Oprah does this thing in her magazine called What I Know For Sure. It’s an editorial piece she writes every month and although I feel like I’m still too young to fully embrace the Oprah brand, I really do love her honesty.
Read the rest here!
Birthday.
Well, for the first time in a LONG time I feel like I’m on top of certain things. Not everything, but some things.
Take for example ONE’s birthday. He turns three this year. This event may or may not take place in the very same week that TWO is born, so we’re trying to plan ahead. It will be hard enough for him to be de-throned from his position as Only Child — if we fail to celebrate his birthday then it might cause permanent damage.
Anyway, Husband found his birthday present already. Yep. Three months early. We are awesome.
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| (http://www.kids.woot.com/) |
Progress.
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| (www.realsimple.com) |
I have been struggling with an overwhelming urge to NEST for several months now. My husband, who was not born with a sense of urgency, does not understand.
“We still have three months,” he says. Well, yes. We do. But that doesn’t matter to a nesting pregnant woman, does it? It only pisses her off.
Yesterday, we made progress. He got so annoyed with me that he (FINALLY!!) went into the attic and pulled out the bassinet that has been in storage since ONE was about 3 months old. It made me so happy to remove the covers and wash them in mild detergent and hang them up to dry. I was giddy. I keep looking at the basket and rocking it and telling TWO that he has a place to sleep now.
At least we have THAT. Phase two will begin next weekend. My parents are coming and they are workhorses — that’s where I get it from, apparently — and I plan to make the most of it. Not only are we going to set up the baby’s room, but we are going to transform ONE’s room into an awesome big boy’s room. And maybe change out the dining room light fixture.
Hopefully Husband will make the most of their help as well, because he knows that whatever is left after they leave … is his problem.
p.s. I somehow convinced Husband that I need to hire a cleaning service to get my house spotless before the baby arrives. I mean, he nodded like he was in total agreement. He didn’t even ask how much it would cost. VICTORY!!!!
Self-Preservation.
In a desperate act of self-preservation, I have decided to go on a girl’s trip with my best friend from high school.
It’s just for the weekend. A last hurrah, if you will. I accept that there will be no road-trippin’ for me after this, for quite some time. I plan to make the most of it.
I refuse to allow the fact that I am pregnant stand in the way of having fun. Luckily, Amy isn’t a freakishly fast walker. And I’m sure we’ll blend right in.
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| On Amy’s 30th birthday. |
I Know You.
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| (source) |
I knew you were blowing smoke up our asses, Donald Trump.
I knew full well your so-called “consideration” to run for President was just a stunt. I mean really … let’s be serious. We all recognize that you’re a smart man, but Presidental material you most certainly are NOT.
This charade was quite obviously a ploy to get America on the Apprentice/Celebrity Apprentice train. As if the ratings weren’t already through the roof. You’re a greedy man, Mr. Trump.
Despite your obvious shortcomings, I’m still a fan of your show. No one can hold my attention like your hair can.
Sunday.
Fact: I have entered a whole new level of emotional craziness. I’ve likened it to PMS on crack. I no longer feel sorry for my Husband. I want to rip his face off.
I’m not sure there is a cure for it, except to have this baby.
Three months to go.
What Happens When …
… you aren’t home to dress your child.
Warning.
Last night Husband got home as I was hauling myself out of the tub. No easy feat.
He waited while I spent the next 10 minutes moisturizing my skin. I have developed a nightly ritual that involves a concoction of Vasline, lavender-scented baby oil, and St. Ives lotion. I have high hopes that my efforts will pay off and I’ll escape this pregnancy with minimal stretch marks like I did with ONE.
That experience (ONE) left me with three stretch marks that have faded and now I can’t even find them. So I fully expect that this experience (TWO) will leave me relatively unscathed. I’ll be pissed if I’m wrong.
While all of this was happening I issued an official warning to Husband that with each passing day from now until TWO’s arrival, he can go ahead and plan on me being more and more disagreeable.
You can go ahead and plan on that too, readers.
I leave you with today’s thought:
Glucose Tolerant.
My husband is a good man.
Really.
He loves me and he is a GREAT daddy. But … he’s a man. I mean, a man’s man. He doesn’t cook, doesn’t clean, and probably would forget to shower for days on end if he lived alone. He rubs his smelly feet on the couch and throws his belly button lint on the kitchen floor. He drinks from the carton and spits toothpaste all over the bathroom mirror.
These quirks are things I love about him, because he’s a very messy person who is complimented by my obsessive-compulsive need for cleanliness and order. However, although I love him and all of his quirks, he still finds a way to infuriate me to the point of wanting to choke him about twice a week.
I had my glucose test on Friday. If you are unfamiliar, this is yet another way the medical field has found to needlessly torture a pregnant woman. You are required to fast for 12 hours, drink a substance that contains 50 grams of sugar, then sit for an hour before they take your blood.
It’s horrible.
When I was pregnant with ONE I didn’t have anyone with me which was a mistake. I spent the whole time miserable, bored, and feeling sorry for myself. Then I nearly hit 5 people with my vehicle while trying to drive to work.
This time, Husband agreed to take me. He really doesn’t enjoy going to the doctor’s office. It’s boring and he always ends up holding my purse. There are vaginas everywhere. I get it. But I was really grateful for him driving me.
Until he did.
I hadn’t eaten in 15 hours and counting. We got in the car. He informed me he was going to stop and get breakfast. I yelled at him. I told him that was inconsiderate and why on Earth didn’t he eat at home?!
He stopped anyway. He ordered something fancy that contained sausage and egg. They handed him a bag and we left.
It contained: one plain biscuit.
Karma’s a bitch!!! I announced. And all was right again.
Today, I learned that I passed my test. I am not diabetic — not that I ever had any indication that I was. But thanks for that validation anyway, doctor’s office. I celebrated this by going on a sugar-fueled bender … ending with eating an entire BOX of chocolate-covered pretzel “Flipz.”
Tuesday.
Modern Mommy Madness 