Voldemort

Our house has four bedrooms: one is bigger and is our bedroom; two are the same basic size and serve as the office and guest room; the fourth is smaller and is, well, the room that shall not be named but is currently used for storage. In the years we have lived in our house, we have given thought to using it for various purposes, but, knowing what we eventually wanted it to be, we hesitated for fear of resenting the loss of our walk in closet or second floor laundry room or exercise area. So it has become the dumping ground for everything that has no other away. And since the fall, we have struggled to talk about it at all. As with everything else, I live in perpetual fear of speaking words aloud, certain that uttering the words will bring a curse or jinx upon me and leave us where we were last fall when we let ourselves plan ahead and think about the future. P jokes that we should call the baby Voldemort, agreeing to bear whatever curse may befall from naming he who shall not be named but will eventually live in the room that shall not be named.

I have trouble telling people that I am, well, you know, and instead have developed an intense need to speak in euphemism and innuendo. I find it easier to tell people by email and without words at all (such as by sending an ultrasound photo) than to actually say words like "pregnant" or "expecting," words which give me the willies even writing them here. I couldn't even bring myself to tell the head of my department like a normal person when I decided to tell him yesterday. I emailed him an ultrasound image and a semi-joking question about what I needed to do to make the news official, then appeared in his office a moment later.

We are thinking that to avoid this problem with respect to telling long-distance friends and family, we may create an email address for our dog and let him share the news. Maybe if dogs write things, the hex won't take.