an athlete. I hate that I’m using the past tense here, but alas, it seems appropriate. I have not played sports in years and years.

Growing up, athletics were my life. That might be a bit of an overstatement because I of course had many other things going on in my life – academics and music and family and friends. But sports were my passion. When I was really young, I logged hours in the driveway of our barn in the Berkshires shooting hoops solo. I played endless games of Wiffle ball and soccer with my sisters. For many years, whenever I had a birthday party, it was a sports party and I’d force my poor friends to play a game of basketball or kickball or soccer before cake.

In middle school and high school, I played on the soccer and basketball and softball teams. I was captain of each. I was a fierce and competitive creature and game days were my favorite days by far. I often ate dinner in a sweaty and soiled softball uniform, my pants dusty from sliding in to so many bases. I remember senior year when I had a bad stress fracture in my shin. I stood on the sideline of the big soccer field, holding my cane, begging my coach to go in. And when my coach relented, I tossed that cane into the grass and ran out there, limping, eager to score. And I did.

I could go on and on; my athletic memories are rich and plentiful in my mind. But I won’t. This isn’t just about nostalgia. It’s about identity. Over the years, an enormous part of my self has somehow – and perhaps predictably – faded. I now walk down my street, past the basketball nets at the school on the corner (one is pictured above), and something little in me stirs. Something at once comforting and cryptic. Something about memory and childhood and loss. I realize – I let myself realize – in these moments that I miss my game days.

These days, I take my little girls to soccer class. An adult, a mom, I sit in the bleachers and watch them do what I once did. I watch as they skip around, kicking balls, smiling. I feel proud, yes. And excited for them. And, if I’m being honest, I also feel a bit envious that they are so young and free. That they have them all before them – if they want. The game days. (And so much else.)

Recently, I’ve been going back to the gym. Sure, some of it (or more than some of it) is about vanity and post-baby weight loss. But I have realized something, too. When I am there, working hard and sweating, I feel really good. I feel strong. I feel young. I feel alive. I feel like I am honoring a little (or not-so-little) part of who I’ve always been. I feel like me.

(Maybe I’m still an athlete after all?)

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Do you consider yourself an athlete? Did you play sports growing up? Do you miss aspects of your youth?

I’m losing pounds. That’s the plan at least.

As of yesterday, I am six weeks out from welcoming our tiniest girl (a tiny girl who still needs to be given a proper blog name!). And I’ve lost more than 2/3 of the weight I gained over the course of my pregnancy. And I know that is pretty good, right? Maybe even better than pretty good? Then why am I so obsessed with dropping the final pounds? Why can’t I just relax and say, Ah, they will come off in time. It took nine months to gain the weight and I should give myself nine months (or at least three!) to lose it?

I don’t know. I don’t know why I am not embracing the laissez faire approach to postpartum weight loss. Probably because I don’t really take this approach to anything in life. Probably because I have a pattern of being exceedingly hard on myself and a major control freak. Probably because I am wildly wrapped up in appearances, and affirmation. It’s probably all of these things. There’s likely more to it, too.

Here’s the weird thing. For the first 27 years of my life, I never weighed myself. Even when I was in nutsy pre-wedding mode, I never stepped on a scale. Never. It was not until I learned that I was pregnant with Toddler (again, she needs a new blog name!) that I got into the habit of weighing myself every day. I think I was fearful that I would gain a million pounds and didn’t want that to happen, so I made sure it didn’t. Like this pregnancy, with each of my first two pregnancies, I gained within the recommended range. And then? I shed the pounds pretty quickly because parenthood is really the best cardio exercise ever and also because I was a bit crazy like I am being now.

So. Here I am. In a familiar spot. Heavier than I want to be. Thinking a bit too much about the extra pounds I’m carrying around, that frankly I should be carrying around a mere six weeks after the fact.

And so. Instead of whining about them, those pesky pounds – in addition to whining about them – I’m doing something about them.

As of this week, I’m eating differently. I refuse to use the D word, to even write it here, because I do not believe in the word and (much more importantly) I do not want my girls to know that word. So. Instead I speak very vaguely of wellness and health around them, but here I can be a bit more specific. For the next little bit of time, I am having healthy (and very small. wah.) prepared meals delivered to me. The program is actually specifically for nursing moms so I will be getting adequate calories and nutrition to nourish the wee one. (I do not want to publish the name of the program here until I know whether or not I like it.)

You know what? Writing this post, just writing it, feels a bit eh. I feel a bit embarrassed and ashamed that I am writing about something that is admittedly so much more superficial than other things I could write about – my sweet smiling girls, the arrival of spring, the new characters I’m putting to the page. And so I worry a bit – that if writing this post makes me feel a bit uncomfortable, reading it might have an equally eh effect on you. And it might. I’ll take that risk.

This post? It’s silly. It’s superficial. It’s shallow. But it’s also honest. Maybe too honest. But it’s where I am. And where I am is home and happy and harried, surrounded by impossible love and brilliant life and yummy little ones. But where I am is also in this head, and this body, this different and amazing body I know I should perhaps honor a bit more than I do. For what it has done and what it is doing. For what it has been through.

For what it has brought us.

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• Do you think it’s crazy or understandable that I am so intent on getting my body back so fast?
• Do you think my approach to postpartum weight loss is just an extension of my perfectionist approach to self and life?
  
• Do you think I am a victim somehow of cruel societal expectations of women, of mothers?
  
• Are you careful about what you say about body and weight around your children?
  
• When it comes to your body and your own appearance, are you forgiving or exacting?
  
• Speaking of forgiveness, will you forgive me for this decidedly non-profound (and potentially annoying) post?

Once upon a time, there were three Rowley girls. A mother and two little ones. Then, one day in the month of March in the year of 2011, another Rowley girl arrived. And when she did, with her in the world, the view changed.

Of course it did.

And so. These two little girls, the originals, were suddenly big sisters. Big sisters together. A team. And they had an idea. A brilliant one. They would do an art project. Not just any old art project though. They would decorate birthday hats. They would go all out with magic markers and stickers and glitter glue. And when they were finished, and their hats were dry, they popped them atop their heads. They pulled on their tutus – over their matching heart PJs – and they danced around. They celebrated.

And she? The littlest Rowley girl? The birthday babe? She was witness to it all, snug somewhere between utter oblivion and complete awareness, flitting between wakefulness and slumber, bright eyes and big yawns. She? The littlest Rowley girl? A lucky thing. To be here. To be welcomed, and wrapped up, so wonderfully.

And the biggest Rowley girl? That little yawn says it all. The mother is tired. But she is so happy. She has been a bit more serious in her recent musings. She knows this. But, really, that’s just because she find grays to be more interesting than rainbows and that’s what she tends to write about given the choice.

But today? On this Friday, two and a half weeks after a very big day in their lives, the mother, the biggest Rowley girl, is intent on recording the rainbows. For she is surrounded by little girls, glorious little girls. And they are hers. And she is theirs. Together, they wade through another morning, all of them still in pajamas, all of them snug in this good moment, somewhere between utter oblivion and complete awareness, bright eyes and big yawns.

Today. Today this biggest Rowley girl, this mother, is thankful, impossibly thankful, for this, for her real life.

Today. Today this biggest Rowley girl, this mother, is thankful, impossibly thankful, to be among them, to be one of the Rowley girls.

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As a person or a parent, are you more interested in exploring the grays or the rainbows of life? Do you think it is important that we do both? Are you ever just bowled over by the majesty of the everyday? Do you ever just look around – at the clutter, at the chaos, at the creatures in your midst – and realize how profoundly lucky you are?

“Give sorrow words. The grief that does not speak whispers the o’er-fraught heart, and bids it break.”

William Shakespeare

As some of you know, Tuesday was Dad’s birthday. He would have been sixty-nine. And on that day, I posted a rather somber piece about how much I miss him, particularly at this time of year, particularly in this immediate wake of my third daughter’s birth.

I want you to understand something. I debated whether to post those words. I did not debate whether to write them; I needed to write them. But I did question whether I wanted to make them public. I face this dilemma every time before I publish something private, something more vulnerable. Ultimately, I decided to go for it, to send my sober words into the ether. I knew that it would be hard for some to read, particularly for those who have weathered a similar loss. I knew that it was not one of my “fun” posts. I knew these things, but I went ahead anyway.

I’m glad I did.

I’m glad I did because after I wrote those words, and after I published them here, I immediately felt lighter. Better. Like I had acknowledged something. Something hard. Something true. Something important. This was yet another confirmation for me that writing is in so many ways my own breed of therapy, that through words – read, thought, written – I am able to feel and heal.

But I learned something else. That something? That written words are not necessarily sufficient when it comes to grief.

On Tuesday, on Dad’s birthday, Mom and I went to lunch. It was just the two of us as the rest of my sisters were out of town. We met at one of our favorite local spots. A health food joint. I had the shrimp burrito and Mom had the veggie burger. We toasted Dad with a delicious midday glass of rose wine. The lunch started out as most of our lunches normally do – with chit chat, dips into current events and the news. But soon we were talking about Dad. About who he was before and after the cancer took hold, about what we remembered. We talked about his (oft-conflicting) identities as husband, father, and philosopher. Together, we marveled and mourned at the fact that we have been without him for going on three years.

Amazingly (or maybe not so?) it was a pretty happy lunch. One full of subtle celebration and keen memories. Looking back, I can envision us there: Mom and daughter at a tiny table for two. Eating lunch. Loving and longing and laughing. Grieving gracefully.

Giving sorrow words.

I realized then, and do now, that it is critical to revere our grief alongside those with whom we share it. That it is critical that we get out there in the world, that we lock eyes with other people, that we prop up those we love and let those we love prop us up, that we realize that it is not necessary to feel these things, these impossible and instructive things, alone.

And so. On the day I was aching for the parent I’ve lost, the parent I still have and love deeply stepped in. And she sat there, across from me, and I across from her. And we talked. We remembered. We laughed. We ate. We drank. We lived.

And so. On this day, a different day, I feel compelled to say thank you. To all of you, for reading my words even when their edges are rough and raw and real. Even when they are not sparkly bits blanched with sunshine.

I also feel compelled to say thank you to Mom. For being there, and here, on that hard day, and always. For well-timed lunches and constant love. For teaching me to give sorrow words, and how to grieve with strength.

Thank you.

This picture? It’s the very same shot – taken from our hospital room – as the gloomy one above. Isn’t it amazing that depending on what setting we choose, on how we tweak our existential lens, the resulting view can be more melancholy or magical?

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Do you agree with Shakespeare that it is important to give sorrow words, that unspoken grief will lead to a broken heart? If you blog, are you hesitant to explore sadness so publicly? Do you agree that written words are not necessarily sufficient to grapple with grief? Do you think how we see the world is largely up to us?

I care what you think. Perhaps too much.

I use the term you very broadly, to connote readers of this blog in particular, and other people in general. The point here is that I am concerned, and often excessively so, about opinions other than my own.

Even now. I am immersed in an odd and wonderful time now. I am mere days out from welcoming my little girl and my body and mind are riddled with exhaustion and hormones. Depending on the moment, I feel fortunate or fuzzy or frantic. Things are going quite well here – the baby is eating and sleeping well – but still. This is a new world, a fresh planet, one that spins wildly and wistfully on an axis unique and unknown. Much of the time, I just feel like I am along for the ride. I think this is probably par for the newborn course?

So, you see, this is not a time to worry too intensely about others, about audience. This is not a time to fret about my following. This is a time to surrender. To put myself and my family first. To focus on the exquisite story of my present day.

And yet. Despite cruel exhaustion, my mind roams. To this blog. To my books, written and pondered and imagined. To dreams and doubts. And when this happens, I feel a surge of anxiety, a sinister parade of shoulds. I chide myself for this, for being weak enough to allow outside stuff to creep in now to this decidedly inside time. And then? I chide myself for chiding myself. After all, this is a tricky time and I think I am doing the best I can. (I think.)

Where am I going with this, you ask. And it is a good question, a fair one, because this is a ramble no doubt, a ramble sprung from the depths of a sleepy soul. And so, I will clarify. Or try.

I have spent a lot of time and energy and emotion creating this blog, and striking a balance between more personal and more universal posts. Maybe you’ve noticed, but for every post I write about my little girls, I pen one about existence. I celebrate the fact that ILI’s audience is diverse – some of you are parents, but many of you are not. Many of you are women, but I have my loyal men. I adore the fact that the discussions here are broad in nature and do not readily fit a singular category.

And so. Here’s the issue as I see it. Right now? I am in a little and lovely world with my baby and my family where I am filled with thoughts about just those things – worlds and babies and family. My questions have tapered in scope, for now at least, and are more domestic and familial in nature. Which isn’t to say that they aren’t interesting or important. Just that they are about this. This time. This phase. This slice of my life.

So what? The so what is that my instinct is to continue to post here – and quite regularly – but doing so might mean posting a bit more about parenthood and home life than I normally do. Doing so might mean a slight, albeit temporary, departure for this blog. And if I’m being honest, I fear that some of you might tire of this.

So, yes, we are back where we started 574 words ago: I care what you think. Perhaps too much.

Now it’s time for you to tell me not to worry, that you like my stories about babies and sleeplessness and domestic dilemmas, that you will stick with me during this baby phase.

(Go on. Tell me what I need to hear. Pretty please.)

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Do you care too much what others think? Is this avoidable or part of what it means to be human? If you blog, how much and how often do you think about your audience and crafting posts that will appeal to that audience? Will you stick with me during the next bit of time even if my blog posts largely center around this latest scene of my domestic identity and existence?