It's Just a Fantasy, It's Not the Real Thing

Internet, I would like to introduce you to my quilt top and back.

Oh, yes I did. I most certainly did. You bet your pants I finished the baby's quilt top and back before I finished making the baby.

Top:


And the back:


Ever notice my helpers are attention whores?

The quilt is headed to the quilter (the fabulous, amazing Angela is quilting it, squee!) on Thursday when we meet up for the Kansas City Modern Quilt Guild meeting. I realized I said I was gonna quilt it myself, but there are limitations to my awesomeness.

Surprising, I know.

Maybe You're the Same as Me

I'm a big summer can go fuck itself believer. Or, at least, summer in Kansas.

Summer in other locations, I'm sure, can be perfectly lovely. Perhaps in those location I'd understand the love-fest but honestly? I am so done with summer already.

I get it. I'm probably being harsh. And unfair. But I don't appreciate itch crawly things sucking my blood. Nor do I appreciate having to spend the day inside to avoid a heat stroke. Nor lathing my kids with SPF spiked chemicals (sorry, I don't care what you use, there's stuff in there that you cannot pronounce). I don't appreciate humidity so bad it causes my asthma to flair up (let alone flair up while pregnant) and I don't like displaying my dimpled thighs to the stick-thin teenagers at the local pool. I don't like the summer colds the boys are currently battling, the lack of scheduling due to no school (yes, partially my fault for not keeping the boys on a crazy schedule but still) nor do I appreciate the mid-afternoon naps that result in me yelling at 10pm to GO TO BED ALREADY.

I don't like running the air conditioner so high that I can hear the motor running all over the house, nor do I appreciate the pollen that infests my house anytime I even consider opening a window. I hate how long it takes for the van to cool off while running errands and the sticky-in-the-ass feeling of trying to pull myself out of the driver's seat and onto the hot, hot pavement.

I hate seeing the hazy on the street as I drive through town and the little confidence building talk I have to give myself to even leave the house in the first place. I don't like having to check all the garden beds twice a day and potentially watering them, all because the Kansas heat is zapping the ever living life out of everything.


But, I do like the flowers. The flowers are lovely.

Friday, Never Hesitate

I don't know if I finally have my head out of my ass or if I'm been bitten with the crazy, but I have been severely attacking the basement this week.

It's do or die: the baby is due at the end of August, but my weekly Progesterone (also known as: STOP MAH LABAH) shots end mid- to late-July. Which means we need to be ready and by ready, I mean motherfuckingready for our little baba ganoush by August 1st.

Aaron agrees.

First step with living with a hoarder (as I've learned over the 12 years we've lived together), is to get said hoarder to agree to timelines. Signed documentation also helps.

Having to be ready by August 1st means we have just over two months to prepare.

Gulp.

Ohmyhell.

So, I've been slowly working on the basement, but then I got the sinus infection from hell, which required the antibiotics from hell which came along with the side effects from hell that nearly hospitalized me. Amen.

I'm just now getting over those side effects and the basement is now my biyatch. As in, this is my theme song for cleaning the basement:



Oh yes, it is.

After Wednesday's recycling fiasco (dude, be glad you didn't hear that conversation, my hell), Aaron and I had a frank discussion about The Basement.

As in, we don't need Paper and Cardboard.

This was, of course, after a found a ten foot tower of empty cardboard boxes. I thought Aaron's cardboard box collection was centralized to the garage. Apparently not.

Included in the collection was a box for a VCR that died seven years ago. And a box for an automated scooping kitty litter box. Which we got rid of over five years ago.

::shaking head::

So we had initially agreed to having a garage sale. Let's face it, there's more than just paper and cardboard in the basement. There's a shit-ton of stuff we don't use and have no intention of using again.

Second rule with living with a hoarder: be brutally honest in the likelihood that something is worth holding on to.

I do my very best to respect Aaron's feelings, and I get it: I also don't want to get rid of stuff just to turn around and spend money on the very same stuff again.

This is why I'm trying to clean the basement in the first place: to figure out what we have for the baby. Like, duh.

So far, stuff I've found we won't use: broken electric beaters, 12 boxes of crayons (like we don't already have five boxes currently in use as-is), acrylic blankets from when I was a kid.

And I'm a reasonable person. The Legos and Light Brite (both circa mid-90s) was brought upstairs and put to use:


The real kicker came when Aaron agreed that he likely will not be able to host a garage sale by July 1st (see? timelines) and that I should donate things as I accrue too much to have reasonable work space.

So today I took 13 bags of stuff to the donation center. I have five more ready for another run on Tuesday.

See? I'm not just gonna go willy-nilly and throw everything away.

Pinkie swear.

Somebody's Gonna Come Undone

Aaron skipped off to work early this morning, so it became my responsibility to take out the trash and recycling before the sun came up.

Do you know what I found in the garage?

Fourteen bags of recycling Aaron has refused to recycle.

Fourteen bags.

Aaron's hoarding is officially out of control. He's holding onto 14 bags of class worksheets Griffin and Darwin have brought home over the past year. And better yet - he's sorted the recycling so that all the worksheets are together so he could keep them.

He has, thankfully, gotten to the point that he will admit it's become a problem but he REFUSES that it's actually an issue and claims he doesn't need any professional help - or any help at all.

He just needs "more free time."

Dude. If you have free time to sort and hide 14 bags of paper, you have free time to actually look at it, recycle it and work on something else.

There's a Calm Before the Storm

If there's one thing you can count on me to do is to get a simple head cold and have it escalate into threats of hospitalization and crazy-ass side-effects from drugs.

As in, the drugs are making me sicker than the stupid sinus infection. And although I can now keep fluids down and to warrant off dehydration, I've lost over four pounds in as many days and guess what particular OB isn't all that appreciative of weight loss during pregnancy?

So, yeah. I'm coping the best I can but it's not spectacularly well. Between the pregnancy weight gain (which granted is all in my belly and some edema and damn I'm uncomfortable in my body and I know it's only gonna get worse) and all the naps (never in my life did I think I would complain about actually being able to nap) and the weekly progesterone shots and the calcification on the baby's heart that won't go away and the laundry that is never-ending (and why can't I find a plastic hanger that isn't blue or white in stores?) I am just spent.

But I'm coping. Or, trying to cope. I just wish my antibiotic came with a nice magical dose of Make Mommy Happy. Know where I can get some of that?

Think Less But See it Grow

Sometimes I feel as though I need to bopped upside the head.

Yes, much like Little Bunny Foo Foo. But only without the good fairy.

Unless she cleans houses, of course.

The point is, at some point I need to come to the realization that we're having a baby. Not that I'm in total complete denial or anything, I mean - both my stomach and my ass are growing amazingly fast. And he moves. A lot.

Yes, he. Have I not mentioned that? My apologies.

Apparently I have a magical uterus that clones, right down to insuring that said clone also have a penis. Which I take to be the Universe's way to say "fuck you and your Capello genetics" followed by the ever-present evil laugh of mwahahaha which I hear in my sleep.

Thanks, for that Universe.

So, back to the point: not that I'm in denial, I can't be. He punches me a lot. Like an animal trying to escape his jail.

What? You think my uterus isn't a jail? You're funny.

But my point being, I haven't done jack anything other than increase my calorie intake to prepare for this baby. Well, and go to the doctor appointments and get my shots (which I now have a nice big itchy knot on my hip, thanks) and elevate my feet and sleep a lot and become OBSESSED with food.

Like I'm not already obsessed with food. And the food allergies make it worse, not being able to eat everywhere around town. It has caused me to live vicariously through others even more, like when my friend called one night and was all OH MY GOD, GUESS WHAT HAPPENED TO ME TONIGHT WHILE I WAS AT BIG BOY! and my reply was YOU ORDERED THE CHICKEN TENDERLOIN SANDWICH?

She didn't. Nor did she have a chocolate milkshake or a cherry limeaid. Sigh. My friend doesn't know how to eat properly. And I can still taste the disappointment in my mouth for her not ordering the right food.

But you know what? We're having a baby. And it's kinda like a joke. Like HAHAHAHAHA, YES WE KNOW WE'RE CRAZY, THANKS and watching my stomach grow, but not getting the least bit prepared.

The boys threw a fit to go to a baby store one day while running errands. They wanted to buy him clothes, so I stopped and let them shop for the baby.

Y'all, my kids are more prepared for the baby than I am.

That whole nesting thing is going to kick in eventually, right?

What I Got: Full Stock of Thoughts and Dreams That Scatter

Three years ago...

"Aaron, we need to have that locust tree in the back cut down. Dead branches are hanging over the house and the tree is dying."

"That tree's not dead! It's fine!"

Two years ago...

"Aaron, the locust tree is dying. We need to get it cut down before it falls on the house."

"Stop being a drama queen! It's fine! It has leaves on more than half the tree! It will recover!"

One year ago...

"Aaron, seriously. That damn locust tree is gonna crash through our house and kill the boys while the are sleeping."

"My god, woman. It's FINE. See! It has leaves! It's not gonna fall on the house."

This year...

"SERIOUSLY, AARON, OH MY GOD, WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE FROM THE LOCUST TREE. It's deader'n'a doornail."

"Yeah, it's in sad shape. Plus! I want to expand my vegetable patch and that damn tree blocks too much light. Let's get some quotes on getting it cut down."

We called seven companies to come out and bid cutting down our big locust tree in the backyard.

Our first bid out wouldn't even bid on the damn thing, citing it being too close to the house, un-climbable and couldn't get a bucket truck to the back yard because it's been dead for three years.

(Aaron's response? "It! Still! Has! Leaves! Granted, five leaves but still! Alive!")

Sigh.

A second company didn't show up.

Three companies came to for a bid, let themselves into the backyard and pushed a half-assed bid under the front door while I was home.

Okay, let's take a moment here, people. We're in a recession. A crap-ass "Great Recession" and I call you out to my home, explain I work from home and we have a puppy in the fenced back yard quite a bit (and! no more rabbits!), and that I would like more than just the dead tree quoted but you don't bother knocking on my door? Seriously? You think I'm gonna hire you and give you my money?

Guess again.

So it came down to two bids: one, a certified arborist who will use a crane and bucket truck (and costs a grand more) and the other, a tree cutter who claimed he'd shimmy up there and low-balled the quote.

Now, we love saving money. I mean, it's hard to afford jack anything in this "Great Recession" so dur, we wanted to hire the lower-costing guy.

But.

Red flags. Everywhere. Not returning calls for days. Said they faxed their insurance information and didn't. I had a bad gut feeling.

Finally they got us the copy of their insurance policy and I called to verify it. And guess what? This dude wants to cut down a big ass dead tree, while he's up in it, half of which hangs over my house and HE DIDN'T HAVE INSURANCE.

I was pre-warned to verify insurance information and I'm so glad I did. Could you imagine? Hiring someone who's actually not covered? That could financially ruin us.

So, we have a date with a crane.

Hahahahhaha.

A crane that has to be parked in my neighbor's driveway.

Hahahhaha Hahahahaha.

And a bucket truck that will be on my and my neighbor's grass.

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.

One of ya'll's gonna book me a nice stay at a mental institution, yes?

Caught in a Bad Romance

I have a love/hate relationship with tulips.

I love them, they are so damn cheery and chipper.

(planted on the front corner last autumn)

I hate them, them are so freaking fickle.

A few years ago I planted a few hundred in a garden bed in the backyard. A mixture of pinks, reds and yellows grew to be a red, purple and stripey bed. And I forgave them, in all of their mis-matched glory I still loved those tulips.

Now, a few years have past and what do we have?


Where'd all my tulips go?

Kansas ate 'em. That's what happened. The state was all nom nom nom, taste-y tulips.

You have a better explanation?

I've officially given up on them this year and told Aaron it was time to do something else with that bed.

The trellis full of honeysuckle will obviously stay (y'all, I had to IM a coworker to be all "what's the word for a metal thing you put in the garden to support climbing plants? 'cause I'm pregnant and can't think straight") as will the hydrangea in front of it. The daylilies desperately need to be divided but will stay in the same area as well.

Past that, the only two plants in there are a miniature rose bush that needs to be dug up and have surgery preformed on it and some dying bushy thing that doesn't get enough sun.

Initially, before finding out was pregnant, my thought was to dig out the daylilies and bushes and roto-till the holy living baloneys out of the bed. Then plant a bunch of flowers.

But now, now I drop something on the ground I spend a few minutes analyzing if it needs to be picked up right away or if can wait for Aaron or the boys to be home, so someone else can pick up for me. Guess what usually happens.

There's a family story from Aaron's childhood, he was about 10 years old and asked his mom if he could dig a hole in the backyard.

"Mom? Could I dig a hole in he backyard?"

"Yeah."

"It's gonna be big."

"Okay, have fun."

"No mom, it's gonna be a big hole."

"That's fine, Aaron. Go have fun."

As the story goes, he spent all day outside digging this hole. By the time he was done, his head was below ground level, plus all the dirt was built up a good two or three feet above the ground 'cause the boy didn't move the dirt and he shoveled. A ladder was required to get him out of the hole.

(And he says I have an imagination.)

When asked why he dug such a crazy, insane hole he seriously replied, "So it would be below the freezing line for my fish."

"Your what?"

"My fish pond. Why else do you think I dug such a big hole?"

I pointed out to Aaron a couple of weeks ago that the one thing our garden was missing (besides a cherry tree, a grape arbor, strawberries, blueberries, blackberries and raspberries) is a fish pond. And guess what we have? FREE LABOR.

Besides, what little boy doesn't want to go dig a great big hole (a great big hole, I might add, that will produce a spectacular amount of soil to use as filler in Aaron's vegetable patch) in the backyard? Mommy just needs to buy some shovels.

And finish getting Daddy on board.

I Go Crazy Wondering What There is to Really See

The perinatologist appointment went very well. I mean, as well as could be still having calcification on the heart.

The doctor wasn't the least bit worried about it though, all the bone structure measured properly, all the organs look good. Yay!

But due to the calcification and "my age" (yes, he said that and I was all WHACHA TALKIN' 'BOUT WILLIS? ) the odds of the baby having Down's is one in 211 - for once I feel like the odds are stacked in our favor. I go back in four weeks for more scans.

We've been busy enjoying the spring weather, making garden plans and blowing lots of noses.


And taking the baby chicks outside daily for "recess."

A word to the wise: baby chicks in the house makes your home very, very stinky. I'll be sad to see them go but I'll be happy to no longer have my house smell like tinkle.

Money for Nothin' and Your Chicks for Free

We had another sonogram on Thursday. A no-good, very-bad sonogram, if you ask me.

Yadda, yadda, heart problem, yadda, yadda, possible Down's, yadda, yadda, level II sonogram with a perinatologist obstetrician, yadda, yadda, DON'T PANIC.

Yeah, like I heard that last one very well.

So we go for the fancy-pants level II on Wednesday afternoon, fingers crossed everything will be okay. (Which? Internet research [which we all know is so reliable] points to a 95% chance of the baby being FINE.) (Also: NERD!)

One thing is for certain: YOU LOOK LIKE YOUR FATHER OHMYHELL I SHOULD RENT OUT MY UTERUS FOR CLONING, I'D BE SO RICH!


You also scratch your head just like your daddy. I'm certain you were trying to figure out what was poking you and if you're anything like me, MAKE IT STOP NOW GAWD.

In an effort to divert our attention from the craptastic news on Thursday, we've been overly focused on other adventures.


Run! RUN! Run for your lives! PIRATE CHICKS!