You Don't Need to be Coy, Roy

I'm quite certain everyone's waiting on pins and needles to hear a status update about my basement reorganization. Because my life is damn exciting and lo! Y'all know this.

So I worked down there for hours on Saturday moving shit (did you know that I had every goddamn notebook from college? SO TRUE) (and all the books? I have so! many! books!) around, condensing, repacking out of disgusting cardboard and into plastic (waterproof!) tubs. Up and down the stairs, on and off throughout the day, putting in a good eight hours of Clearing Shit Out.

You know where the is going, right?

Of course you do. You're smart internet.

Sunday morning we went to "church" where I offered to hang with the teenagers at the last minute where we talked about the plot of "Saved" and how it correlated to "Ghandi" and WHY ARE YOU LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT, I'M A GREAT INFLUENCE ON THOSE KIDS.

Anyway, so all I did was sit and talk. Yes? Yes. That's all. And drink water.

So imagine my surprise when I went to the bathroom before we left and...

Well...

There's no polite way to put this.

It was like my vagina had a raging head cold.

I've never lost my mucus plug before (and isn't 31 weeks a wee bit early to lose it?), apparently they magically disappeared. I bet they meditated and reached nirvana. That would explain their magical disappearance the previous two times.

But this? This isn't wasn't what the internets said it would look like. It was like a bad head cold and it was crying for a big dose of Robitussin. It was yellow and brown and red - so guess who was all OH MY HELL.

When we got home I double-checked (even though I made Aaron check it at "church" - I'm a loving, giving wife like that) and yep. Still head-cold-ish. So I called the doctor on call. Who said, and I quote, "Don't worry about it unless you start having contractions."

Fucking doctor jinxed me.

An hour later we were headed to the hospital and the nurse was all "Giiiiiiiiiiiirrrrrllll, you are having some con'trax'ions." Um, thanks.

And then when she checked downtown? "Boy howdy you are mucus-eeeee down there!"

Alrighty. Good to know I'm not losing my mind.

Four hours, two blown vessels and a fancy-pants plastic cup later I was released.

Everything is fine now. Or, at least, fine-ish. I'm still contracting, but I've been contracting through the whole pregnancy. Tomorrow I get my 89th progesterone shot (or 17th shot - po-tay-toe, poh-tah-toe) to keep baking this ornery baby.

Just a few more weeks. It feels like a battle between the uterus and the mind.

Just Waiting So Long

Yesterday, you turned six.


Six! Six! Darwin, the years are creeping up a bit too quickly on me. Six!

We had your birthday party at the community center on Saturday, complete with indoor swimming. What happened no more than 20 minutes into the party?


You cracked your head open. Again. To the bone.

Sigh.

So you got your third set of stitches in your head.

You were a trooper through the whole ordeal of leaving the party early and sitting in the hospital for over four hours. But you're very adamant that we do not have another party there again.

I totally agree.


You are still totally ornery. And totally loving.

My always-little-Buddhist, you love to tell me how much you love this life (yes, this life) and how you're gonna stay here forever. Okie dokie, works for me.

You're really looking forward to being a big brother, and love that you're the only family member who's gonna be a little brother and a big brother at the same time.


Six!

This is bittersweet, you getting so big. But you have promised to always be my baby no matter how old and how big you get.

And I'm holding you to that.


Happy birthday Darwin!

One Drink Ain't Enough Jack, You Better Make it Three

Hey, internet, what's up with you?

Me? Oh, you know. I'm covered in sticky-icky filth from trying to clean the basement. And the three streams we have running through the area isn't as awesome as one would think: it's not at all refreshing. Aren't streams suppose to be refreshing? 'Cause the ones in my basement are not. Also, there's no place to hang a tire swing to jump in. It's a total bum situation.

It has come to my attention that Aaron and I are total lazy-asses and for the past ten years we've just willy-nilly chucked stuff in the basement. Turns out, having it stacked didn't help one damn bit.

But I did unearth about four baby outfits today. Of course, they were mixed with 4T sized clothing so if you have the answer, please do feel free to explain that to me.


Tangent: Griffin and I made strawberry jam a few weeks ago. It has nothing to do with this post, but damn it is yummy and isn't it pretty?

Last weekend I worked on cleaning our bedroom to make space for the crib and changing table. I'm sure you can guess, but do you know what happened? Panic attacks. Full-fledged can't-breathe panic attacks. Do you know how hard it is to shove your face between your knees when you're 29 weeks pregnant and your toes are a distant memory?

At the rate I'm going, we're gonna have a baby in less than ten weeks (ohmyfuckingshittenweeks) and every room is gonna be torn up and not remotely put back together. I just know it.

Aaron, on the other hand, is waxing poetic over the potential happiness of his tomato plants. Do you think he has any clue how badly I want to knock his lights out?

Another panic-inducing situation:


Darwin lost his first tooth. It went from wiggly to out in less than 24 hours, and happened at the pool no less. He dove for it in the pool and caught it. "Because I have to have it for the tooth fairy!"

So, that's about it for me. How about you?

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?