Mopping The Floor.

I haven’t written much this week because I have been gripped with fear over Penelope’s impending arrival. Like I’ll think to myself, “I have anxiety. I should blog.” And then I sit down at the computer and all I can think is “OH SHIT. OH SHIT. OH SHIT.” 

My current train of thought does not make for interesting reading material, I’m afraid.

My due date is 6 weeks from today and quite frankly, I’m worried about my capabilities. Can I handle a newborn along with everything else that goes on around here? Husband says yes. He is sometimes right, so … here’s hoping.

Baby’s room is still in progress.

Everyone but me is so excited about the baby coming. And don’t get me wrong — I love her already. My daughter. But thinking about her being out here in the world with the rest of us makes me feel panicky. What if Asher freaks out and hates her? What if Maverick hugs her too tight? What if I can’t keep it together and someone escapes down the driveway?

These are all very real possibilities and I just have to keep calm and trust that I can do it. But honestly, and this is real — not what I am “supposed” to be saying, but the honest-to-goodness truth — sometimes I go into her room and open the drawers to look at her tiny ridiculously cute clothes and I get so overwhelmed that I have to shut the drawer and leave. Immediately. I don’t know if it’s because she is our third child and I am freaking out about that, or if it’s because I feel so blessed, or so excited to be having a girl, or because I’m terrified. It’s probably all of those things, and it’s all too much.

In the meantime, Maverick continues to monitor my milk supply by mashing my boobs when I’m least expecting it and asking, “Do you have milk in your boobies yet, Mommy?” We have tried over and over again to explain to him that he can’t just grab or mash people without asking first, but he (so far) is undeterred, because he fancies himself to be a “body expert” and I swear to you he acts with the authority of someone who has already been through medical school.

Last night at dinner he announced, “Pepper is going to be here soon, Asher. She’s coming out of Mommy’s pagina. Or her privates. That’s how babies are born.” I cut him off and said let’s talk about something else, mostly because I don’t want to think about it, and Asher is one and has no idea what a “pagina” is and I would like to keep it that way for just a little while longer. 

Then this morning, I went to an event at his school called “Muffins With Mom” and he gave me this:

While I may see myself as a tired, yelling, frustrated, enormously pregnant person … he sees me as a very young, very tall lady who likes to cook stuff that is good for you, mop, and buy apples. I need to give myself more credit. That lady sounds a lot like our dear friend Cinderella. She was not fat or angry. She was beautiful. Birds flew into her room and dressed her because she was perfect and pleasant and continuously joyous.


I guess as long as my kid reports that my favorite household chore is to “mop the floor” and not to “drink clear liquid over and over from a tiny glass” or, “What? My mommy doesn’t do household chores” …

Then I am doing a good job.

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