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.

(source)

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.

This is my attempt at a “pretty picture” blog post to show that we’re not all a bunch of jerks who never leave our house. I kind of giggle at some of the blogs I come across where it’s all flowers and unicorns and no admittance of insanity. You aren’t deceiving me with your perfectly-smocked children and fancy afternoon snacks. Although I am slightly jealous … I’m not fooled. 

I know that unicorny approach works for some people. Those are probably the same ones who think I hate my children because I have no problem admitting that caring for them drives me to drink. 

But look! Here’s proof that sometimes we do normal family activities like attend school programs together and everyone is charming, well-behaved, and dressed in Ralph Lauren. Yesterday we attended *Maverick’s preschool Spring Program. In addition to showing up on time looking put together with a Ralph-Laurened toddler in tow, I was also proud of myself for remembering to bring an actual camera instead of relying on my iPhone for once.

Asher patiently waiting for the program to start.

That boy … those dimples … that chipped tooth.

Maverick was dressed as a bull (see below, far right) and he sang louder than anyone else. Also — and I try to be objective about my children’s talents instead of blindly thinking they are The Most Gifted Children Ever — his use of exaggerated hand gestures and animated facial movements really made me think he has a future in entertainment. And then I said a silent prayer that it will be the kind of entertainment I don’t have to lie about to the rest of the family.

The Husband and The Bull.

Trying to wrangle The Bull for a picture …

Family picture, attempt #1. Kids won’t look at the camera.

Family picture attempt #2, still a fail, but we gave up at this point.

 So there‘s the oh, how nice! part of this story. But you know something else is coming, or I wouldn’t have bothered to sit down and tell it to you.

At the end of the program, all of the children gathered to sing two songs for the grand finale. That’s when this woman …

… STOOD HER ASS UP and remained standing with her camcorder, right there at her seat, while the rest of us tried to see through her. I was livid. Of course there were parents standing to take pictures, but they were off to the sides or in the back where they weren’t blocking someone’s view. I literally could not focus on anything other than my blood boiling. 

Husband seemed nervous when I stated loudly that I can’t see, because THAT LADY IS IN MY WAY, and then I said in a yellisper (yell + whisper, I just made that up) that “SOMEONE NEEDS TO TELL HER TO SIT DOWN” and he got a look on his face that told me this was not the time for me to unleash my hormonal rage on a total stranger, in a church, at my child’s preschool program.

And so, I walked to the back and watched from there, with the other respectful parents. I guess I find this kind of behavior shocking because I am just now entering the world of children’s programs and I naively thought adults should know how to act right. It just reminded me that we’re new to this stage of parenthood, and now I wish I had tapped that lady and asked her to please sit down or maybe just put my angry hands on her rude shoulders and pushed her back down into her seat.

I know there is a whole land of rudeness awaiting us, especially if we should ever put our kids in sports. But let me be clear — I have no problem taking a picture of people making jerks of themselves and posting them on the internet. I do it to myself all the time.

*I used to refer to my kids as “ONE” (Maverick, the 4-year-old) and “TWO” (Asher, the 1-year-old), but with a “THREE” coming in about 6 weeks I just can’t keep up this charade. It will be hard enough to call them by their right names in real life. Trying to tell a story with ONE, TWO and THREE is simply too much for me, and probably for you too.
 

This morning, Husband and I were looking over some of our tax paperwork from H&R Block and I zeroed in on the space where our occupations were listed. Right there in big, capital letters it stated “SALES” under Husband’s name. 

And under mine? “HOUSEWIFE.”

This may seem odd, but it hits me at the strangest times that I don’t have an income and that I am, indeed, a HOUSEWIFE. In big ol’ black capital letters. This is what I wanted. And yet sometimes I feel a loss, like I used to be out there doing things. Important things. Earning money, making decisions, mattering. Sometimes the title of HOUSEWIFE makes me absolutely cringe, and I think to myself, “I’m not a housewife! I’m a mom. And a wife. Who happens to run the household … DAMNIT.”

I know deep down that I am doing the most important job I could be doing, and mattering more right now as I wipe snot from my son’s nose with his dirty sock than I ever could in my old office, but to the rest of the world I’m just a HOUSEWIFE. To his credit, Husband said he argued with the man and said to list me as a DOMESTIC ENGINEER, probably because the title weirds him out as well, but HOUSEWIFE it remained.

But let me tell you something, world. Last night I was minding my own business reading a book on the couch when Maverick said to me, “What would happen if I lost one of these balls?” And I looked over, and he had his TESTICLES IN HIS HANDS. 

Now, the book I happened to be reading was the one I told you about a few weeks ago on raising boys. I had just read the chapter about sexuality and how it’s much better to provide your son with matter-of-fact information when he asks for it, rather than hoping he can figure it out on his own. Right on cue, this happened. So I put my book down, and talked to my 4-year-old son about his testicles. 

Me: What do you mean, “lose” one?

ONE: You know, like if it went up inside me somewhere? What if I lost one?! What would happen then?

Me: You can’t “lose” them, they’re safe there in that bag. Not to worry.

ONE: So they’ll stay in this bag forever? Why do I have them? What do they do?

Me:  Umm … well, they’re a very important part of you. You need to take care of them … put them away now, okay? That’s private.

ONE: But what do they DO?

Me: When you grow up, and you’re an adult, they make the ingredients for a baby. 

ONE: Oh!

Me: (silent relief)
 
And that was the end of that. For now. 

So while on paper I may be labeled a HOUSEWIFE, I am actually much more than that. I don’t know what to label myself exactly, but I can assure you I don’t get paid enough.

ONE: Hey mommy, can I see your uvula?

Me: My WHAT?

ONE: Your uvula. The little punching bag in the back of your throat.

Me: OH …